How do I hate thee, let me count the ways...
Why it is so, so hard to like the French? Perhaps it's because they emit so little warmth. In general, you get the feeling that they are waiting patiently for you to leave their presence. People rarely smile. I'm a very smiley person, and sometimes feel I should warn the French of this by slapping a post-it note onto my forehead with 'Cart me off to the funny farm' scrawled on it.
They are as hard to like as spoilt children. If the planet Earth was a hotel, the French would occupy the whole of the top floor penthouse, and have use of a separate, executive lift. This is why I can't forgive them for looking so bloody miserable. Just looking at people's faces on a trip to the supermarket is a draining experience. Scowls, raised voices, random acts of selfishness and hysterical driving are part of everyday banality.
I hadn't realised how much this was getting to me until about two years ago when, after having steered the pushchair round yet another copious crotte de chien, I was imagining grabbing the dog owner by the scruff of his/her neck and plunging his/her entire face into it, and then rotating gently. My fantasy was interrupted by a plaintive little voice from up front. 'Mummy, what are you saying?' France was turning me into the mad old woman who talks to herself in the street.
Even worse, the French are no fun. No other country has so much potential for enjoyment concentrated within its borders, and yet, they still can't manage it. My last job featured a typically pampered French workforce. There was a budget set aside for enjoyment, in this case, the office Christmas dinner, held at a restaurant. The problem? The chosen restaurant was a two-stop metro ride away. My colleagues fell upon this anomaly as if Christmas had come early. An opportunity to moan! Gather round! 'Déjà, le fait de prendre le metro, ça désenchante, quoi,' drawled one. Yes, I am 'disenchanted' by the notion of taking a five-minute metro ride for a work knees-up.
I am in a position to compare France with another foreign country that I know very well - Russia. And here the plot thickens. Russians have far more obvious faults than the French. Their country is in chaos, filthy and riven with corruption. Scratch the surface of the average Russian and you usually find an inveterate rascist, homophobe and drunk. The men are mostly incapable of doing so much as making themselves a cup of tea (hubski thankfully is an exception: A Russian man who irons).
Yet as a people Russians are a delight - generous and larger-than-life with a reckless joie de vivre that I can't help but admire (even among some of hubski's harder drinking friends). I connect with them with an ease that leaves me scratching my head over the eel-like nature of my immediate neighbours.
It is possible for the French to grow on you. I know people who have devoted their entire adult lives to learning to like them. Some have succeeded, especially those who have married into French families (although there I could tell you a few stories) or bought a farmhouse. But a farmhouse is beyond my budget and I have been patronised by too many French men at work, and in banks, shops and government offices to ever contemplate sleeping with one, let alone marrying one.
So I've come to the conclusion that I wish to do other things with the rest of my life than learn to like the French.
I'm sure they'll get over it.
They are as hard to like as spoilt children. If the planet Earth was a hotel, the French would occupy the whole of the top floor penthouse, and have use of a separate, executive lift. This is why I can't forgive them for looking so bloody miserable. Just looking at people's faces on a trip to the supermarket is a draining experience. Scowls, raised voices, random acts of selfishness and hysterical driving are part of everyday banality.
I hadn't realised how much this was getting to me until about two years ago when, after having steered the pushchair round yet another copious crotte de chien, I was imagining grabbing the dog owner by the scruff of his/her neck and plunging his/her entire face into it, and then rotating gently. My fantasy was interrupted by a plaintive little voice from up front. 'Mummy, what are you saying?' France was turning me into the mad old woman who talks to herself in the street.
Even worse, the French are no fun. No other country has so much potential for enjoyment concentrated within its borders, and yet, they still can't manage it. My last job featured a typically pampered French workforce. There was a budget set aside for enjoyment, in this case, the office Christmas dinner, held at a restaurant. The problem? The chosen restaurant was a two-stop metro ride away. My colleagues fell upon this anomaly as if Christmas had come early. An opportunity to moan! Gather round! 'Déjà, le fait de prendre le metro, ça désenchante, quoi,' drawled one. Yes, I am 'disenchanted' by the notion of taking a five-minute metro ride for a work knees-up.
I am in a position to compare France with another foreign country that I know very well - Russia. And here the plot thickens. Russians have far more obvious faults than the French. Their country is in chaos, filthy and riven with corruption. Scratch the surface of the average Russian and you usually find an inveterate rascist, homophobe and drunk. The men are mostly incapable of doing so much as making themselves a cup of tea (hubski thankfully is an exception: A Russian man who irons).
Yet as a people Russians are a delight - generous and larger-than-life with a reckless joie de vivre that I can't help but admire (even among some of hubski's harder drinking friends). I connect with them with an ease that leaves me scratching my head over the eel-like nature of my immediate neighbours.
It is possible for the French to grow on you. I know people who have devoted their entire adult lives to learning to like them. Some have succeeded, especially those who have married into French families (although there I could tell you a few stories) or bought a farmhouse. But a farmhouse is beyond my budget and I have been patronised by too many French men at work, and in banks, shops and government offices to ever contemplate sleeping with one, let alone marrying one.
So I've come to the conclusion that I wish to do other things with the rest of my life than learn to like the French.
I'm sure they'll get over it.
posted by francesca tereshkova | 3:16 AM
4 Comments:
I hate to tell you this, but you sound very bitter.
The main advantage of the farmhouse, is that it is usually located in the depopulated countryside, where there are fewer Frenchers to put up with.
Spot on, Francesca. It's best to enjoy the French male charm as only skin deep and run for the hills.
I met some Russians in the US and had the best time of my one-year stay there with them. Definitely knew how to enjoy themselves, they did.
Ahhh, you sound as bitter as me, an utterly disillusioned 'Frenchy' in Thatcher's Little Britain. Good luck to you in happy shiny land; as for me, I look forward to side-stepping the shits on the pavements instead of the knuckle dragging shits all around me. And, yes, the food here is much better than in the past, thanks in no small measure to imports and not the indigenous cuisine of fable.
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