Archives for category: Francophilia

“…I love French wine like I love the French language. I have sampled every language, French is my favorite—fantastic language, especially to curse with: Nom de Dieu de putain de bordel de merde de saloperies de connards d’enculés de ta mère. You see, it’s like wiping your arse with silk, I love it.”

(The Mérovingien in The Matrix 2. Watch Lambert Wilson and swoon…)

So this is about French and toilet paper.

Americans, evidently, do like to wipe their asses with silk. Or the next best thing. According to the ecogeek article Which Is Worse? Hummers Or Toilet Paper?, Americans use “three times more toilet paper than the average European.” (No, they’re not dirty, you’re just wasteful.) To add insult to injury, Americans prefer quilty, cushy TP for their tushies, which are obviously too good for recycled paper; more than 98% of the TP sold in America is from virgin wood. In Europe, on the other hand, nearly 40% of TP sold is made from recycled paper products. Sales of high-end brands are increasing in some US markets despite the deplorable state of the planet. And I won’t even start on how eco-unfriendly wipes must be…

Americans also evidently don’t want to learn French. In Minnesota, a state university has just decided to do away with the French degree program (German too, for that matter). A middle school in New York cites declining enrollment and budgetary constraints as the reasons why French classes are threatened…

(I’m from southern California and I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard people say their kids are taking Spanish because it’s practical and at least they’ll be able to talk to their maids. I am not kidding.)

It could easily be argued that France contributed more to Western civilization than any single culture besides the ancient Greeks, but Americans are generally unaware of that. (Not that they would care if they knew. And they wouldn’t believe the French had invented the Monster Truck anyway…). They don’t realize the extent of France’s economic power, or its geopolitical importance. Americans have no idea that the French are practically the only people who still question everything. They’ve forgotten how important it is to do that.

I’ve always had the impression that Americans think of France as a place that was once an important country even though the men wore tights but that now it’s nothing more than a theme park for francophiles.

Back to toilet paper. Greenpeace and the Natural Resources Defense Council have published a handy comparative guide to TP brands (and paper towels, paper napkins and facial tissues) in the US, showing the environmental impact of each of them. You can even print it and fold it up so it’ll fit in your wallet. If you must. If you don’t think you can just remember the good brands to buy.

My advice: If you really want that silky sensation, learn French. And then buy TP made from recycled paper.

frenchlanguageinitiative.gif

(Thanks to Marc Broussard for the tip on ecogeek.)

This month’s Francophilia newsletter was dedicated to French teachers and, in it, I asked members to share stories about their French teachers on their Francophilia blogs. So I decided to start things off with my own French-teacher stories, and to publish them on Francophilia and here…

I started taking French in California in the 7th grade (age 12). My first teacher was Mrs. Yoshonis, an American with very big hair who wore a dress every single day. I distinctly remember sitting in her classroom and pointing to the flag saying “Voilà le drapeau,” and being incredibly excited when the French club went to Chez Michel for dinner; it was terribly exotic to go to a French restaurant… Mme Yoshonis was lovely.

Then we moved to Guam, and my teacher for the next two years (8th and 9th grades) was Mme Cheeley. She was a Frenchwoman; elegant and beautiful. She looked a lot like Ségolène Royal, in fact, though with a tan. I was fascinated by her. She was the first real French person I’d ever met…

In 10th grade (at 15) I had to skip French! (Parents divorced, all hell broke loose, they put me in a lousy high school that didn’t have 4th-year French.) When I was in 11th grade, we moved to Hawaii, and I found myself in another school that didn’t go past 3rd-year French. But Mme Woodrum was more than happy to make me the 4th-year (and 5th-year) class. I sat in with the 3rd-year kids, but she designed an advanced program just for me and let me help with the class.

This was 30 years ago! And I am still exchanging an annual catch-up letter with Mme Woodrum at Christmas… (She was very happy to learn I’d moved to Paris and started Francophilia.)

