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A worldly, erudite, and misanthropic British co-worker of mine once said he thought that French society was the most adult society he’d ever encountered. I have to say I agree with him. After all, my 11- and 13-year-old stepkids compare Molière plays, talk about the French presidential candidates, and discuss fine points of French grammar at the dinner table. And it’s not like we initiate these conversations. They’re like mini grown-ups who hide candy wrappers between the couch cushions and sometimes pout.

These kids didn’t want to go to Disneyland last summer when we were in LA. I did. I was bummed.

Americans, on the other hand, seem to have the most childlike society. One evening a while back, when I was visiting my family in California, a bunch of us (from age 7 to 40+) found ourselves disco dancing to the Bee Gees with stuffed animals. It was a game my nephew wanted to play, and we just went with it, with all-American glee. (Now, I don’t think most American men would be seen dancing around with a purple princess pony. But, like me, my brother’s in touch with his inner everybody, as you can see…)

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The disco incident took place shortly before I moved to France, so I took some pictures for Vincent and told him that American adults act more like kids than French kids do. I wanted to prepare him.

Now, the French generally think Americans are infantile. I can’t really blame them. But I think part of the problem is that they have no respect for fun. Vincent teases me when I say things like “that sounds fun” or “we had fun.” I think the nebulousness of the term bugs him as well as the absence of dignity and gravity in the concept. Like I said, they’re a serious bunch.

Vincent, having a snotty Frog moment one day, felt the need to point out that exchanging viewpoints and questioning idées reçues is the kind of leisure activity the French prefer to engage in, whereas Americans tend to do things like play beach volleyball. (Nothing edifying in that. Nothing accomplished. No profundity. No great ideas to further civilization and improve the human condition being tossed around. You get the picture.)

There are these talk shows all over French TV where intense, brainy people with lots of opinions and a ton of facts to back them up (because every French person has memorized all of history) sit around tables and talk about everything from sausage-making to sodomy. No matter what the topic, they get worked up, all talk at the same time, and shout over each other to be heard. I speak French, but it’s a real challenge to follow four screaming Frogs at once. Sometimes I just have to walk away. Vincent watches these shows to unwind, but they give me anxiety attacks. He had to explain to me that they were attacking each other’s ideas only, not each other. He pointed out that Americans get immediately defensive, offended, and angry when someone attacks their ideas. They take it personally. I never thought about it, but he’s right. That’s probably why the shows make me uncomfortable. That and the fact that Americans don’t generally raise their voices unless they’re mad.

So the French love their cerebral duels. When I suggested that this is just what the French do for “fun,” Vincent rejected the idea immediately. I assume he reacted that way because he felt that “fun” implied frivolity and was inappropriate in that case. So I explained that we use “fun” to describe anything that you take pleasure in, whether it’s serious or frivolous.

So today’s lesson in understanding the French is that what the French do for fun is open cans of worms, set the little buggers loose, feed ‘em, play with ‘em, have little worm circuses… Americans, on the other hand, seem to go to great lengths to keep a tight lid on worms of every variety. So if you find yourself in conversation with French people who you think are trying to argue with you or belittle you, they’re not being assholes; they just want to play French volleyball. You should be flattered. So play along. Get into it. And spike the ball. They respect that.

Vincent told me yesterday that I couldn’t be French as long as I remained a fun-loving, California bimbo. He said I have to have a tortured soul. But he knows I keep my tortured soul in a can with my other worms. I’m American, after all. But living here is helping me get over my scoleciphobia. That’s a start.

Stay tuned for more lessons on understanding the French!