Do You Like the French?
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OK, OK, I just can’t take it anymore. Every time I am preparing to go to France, at least one of my friends or relatives pipes up with something along the lines of “Why are you going to France? They are so rude. And anyway, they don’t like Americans.” I have smiled gamely and dismissed such remarks for several years now, but lately I have observed that the disease is spreading. Now, whenever I go to Italy, I get “Why are you going over there? Everyone knows they don’t like Americans.” And a little while ago, when I indicated that I was taking the Chunnel for a quick trip to London, I got “Do you really want to do that? The British are really mad at us right now.” Gee, and I thought the British were on OUR side! What’s next, negative comments about Antarctica?
I have a very Republican (adult) son who cannot understand why his equally Republican mother wants to visit “them.” He was not so uncomfortable with London, having been there himself and thus able to reassure himself that, after all, they were on the “correct” side, at least as far as things military were concerned. However, the rest of Europe was fraught with danger (hmmmm, ever walked the streets of New Orleans?), full of terrorists (let’s see now, that Nine Eleven thing DID happen in the USA, right?), and just plain loaded with all sorts of people who would like to “do in” Americans one way or another. Oh, yes, and besides all that, they are rude, at least to Americans.
Believe me, I am not picking on my son—many friends and very many acquaintances and not a few perfect strangers listening in on conversations about traveling to Europe evidently feel the same way. Karen Fawcett has tried her best to dispel this negative notion in several articles for BP. Since, unlike Karen, I do not live in France, I can offer only what would be called “anecdotal evidence” to counteract the spread of this disease, and I certainly cannot speak for every American visiting abroad. But maybe, if you are on the fence about venturing into the “wilds” of France, some of my anecdotes will encourage you to jump down off that fence and take a chance. So here goes.
On one of our trips to Paris, my husband and I had managed to rent a small apartment near the Eiffel Tower. Of course we were very tired when we arrived at the doorstep, having endured a nine hour trans-Atlantic crossing, plus a five hour wait in the airport to board that plane after our connecting flight arrived in Atlanta. We knocked on the door. No response. We checked the address. We knocked again. No response. Since the establishment appeared to be a sort of complex, I then went in search of whoever was in charge. To do this, I just knocked on a bunch of doors, thereby disturbing people who were simply inside their own apartment minding their own business. At no door was I greeted rudely.
One elderly gentleman took me in hand and pointed out another door I should try. The person in charge was not there. At this point a mother with two young children in tow appeared in the courtyard. Even though she was carrying groceries which she must have needed to put away, she asked what the problem was, then put her bags down, told her girls to sit on the steps, whipped out her cell phone and proceeded to begin calling to find some help.
Meanwhile, the elderly gentleman, concerned for my husband, had come out into the courtyard to keep him company. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him chattering away with my husband. Amazed, I saw my husband nodding and agreeing with him. I was amazed because the gentleman was, of course, carrying on the conversation in French, and my husband does not speak a single word of French (not even BONJOUR). Nonetheless they seemed to be doing well, so I turned back to the mother who had the phone.
She tried several numbers to no avail and then asked if we would like to come inside to wait. At that point the concierge showed up, full of apologies, and said she had misunderstood the time our flight was arriving. The mother with the phone smiled at me and gathered up her groceries and her children, and the elderly gentleman proceeded to tell my husband that now everything would be fine. My husband just nodded and grinned as if he understood every word. We thanked everyone and went inside, and that was the start of a wonderful trip.