Madame Woodrum is special. She’s one of those teachers who leave a lasting impression on your life. I hope you have had at least one of those.

Madame also taught Spanish and Hawaiian. At lunchtime, she taught hula dancing to the Hula Club. My friends and I hung out in her classroom at lunch, listened to the Hawaiian music and watched the show. I asked her if she could do the can can and she said yes. She told us about her university studies at Middlebury, and how all the French students were in the same dorm and weren’t allowed to speak anything but French. She filled our heads with visions of Paris and châteaux and Frenchmen who pinch bottoms in elevators if you don’t watch out.

Because my parents had just gotten divorced, I went from being a straight-A student to having C’s and D’s and worse. I skipped school and went to the beach. A lot. But I never skipped French. And I kept my A in French. My passion and my passionate teacher were lifelines when I was lost at sea. Gradually I found my way back, but who knows what might have happened if it hadn’t been for Madame.

I am forever in her debt.

roquefort.jpg

I used to say that if I got to choose my last meal, it would be primarily composed of Brie (plus a few perfectly ripe kiwis and a bean burrito). But since I got here, I’ve changed my tune. The artisan fromager (Chèvres de St. Vrain) at our market (Place Maubert, Saturdays and Tuesdays) sells a Roquefort that can’t even be classified as food. It’s practically sex. Ingesting it results in a decidedly When Harry Met Sally and Meg and the pie in the deli moment. But real. Good thing you can’t witness it. And the cheese guy, Nicloas, is adorable (say it in French). He’s hunky and wholesome and rugged and boyish. If you picture him holding a baby goat you’ll buckle at the knees. Total Far From the Madding Crowd action. Saturdays and Tuesdays, girls.

But I digress. The US government, in its infinite wisdom, has decided to punish the European Union because the EU won’t import their vile, hormone-riddled beef. As part of the punishment, the US has tripled the import tariffs on Roquefort. Poor Nicolas! Quick! Rush out and buy some Roquefort, no matter where you are! Help protect the artisans fromagers from the unjust retribution of the evil corporate country.

The French government would really like you to come here for your Roquefort, though. Pretty much everyone knows that France is the number one tourist destination in the world (82 million visitors in 2007). But apparently the French tourism authority thought the country needed to freshen up its image because, though it’s the most popular destination, it doesn’t rake in the most tourist buckage.

So last month, France unveiled a new campaign—Rendez-vous en France—to encourage tourism to France. They also designed a logo to go with their marketing campaign. What do you think?

francelogo2.jpg

I think it’s kinda lame. Trite. Wimpy. But get this:

An earlier version of the logo was more anatomically obvious. It featured Marianne’s naked breasts, joined by the “R” and “A.” That one was vetoed in June, however, apparently deemed a bit too seductive for the foreign tourist market. (Source)

Too bad! That, and the inevitable scandal, would have been more fun.

But even the G-rated version of the logo is not as bad as the logo that was just busted out for the new auto entrepreneur agency, which was recently created to make it easier for French people to start small businesses. Obviously the result of an intra-office logo contest…

autoentrepreneur.jpg

OK, let’s interpret this image. Is this a spermatozoa? Does this logo imply that it’s as easy as all that to create a company? It makes more sense than seeing it as a balloon. How dorky is that smiley face? Your thoughts?

You know, France is renowned in the world for its artistic sensibility. Somebody’s getting lazy. But at least they still do cheese right.

poesie.jpg

You know you live in France when a new girlfriend you barely know wishes you and your husband a year of poetry and eroticism for New Year’s…

In fact the French are quite lyrical in their New Year wishes. It’s very nice, and I hope I get everything they wished me: joy, happiness, luck, energy. And poésie and érotisme, of course. So creative, these Froggies.

