French Toast (22 page)

Individualism. While it is good that no one looks down on you if you are not a joiner, it is frustrating to realize how deeply the French do not seek, and actively resent, consensus. In the United States, which has gone overboard by persecuting smokers in Salem witch trial-style, once it was decided that smoking was bad, all the good guys jumped on the bandwagon and the smokers
were ostracized. In France, even though the government has put its weight behind efforts to get people to quit smoking in public places, the smokers are having none of it. Not only do they not feel guilty; they feel that they are being put upon. Or else, in a somewhat perverse way, they may feel that the law is actually a good thing—for everyone but them. “The government is just doing this to collect money in fines,” one unrepentant smoker told me.

Another episode, in which the government called on schoolchildren to bring rice to school to send to Somalia, also drew criticism. Arguments ranged from the obvious (the rice would never get there) to the less obvious (children's innocence shouldn't be exploited for political purposes). Meanwhile, most French kids were dutifully and even graciously giving their rice in an act of solidarity. But it is hard to muster up solidarity in a system that does not encourage links among people. And this absence of links in the form of high school football teams or choirs or theater clubs means that there is very little conviviality in the long run. Another reason I will never be French.

Negativism. The French really are a rather negative lot. Even when things are going well, they find a way to talk about
le mal français
(the French sickness). Many books by Frenchmen have been written on that mysterious subject. One of the reasons I'll never be French is
that I am convinced that almost everything is possible if you want it badly enough. My immediate reaction is not “No,” but “Yes,” or “Why not?” This is definitely not French.

Rules. I'll never be French because I will never get used to the systematic breaking of rules. I think of the butcher shop where I buy meat. Before me in line was a lady with a little white poodle dressed in a red coat. Behind the cashier's stand is a sign that says very clearly, “
NOS AMIS LES ANIMAUX SONT INTERDITS
” (Our animal friends are forbidden), and in case no one can read, there is a picture of a dog with a big cross painted over it. This, however, does not dissuade people like the lady with the red-coated dog from entering the store. Nor does the owner make a big fuss. After all, rules are made to be broken.

Last but not least, complication . . . and criticism. As a Dane who has been living in France for almost as long as I have remarked, “I have never in my life seen people who can take the simplest thing and make it so complicated.” Amen!

As for criticism: “In France, criticism is considered the supreme demonstration of intelligence,” wrote high school principal Marc Guiraut. I personally find that too much criticism, or mean criticism, can be stultifying and negative. But then, that is my American point of view.

Okay, so I'm not French and never will be. Even small differences underscore this fact. If I open two windows to create a cross breeze, I am accused of causing a draft. At cocktail parties, I am always backing into plants or the nearest wall because, as an American, I need more space. I still squirm at conversations that take a Rabelaisian turn—and there are plenty of them.

Finally, I'll never be French because, unfortunately, I have never been able to find out the Frenchwoman's secret for looking sexy even when she's standing around in old blue jeans and a T-shirt. Is it because the old jeans are just tight enough without being vulgar and the T-shirt has just the right cut? I remember with awe my friend Chantal, who lived next to me in a maid's room in our student days, as she waltzed up eight flights of stairs in a navy pea jacket she had transformed from a former long coat, with her scarf tied around her hair, just so. She could have stepped out of the pages of
Vogue
.

Not to mention Sandrine, who, although pushing her middle fifties, is the sexiest woman I know. If you manage to dissect what she has on, you still cannot figure out how she arrived at the total effect, and you certainly would
never
ask. So just what is that little
je ne sais quoi
that elevates simplicity into style, an art the French have mastered not just in clothing but in almost every detail of life? After almost twenty years, I'm still trying to figure it out.

So, in spite of the knowledge that I live in France but will never be French, little intrigues like the above, and many, many others, should keep me going for a good while to come. Someday I hope to get it all figured out. And who knows? Maybe I'll even lose my accent along the way. Miracles do happen,
n'est-ce pas?

Harriet Welty Rochefort grew up in Shenandoah, Iowa. A lifelong attraction to France led her to visit Paris during college. In 1971, she hopped on a freighter to Cadiz and ended up in France once again—this time to stay. A freelance journalist, Harriet teaches journalism at the Institut d'Etudes Politiques de Paris. She regularly lectures on Franco-American cultural differences based on
French Toast
and her second book,
French Fried
. Her Web site is
www.understandfrance.org
.