Then there was the time I couldn’t find the post office. We were renting a very tiny apartment in the Marais. I am so “directionally challenged” that my husband requires me to carry a compass at all times, but I had walked out and about in the area enough so that I thought I knew at least the general direction to go. Carrying a bunch of letters and postcards in my hand, I started off. I made it to the general vicinity, but nowhere could I find (a) an entrance door or (b) a mail slot. I circled around several times, evidently looking frustrated. Finally an elderly woman, seeing the mail in my hand, asked if I needed to mail some letters. I nodded. She took my arm and walked with me around the corner to a spot she pointed out. Sure enough, there was a rather well-hidden slot for my letters. She then pointed out the entrance door, which was recessed and out of view. Then she smiled as she said, “We think they…
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OK, OK, I just can’t take it anymore. Every time I am preparing to go to France, at least one of my friends or relatives pipes up with something along the lines of “Why are you going to France? They are so rude. And anyway, they don’t like Americans.” I have smiled gamely and dismissed such remarks for several years now, but lately I have observed that the disease is spreading. Now, whenever I go to Italy, I get “Why are you going over there? Everyone knows they don’t like Americans.” And a little while ago, when I indicated that I was taking the Chunnel for a quick trip to London, I got “Do you really want to do that? The British are really mad at us right now.” Gee, and I thought the British were on OUR side! What’s next, negative comments about Antarctica?
I have a very Republican (adult) son who cannot understand why his equally Republican mother wants to visit “them.” He was not so uncomfortable with London, having been there himself and thus able to reassure himself that, after all, they were on the “correct” side, at least as far as things military were concerned. However, the rest of Europe was fraught with danger (hmmmm, ever walked the streets of New Orleans?), full of terrorists (let’s see now, that Nine Eleven thing DID happen in the USA, right?), and just plain loaded with all sorts of people who would like to “do in” Americans one way or another. Oh, yes, and besides all that, they are rude, at least to Americans.
Believe me, I am not picking on my son—many friends and very many acquaintances and not a few perfect strangers listening in on conversations about traveling to Europe evidently feel the same way. Karen Fawcett has tried her best to dispel this negative notion in several articles for BP. Since, unlike Karen, I do not live in France, I can offer only what would be called “anecdotal evidence” to counteract the spread of this disease, and I certainly cannot speak for every American visiting abroad. But maybe, if you are on the fence about venturing into the “wilds” of France, some of my anecdotes will encourage you to jump down off that fence and take a chance. So here goes.
On one of our trips to Paris, my husband and I had managed to rent a small apartment near the Eiffel Tower. Of course we were very tired when we arrived at the doorstep, having endured a nine hour trans-Atlantic crossing, plus a five hour wait in the airport to board that plane after our connecting flight arrived in Atlanta. We knocked on the door. No response. We checked the address. We knocked again. No response. Since the 
establishment appeared to be a sort of complex, I then went in search of whoever was in charge. To do this, I just knocked on a bunch of doors, thereby disturbing people who were simply inside their own apartment minding their own business. At no door was I greeted rudely.
One elderly gentleman took me in hand and pointed out another door I should try. The person in charge was not there. At this point a mother with two young children in tow appeared in the courtyard. Even though she was carrying groceries which she must have needed to put away, she asked what the problem was, then put her bags down, told her girls to sit on the steps, whipped out her cell phone and proceeded to begin calling to find some help.
Meanwhile, the elderly gentleman, concerned for my husband, had come out into the courtyard to keep him company. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him chattering away with my husband. Amazed, I saw my husband nodding and agreeing with him. I was amazed because the gentleman was, of course, carrying on the conversation in French, and my husband does not speak a single word of French (not even BONJOUR). Nonetheless they seemed to be doing well, so I turned back to the mother who had the phone.
She tried several numbers to no avail and then asked if we would like to come inside to wait. At that point the concierge showed up, full of apologies, and said she had misunderstood the time our flight was arriving. The mother with the phone smiled at me and gathered up her groceries and her children, and the elderly gentleman proceeded to tell my husband that now everything would be fine. My husband just nodded and grinned as if he understood every word. We thanked everyone and went inside, and that was the start of a wonderful trip.
