If I wrote my own version of Rebecca Solnit’s “Men Explain Things to Me,” it would be called “French People Tell Me What to Do.”
That’s what a lot of my life here is, saying okay when I’m not sure that it is, taking someone’s word for it because I certainly don’t know enough to argue with them. I thought it was due to the language barrier–the solid brick wall between what I meant and what I could express–but when I achieved fluency it just kept happening.
It’s not the French language, then, but the French way of life: something much harder to study. It’s sneaky and subtle. Some days I’m nostalgic for the early days of learning, the black-and-white satisfaction of memorizing vocabulary lists for Madame Wetzel: amener, appeler, arroser.
In my French life, there is almost always a slight sense of bouleversement–disruption–the feeling that I don’t quite know what’s going on at any given time. All the yawning aspects of daily life have been shifted, a bit like that prank where you move every piece of someone’s furniture five inches to the right. I am the one pranked: I don’t notice when I walk into the room, but am surely going to stub my toe.
Being a foreigner makes me conscious of things I rarely consider in the States, like how I’m essentially at the mercy of so many strangers every single day. If they tell me to wait, I wait. Sign here? I do. That’ll be 36 euros? Let me get my card. As I organize a new bank account, long-stay work visa, and phone plan, I feel dangerously vulnerable, like this can’t possibly work out and I’m going to get scammed. Somehow it does, though, giving me a thrill like I’m cheating the system. How is this underprepared American doing it? Your guess is as good as mine.
Despite little successes, what I can accomplish here in a day doesn’t come close to my productivity at home. There, I expect to walk into the bank, post office, restaurant, gas station, library…and leave with what I came for. Check.
Here, I don’t count on that. Half the battle is finding the business open (and not on a surprise holiday or vacation or two-hour lunch break). Here, I have to remember that the bus still runs at 7pm–but only halfway through the normal route, so I might be forced to disembark in the middle of nowhere. That of course I can’t pay by card. That wifi is a luxury and that, even in a train station, I might need a euro handy to pay to use the bathroom.
The little inconveniences happen every day: not enough to really dampen my spirits, but just enough to keep me on my (stubbed) toes.
Even today, I was ready for a full day of writing in a café. I had errands to run, a bag for my groceries, a fully-charged computer, comfortable heels. But the bus didn’t come. A little old lady walking a little old dog asked me what I was doing: don’t you know it’s la Toussaint, mademoiselle? In other words, everything is closed. Of course I didn’t know about it. But now that my successes are slowly outweighing my French failures, this kind of thing just makes me laugh (and hope there’s enough food in the pantry for dinner).
I’m a spontaneous procrastinator who lives for last-minute decisions: to the bar! to the gym! to the store! to Bordeaux! and what I’m discovering is that being here cramps my style because it’s just not the way things are done.
Paradoxical France, the country of the romantic yet stubbornly practical. The concept of a “dream job” does not come from this nation.
I grew up hearing American Girl, 90s girl-power wishes: “Be YOU! Follow your dreams! You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take!”
I laugh imagining that here. “Follow your objectives,” is how I think it would translate, and that is not something you hear (all the better; what a lame motivational statement).
C’est pas possible seems the default for risky or creative endeavors.
I tell people I want to be a writer. I mention articles, books, magazines. I mention passion, figuring it out as I go along. In France, they look at me and squint. You mean you’re in journalism?
This used to get on my nerves, but I’ve accepted that it’s just a different way of seeing the world, a way I appreciate but don’t fully accept. I’m thankful for my American upbringing, even with its flaws, its inaccurate food pyramid, its pie-in-the-sky-positivity. It’s made me just stubborn enough to wrestle with France.