We’re off to a good start. The first week of January was filled with poetry. At least that’s how I see it. Paris, dressed in white. A first for me.

snow1-copy.jpg

Here’s wishing you a year of whatever you consider to be poetry and lots of firsts.

magi.jpg

Ten years ago, I came to Paris just before New Year’s for a friend’s wedding. Another friend of mine flew to Paris to pal around with me for a week. I got in touch with a French guy, an acquaintance I’d met through a friend a few years before in L.A., and he invited me and my friend to a fête des rois. I had no idea what it was, but I was game. My first genuine Parisian party with genuine Parisians!

(I discovered later that it’s a celebration of the Catholic holiday of Epiphany, which I’d never heard of, being an atheist of Protestant-ish origins. In case you’re like me, it’s 12 days after Christmas, on January 6th—the twelfth day of Christmas (so that’s what that means!)—which is supposedly when The Three Kings (and the little drummer boy), guided by what the latest theory says was a conjunction of Venus and Jupiter (in June), got to The Manger.)

So I asked an American francophile friend who was there for the wedding what the fête des rois was. Turns out it is primarily about this galette made of buttery puff pastry with a layer of marzipan in the middle. (Very tasty.)

galette.jpg(I’d been wondering why all the bakeries in Paris were overflowing with these rather plain-Jane pastries with the Burger King crowns on top…)

My friend told me that the galette has a ceramic figurine baked into it (called a fêve). He said whoever gets the piece with the fêve gets to be king or queen for the rest of the night and that there were games or something. That gave me pause, because what if I got the fêve and the games required that one be brilliant and biting like the French aristocrats used to be in their salon games (à la Ridicule)? What if it was like Truth or Dare? I was apprehensive.

feves.jpg

The day of the thing, I went into a bakery and asked the boulangère what one would traditionally bring to the hostess of such a party. She said “cider” and sold me a galette too.

So we got there, and we were a few minutes early, but we went up anyway because it was freezing outside and there was nowhere to go. (Note: Don’t ever show up at a Parisian party early. Or even on time.) The hostess was clearly annoyed because we were early, but also probably because her boyfriend, the one who’d invited me, had had to come up with some explanation for who this American was and why he’d invited her. I have no idea what he told her, but it clearly it wasn’t convincing enough to make her even remotely happy to meet me. She sneered when I gave her the cider and the galette. (Had the boulangère intentionally tried to make me look like a dork? I never did find out.)

Not long afterwards, people started arriving. They walked over to us, shook our hands, said bonsoir and their first names and sat down. (The appropriate response is to say bonsoir and your first name.) Every person who came in did the same. When there were 15 people there, the new ones came in and shook 15 hands and said their name 15 times. It looked pretty silly to my American friend and me; so formal and stilted for such young people (20s and early 30s). At our parties, you walk in and your host(ess) says “Everybody this is so and so,” or you introduce yourself to the room, or you just wander in and mingle (or not), grab a beer and a chip…

There was no munchie table to hover over, to anchor the thing, to get people to move around, to serve as a conversation starter. (“I must have the recipe for this dip!”)

We were served champagne. (No wonder she had snubbed my cider. That must be what you take to a fête des rois for six-year-olds…) Everybody was sitting around in a couch-and-chairs semi-circle. Nobody was standing or moving. Not much talking. They were pale skinned and dark haired, all thin, wearing mostly black, their movements languid, voices low. I felt like I had walked into Interview with the Vampire. I felt very pink. And I was wearing kelly green velvet pants, the loudest outfit in the room, despite the black turtleneck and boots on either end of the pants.

Then the moment of truth: the cutting of the galette. It was giant. (The one I’d brought was smaller and it sat there on the table, untouched.) (Note: Bring flowers and/or champagne to Parisian parties.)

There are rules to the fête des rois. The youngest person at the party is supposed to get under the table the galette is sitting on. With every piece the hostess cuts, that person tells her who should get the piece. (They did not make the youngest person get under the table, since she was a chic and sleek Parisian law student in her 20s wearing a short, tight black dress. Although she did have to call the pieces.)

