My French Persona
I know my way around France, speak the language, and have friends from the year my husband and I lived in the country.
Yet each time those glass tubes drop me at DeGaulle Airport’s door, I find myself switching not only languages, but personalities as well. My American persona just won’t do.
The taxi driver swivels his head, expecting precision in my direction-giving. I close down my open-mouthed smile — the French consider smiles goofy — set my forehead in furrowed-brow position, and move my lips vigorously as I respond. I stop at a French cafe for a drink and when the waiter greets me with a terse “Vous voulez, madame?” I take care to pronounce “citron presse” in four distinct syllables and to end my request with a period, rather than the Valley Girl question mark: “Lemonade, please?” — The French make their desires known as commands.
I’m careful to order items by the proper name of each item — not water but Evian, Badoit, or Perrier. Not bread but baguette, pain de campagne, ficelle, or boule. Not simply cheese but chevre, crotin, gruyere, or St. Andre. A vague “celui-la” (that over there) won’t do.
Leaving the cafe, I adjust my stride, as well. Back home, my walking style is a comfortable side-to-side lurch, arms churning, head tilted forward because I’m usually in a rush. In France, you may be in a rush but never show it. When I stroll along Parisian streets — “flaner dans les rues” — I pull myself erect, place each foot before the other, and sweep forward like a model on a runway.
I feel obliged to dress for France, as well. Parisian cafe loungers expect passersby to please the eye. One’s dress, hairdo and locomotive style must be chic enough to satisfy those seated. Sloppy Americans are an affront to the French — akin to tossed candy wrappers. My Navaho jewelry attracts attention although I try, like the French, to project indifference to that fact.
When it comes to fine dining, restraint may no longer be the rule. When the chef emerges from his kitchen to tour the dining hall, diners who approve of his art are expected to say so in dramatic terms. I once insulted a chef with a sincere “tres bon.” as the French diners called out “formidable,” “magnifique” and “bravo” as if to an opera star.
Silence, however, is de rigueur on guided tours. I learned this rule a few years ago when we took a tour of a silk mill that once doubled, during the 17 century, as a refuge for fleeing Protestants. Our guides spoke in elegant French and the tourists — all French except us, listened in respectful silence. I, however, responded like an American, gasping or laughing appreciatively at each amazing factor or amusing story. I even asked a question or two. The guide was disconcerted. She blanched, She lost track of her prepared remarks. The French tourists turned at stared. At me, the rude American.
Whether you’re expected to talk — or not — is not always clear to us Americans. In Vanves, a Paris suburb where I once briefly lived, I went to the neighborhood cafe each morning to call my husband — our apartment had no phone. Each time I’d enter the cafe, I’d feel a chill. The patronne, always busy with her customers, usually had her back to me. I’d wait silently until she turned around, then smile (big mistake), and request a “un jeton” (a telephone token). I’d make my call and leave quietly, trying to be no trouble.
After a month, I learned that cafe phones aren’t considered public amenities, but a customer-only service. To merit their use, I ought to have ordered at least a cup coffee. I then realized that her other customers called out “Bonjour mesdames, messieurs” upon entering, and “R’voir, ‘dames et ’sieurs” upon leaving. I tried using their call and response ritual — ordering “un expres” before using the phone. The patronne, back turned or not, returned my greeting. The chill melted.
The cafe regulars, in fact, turned out to be eager to talk. My grin just hadn’t been the right opener. I discovered conversational gambits that would suffice despite my minimal language skills: I’d offer an intriguing observation accompanied by a thoughtful frown o my face. Since all French people study philosophy in high school, they loved, as adults, pondering unanswerable questions. The cafe crowd and I soon launched into daily repartee.
Now, when I got to France, I slip smoothly into my French persona. By now, I know how to behave “comme il faut.”
But as soon as I step back onto American soil, I happily return to my American self, and revert once again to my loose-limbed walk, my casual talk, and my wide-mouthed, all-American grin.