Then there was the time I couldn’t find the post office. We were renting a very tiny apartment in the Marais. I am so “directionally challenged” that my husband requires me to carry a compass at all times, but I had walked out and about in the area enough so that I thought I knew at least the general direction to go. Carrying a bunch of letters and postcards in my hand, I started off. I made it to the general vicinity, but nowhere could I find (a) an entrance door or (b) a mail slot. I circled around several times, evidently looking frustrated. Finally an elderly woman, seeing the mail in my hand, asked if I needed to mail some letters. I nodded. She took my arm and walked with me around the corner to a spot she pointed out. Sure enough, there was a rather well-hidden slot for my letters. She then pointed out the entrance door, which was recessed and out of view. Then she smiled as she said, “We think they hid it deliberately!” We both laughed.
I have lots more happy memories, including a fond remembrance of a conversation with a dedicated gardener in Rouen. When he saw me looking over his fence into his lovely small garden, he came up to me smiling and we had a chat about all the hard work connected with maintaining such a beautiful place. I told him about our farm and he told me about his flowers. He was delighted that I was so pleased with his efforts and grinned from ear to ear as we commiserated about blisters acquired in the name of removing weeds.
And then there was the young French guide in one of the “stuffy” museums, who, noticing that we were carrying what looked like walking canes, leaned over and whispered something to her companion guide when we presented our entrance tickets. She scurried away and conferred with someone behind a gate. “What’s going on?” my husband asked. “I don’t know. Just go along with whatever it is,” I hissed, remembering that this was the man who once, on an earlier visit to Paris, actually asked me to inform the waiter that he “didn’t want so much foam on his beer.” (Not having the faintest idea how to communicate this, I told him to drink his beer and shut up.) The next thing I knew, the guide had ushered us into a private entrance and had arranged for us to be taken upstairs on the special exhibit elevator, so that we would not have to climb the stairs—and we hadn’t even asked her! She asked politely if we would be able to use the stairs coming down. Fortunately, her inquiries about the state of our health were addressed to me in French, thus preventing my husband from spoiling her kind gesture by explaining that our “walking canes” were really small portable chairs we used when we got tired of walking. Never look a gift elevator ride in the mouth, I say!
Or how about the impeccably dressed, silver-haired lady on the train platform, who pointed us in the correct direction for our trip to Avignon, and then explained that we shouldn’t worry if the train was not on time because, she said, these days it seemed as if the trains were late more and more frequently. Not like it used to be, she added. After some more conversation, in which she said her son was working in America, she looked at me and said, “The French really do like Americans. But we think you work too hard. Always working. You should try to live a little.” I told her that was exactly why my husband had persuaded me to retire. She patted my hand and nodded.
But what is probably my favorite memory of French kindness occurred while we were taking a train trip to see the chateau at Blois. Since there were several possible stops before the right one, I was trying to be very careful to get off at the correct place. I checked off several stops on my note card as we went, then told my husband the next one was ours. We got up, the train stopped, we got off, the train went on—and then I discovered this was one stop too soon. It was Sunday, and the small town seemed deserted. The station was closed. No telling when the next train might arrive. In addition, we had planned to find a restaurant before seeing the chateau, so we were hungry.
I was getting upset when I spied a man across from the station, working on painting his house. He was a stranger, busy on his Sunday off, but I decided to take a chance on bothering him. The result of this encounter was a warm and lengthy conversation (he hoped to visit America) at the end of which he told me that there might be one restaurant open in town and we probably would have time to eat before the next train. He walked with us part of the way to the restaurant, then, looking thoughtful, he said, ”I am not certain it is open, so if it is closed, just come back here to my house and I will give you some sandwiches and you can wait for the train.” We were strangers, we were AMERICANS, and he was going to feed us! As it turned out, the restaurant was open and we had a wonderful meal, then caught the next train after saying goodbye to our Good Samaritan.
I think you get the idea. I have asked lots of the French if they really “don’t like Americans.” The person to whom the question is addressed invariably looks shocked. As my Good Samaritan near Blois told me, “All that stuff is just politics. We don’t pay any attention to politics like that. Never mind all those political things. We like Americans—especially those who like us.”
And that, indeed, may be the secret ingredient.
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