Turns out there were two fêves in this galette, and it came with two crowns because it was so big. Oddly, I got the first fêve, and the friend I’d come with got the other one. I suspected that they’d rigged it, but I couldn’t figure out how… They made us each put on one of the Burger King crowns. Then I really did feel like a dork, surrounded by all these vampires, wearing a gold paper crown.

I expected them to start feeding on me and my friend at any moment.

So I said, “Now what do we do?” and one of the girl vampires laughed and said “La pauvre, elle pense qu’il y a une suite!” (Poor thing, she thinks there’s more to it!) And I’m thinking, “Don’t poor thing me, you vampire bitch, I’ll kick your scrawny ass.”

But I just laughed, and explained that a friend had told me there were supposed to be games, etc. It was a relief, on a certain level, but at that point, I was thinking that, as Queen, I’d really like to give the vampires some dares. Like hold your nose and sing Frère Jacques while hopping on one foot… I pictured them all playing Twister, the way you’re supposed to picture your audience naked when you’re nervous about public speaking…

When the first couple got up to leave, they went around and shook everybody’s hand again on their way out. My friend and I leaped up, waved to everyone, said bonsoir/merci and left. I’m sure they were scandalized.

(A few months later, I asked a woman who gave classes in intercultural etiquette to business people why the hostess didn’t introduce anyone. She explained that the French don’t like to be the center of attention. The whole experience was utterly fascinating and educational.)

There’s one thing you should know. There are pretty distinct class lines in French society. I’m still trying to figure it all out. Thank gawd I have Vincent (and Claire) to guide me now. I’ve now been to a number of Parisian parties and they are not all as vampirish as this one was. It depends on the crowd. But they are all more sedate than American parties.

I can pretty much guarantee you will never see anyone at a Parisian party playing Twister.

snail.jpg

The escargot.

After what was undoubtedly a grueling eight or so hours of deliberation (about four on Monday morning and another four on Tuesday after lunch…), easily enough time for thorough investigation of the many instances of voter fraud that had been reported nationwide, a specially convened council declared Martine Aubry the First Secretary of the socialist party.

Smelled awfully putschy to a lot of us…

But our Ségolène took it in stride. Because that’s what she does. She takes a licking and keeps on ticking. Ségo promised not to abandon the 50% (or more, but we’ll never know for sure now, will we?) of registered socialists who voted for her.

Many were afraid this deep rift might mean the party would split in two, which explains one of the first things out of Aubry’s mouth after being anointed:

I think that today, for the sake of France, no socialist should leave. I told Ségolène that in the teams that we will form, her friends will have a seat. I will make propositions in the next days, but I will also listen to her propositions too.

Have no fear, Martine (or maybe be afraid, be very afraid…). Ségo’s not going to stomp off and take her half of the socialists with her. She doesn’t have a problem with megalomania (one of the many nasty things her detractors accuse her of). For her, it’s just a question of if you want something done right, you gotta do it yourself.

You haven’t seen the last of her yet.

You see, Ségo actually is a team player who cares about the people and her party much more than she does about political games. You can tell by what she said upon learning of the decision that had been handed down from on high:

We have to unite today, we have to get together. I want to tell you that all of our energy will go towards the Socialist Party’s transformation. We have so much to do, and maybe to catch up on because the French have undoubtedly been judging us very harshly in the past few weeks and we have to have the courage to make up for the wasted time.

So she’s gonna stick around. She’ll be a big ol’ piece of bubble gum on the floor every time those Elephants take a step.

Give ‘em hell, girlie.

glow.jpg

While you all back in the States are there relaxing in your post-O glow, having a smoke and a cuddle, I’m still in the midst of some serious political drama here in France. The Socialist Sideshow is like a really intense cable sit-dram slash vaudeville act. At least that’s what it looks like to me.

Step right up, folks, and witness an epic clusterfuck…

The setting:

The socialists have to elect a new party leader (First Secretary). They do it whenever they feel like it and the terms vary in duration. (Nothing like stability.) Day before yesterday, 137,000 members of the socialist party voted for either Ségolène Royal or Martine Aubry. The difference announced yesterday morning was 42 votes in favor of Aubry. But the next day there were some miscounts, some mis-reporting, votes not yet counted, some questions… Ségo’s objecting, asking for a revote, and Aubry is refusing. As I write this, the difference is only about eight votes.

