Tell Me About The French

I get this question from a number of you, but you can’t really talk about the French without talking about their country. I read several books before I came over here to become acquainted with the country; “Six Million Frenchmen Can’t Be Wrong”, was the one my friend Erick suggested had a good overall look at what I was getting myself into with my move here. A few other books written by ex-patriates who have lived in Paris and acculturated to the French lifestyle (“Almost French” & “A Town Like Paris”) were also helpful for me in highlighting some of the more obvious things that make France different.

So herewith, my own observations about the things that make France French, or at least different from what I know as an American.

Mondays. In preparation for my trip to Corsica with Priscilla back in September, I organized myself to get to the bank on Monday before we left Tuesday morning so I’d have some cash for the trip. But when I got to the bank that Monday morning, it was closed. Arghhh! Lesson learned! There is a 35 hour work week in France, and if you are open on Saturday (which the bank is, conveniently for a number of folks, I am sure), then you close on Monday, so that your employees get a proper 5 day work week. Most businesses that open on Saturdays are closed on Monday; although some are open Monday and closed some other day of the week (it is Tuesday for the hair dresser in my building). The big commercial supermarkets and superstores can afford to open six days of the week, given a high employee count (and ability to manage work schedules), but it’s not the same for the smaller companies and shops.

Streets. Living on the fourth floor of my building (called the 3rd floor on the elevator, as the first floor is designated “0”), I hear a lot of what is going on in the street below me. And believe me, there is a lot! OK, so New York City has machines that clean their streets, but in Nice, the city workers take out hoses and wash down the street. Regularly; even in a rain storm this morning! Now, I’m not complaining, really, because honestly, with all the dog crap on the sidewalks and in the street, having someone actually get rid of that crap makes me happy. (I take off my shoes once I’m in my apartment, you have no idea what kind of stuff you may track around the floors – floors which I tend to spend some time on stretching before a run, for instance. The other phenomenon that I have learned to accommodate in my sleeping habits is the nightly trash pickup. Nightly! I can’t think of an American city where I have lived that had daily trash pickup, even NYC. But this is a country of small apartments and no disposals, so I guess that makes sense? On the other hand, I wonder if it’s not just a socialist thing, keeping the workers busy for their 35 hours a week (kind of like the street cleaning – again, I’m not complaining!).

Bread. Americans eat like there’s no tomorrow, but there is no comparative activity I can think of that occurs daily in American gastronomy like the quotidian buying of bread here in France. In the morning you see people holding croissants or pain au chocolat or some other sweet thing in their hands as they head to work. Around noon, you see the exodus as folks leave work and kids leave school for lunch, and every other person you pass is carrying a baguette, or two, or three, even. And at the end of the day, the same phenomenon; I suppose if you didn’t get one in the morning, you pick it up in the evening. In the two block radius of my apartment, there are six places to buy a baguette, either in a boulangerie or in a supermarket or a patisserie. The fact of the matter, I learned from Priscilla, is that a good baguette is fresh for about four hours. That’s it. So, if you want fresh bread, and apparently folks do, you buy it just before you are going to eat it. I’ve written that folks will freeze the uneaten sections of their bread, for eating later, but mostly, I think the French embrace their national obsession with fresh food, and go for the real thing.

Time. Life moves at a different pace here. Americans work long hours and eat lunch at their desk or pick up something quick at McDonalds or Subway. The French close down their stores and offices for two hours each day for lunch. I walk by cafés anytime between noon and 3 p.m. and see people sitting there, a carafe of wine between them, relaxed and talking. Americans (OK, at least in the working community) organize their lunches out to conduct business. I think the inverse is true for the French. This relaxed schedule is certainly guided by the 35 hour work week, and I have to admit, I haven’t met any French yet that strike me as go-getters. This is a country known for its small businesses, but not for any rags to riches stories. My friend Erick who works as a tax attorney here in Nice, longs to go back to the US, where he lived for a time many years ago. He is tired of how long everything takes in France; in America, we make decisions, move forward, and stick to deadlines. Priscilla warns me, as I look for a doctor here in Nice, that I should find an office close to where I live, because doctor visits inevitably take hours. (I told her that I’ve waited for hours for my doctor in the States, too.) In my unemployed, all-the-time-in-the-world status, this waiting concept does not bother me. I’ve waited in a long line to buy a train ticket; and seen long lines in the Post Office, and know that government offices are notorious for making people wait. The French appear to be content to wait; but then there’s another side to them. Priscilla and I were waiting in a long line to get into a concert this past weekend; when the doors opened, everyone massed toward the doors, line be damned. We overheard a Frenchman observe that if these had been Americans, everyone would have stayed in line. Well, maybe the English would have, anyway.

More observations to come…