Ségolène Royal is fed up with the party paralysis and wants to shake things up. New ideas, new methods. She is a thorn in the side of the old-school socialists who are still calling the shots.

The players:

sideshowplayers2.jpg

Ségolene Royal: Ran for president of France last year. Ran for First Secretary this year. Ex-longtime companion (to the tune of 4 adult kids) of the current First Secretary, François Hollande. She connects with the masses and can do things like rouse the rabble to frenzied chanting of the word “brotherhood.” (Can’t have that now, can we?) Ségo haters can’t stand that about her. It’s not the French way, appealing to the emotions rather than the intellect (although she also does the latter)… It’s undignified. They also think it’s cheating and that it’s disrespectful to those being thus hypnotized. And they’re jealous.

François Hollande: Elephant.* Current First Secretary, and he has been for something like the last 10 or 15 years. Has a non-threatening face that makes you want to think he’s a nice guy. But…

Martine Aubry: Elephant. Ran against Ségo for the First Secretary job. She has the charisma of a black hole, the dynamism of an escargot. She was the architect of the famous 35-hour workweek, which was a nice idea but which was implemented in such a slash-and-burn way that it ended up doing more harm than good and became the biggest socialist party controversy in a long time.

Benoit Hamon: Came out of nowhere to run for First Secretary. Younger, positioned himself to the left of the others for purposes of this election. Seems to be quite impressed with himself.

Bertrand Delanoë: Almost ran for First Secretary. Dashing, urbane and gay mayor of Paris. May be thinking of running for president in 2012. Everybody loves his Vélib program, but hates what happened with the traffic in Paris when he made bus lanes. Nobody seems to feel strongly one way or the other about him.

Lionel Jospin: Elephant. Total old-school socialist, been around since forever. The party patriarch. Was Prime Minister under Chirac and later ran for president against him, but failed miserably because he believed he was so awesome he didn’t think he had to campaign. He was beaten in the first round by the ultra-right-wing candidate Le Pen! He was so disgusted that people couldn’t see his inherent awesomeness that he stormed off and retired for a while. But he got over it and today still thinks he’s The Shit. He now skulks around behind the scenes undermining Ségo. Heads one political clique. Mortal enemy of Fabius.

Laurent Fabius: Elephant. Ran against Ségo for the socialist party presidential nomination in 2007. A pompous blowhard. Was prime minister under Mitterand and his heir apparent, groomed for greatness (which never came) by Mitterand, the 20th-century socialist golden boy himself. Heads a different political clique. Mortal enemy of Jospin.

Dominique Strauss-Kahn (DSK): Elephant. Ran against Ségo for the socialist party presidential nomination in 2007. Current director of the IMF. (The Wall Street Journal recently outed him for having an affair with an underling. Never would have made the news in France.) Smart guy, generally respected by left and right, doesn’t engender strong emotional responses from people. Heads yet another political clique.

Jack Lang: Elephant. A smiley, likeable guy (very un-Elephantish in that respect). Was Minister of Culture under Mitterand and is widely respected, left and right, for what he accomplished for the arts during that period. A huge Ségo supporter during the presidential election, but then he supported Ségo’s arch-rival, Aubry, in the First Secretary election.

*The Elephants, also called the heavyweights, are the dour, jowly old-schoolers who haven’t made the leap to the 21st century and aren’t ready to pass the baton. In fact, they’re holding onto it the way Joey held onto his firetruck when you’d try to take it away from him in kindergarten.

What transpired:

2007: Ségo runs against two Elephants (Fabius and DSK) for the socialist presidential nomination and is elected by over 60% of the party members, to the shock and dismay of the other two. They sulk for the duration of her campaign, making sure to scowl and look disgusted or bored whenever they’re seen in public with her. They also back-stab her at every opportunity. (So much for solidarity.) She loses the presidency to Sarkozy, 53 to 47. (Not half bad if you ask me.) Before she ran for the nomination, there had also been noise of her longtime partner François Holland running…

After the presidential election, Ségo and François break up almost immediately. (Sour grapes?)

At which point François, then First Secretary of the party, arbitrarily (citing some “we’re not ready yet” bullshit) moves the next election for First Secretary to more than a year after the French presidential election (to ensure that Ségo won’t be able to ride her presidential momentum into the First Secretary spot) and even schedules it for the week after the US presidential election (hoping that will distract people from their party politics?).

After the French presidential election, the Elephants all band together (several bands, actually, because a lot of them hate each other) to bash Ségo. Their only unifying element and single common goal is stopping her from going any further. They become known as the “tout sauf Ségolène” front (anyone but Ségo). They all have their reasons, but publicly they accuse her of planning to make political alliances with the centrist party (which they all did during their local and regional elections, the bunch of hypocrites) and having ideas that aren’t consistent with the socialist party line. (Thinking outside the box = bad.)

2008: Stay with me now. So you have Ségo, Aubry, Delanoë and Hamon submitting proposals containing their ideas and plans for the party’s agenda for the next term. This is a first step towards running for the First Secretary position. Party members vote on the proposals, and so you get an idea of what your chances would be for the First Secretary job. Ségo’s proposal won (29%), despite a year of rabid bashing by the tout sauf Ségo crowd. Aubry’s came next (25%), Delanoë’s (24%), and Hamon’s (19%). The party establishment was shocked. Their disinformation and defamation campaign had not worked. (It might have even backfired.)

So what happens now is they have a two-day congress during which those who submitted proposals are supposed to work together and come up with some compromise proposals and select a candidate or two for First Secretary. Ségo was raring to go, more than willing to negotiate. After all, the proposals were not very different from each other. Should have been a cakewalk.

But no. Nobody would let Sego play their reindeer games. They flatly refused to deal with her, even though she had the most support of the party members. They tried to make deals with each other, but Delanoë was backed by Jospin and Hollande, and Aubry was backed by Fabius, Lang, and pals of DSK. And because the Elephants behind the candidates’ curtains didn’t like each other, they wouldn’t make an official deal, even to band against Ségo.

During the congress, Delanoë backed out of the race, saying he was not endorsing a particular candidate. The other three forged ahead. A day later, Delanoë officially threw his support and, presumably, his supporters to Aubry.

First Secretary election – first round: Ségo vs. Aubry and Hamon: Ségo wins again (43% to Aubry’s 35% and Hamon’s 25%). Obviously Delanoë’s supporters didn’t all do what they were told. Hamon is eliminated and tells his supporters to vote for Aubry in the second round.

First Secretary election – second round (November 21): Everybody thinks Aubry will win by a huge margin since she supposedly has all the other candidates’ votes and all the haters assume they are a majority (but it’s like the haters in America; they’re just louder.)

Yet here we are, down to a single-digit vote difference.

What this tells me is that half the socialist party members are ready to reinvent their party and half aren’t. It’s not a pretty sight, seeing a revered and honorable institution like the French socialist party going through a transformation that looks like something in one of those sci-fi movies where the guy is writhing and bulging and screaming as he turns into whatever it is he’s turning into.

My take on it all is that if ever there was a need for a strong worldwide socialist movement it is now, with the dire economic and environmental state of the world, with America on the downward slope and other, volatile powers rising, and with the likelihood of large-scale humanitarian and social crises in the near future. This is their chance—in fact, it’s their moral obligation—to take the wheel.

But the French socialist leaders can’t stop their infighting.

Vincent assures me that what appears to me to be essentially kindergarten playground biting and sand-throwing is really the result of decades of deep intellectual, philosophical, ideological, etc., differences.

Yeah, whatever. They look ridiculous. They need to get over themselves and act like grownups.