The Script Ended

French Party Anthem

You will never guess which American song compels the French to jump from their seats and rush to the dance floor of every party, wedding and celebration here in the land of love, romance, wine and cheese................

Y-M-C-A

Yes, you heard me right - YMCA, that anthem of disco and the gay culture by the Village People that we all danced to back in high school and college, exuberantly throwing our arms up to form the letters at each refrain as we swelled with inebriated enthusiasm.

Well the French are still swollen. I first observed the Gallic rapture for this song while standing on the sidelines of a summer Village Fête deep in the heart of the Rhone Valley. How quaint I thought as I watched the French winegrowers, their wives and children all waving their arms to each verse about the Young Men. How did these country folk even know about this song, let alone how to dance to it??

Well, the song is not only stuck in the back roads of the South of France. I have since danced to it with merry-makers at numerous weddings as well as at sophisticated Parisian parties - YMCA knows no bounds of social class or age. Not terribly significant to us Americans, the class thing, but here - Mon Dieu - people pay attention to such stuff. French society has all sorts of ways to indoctrinate each social level into its ways.

But certain music seems to transcend all that, not terribly surprising as a concept, but when you look at which songs actually do the trick, well, let's just say, the sociologists would have a field day.

Last night at a beautiful summer garden party in a gracious home on the outskirts of Paris, an eclectic and enthusiastic 3 person combo really got the party rolling with La Bamba (so close to my Southern California heart with its influence of Mexico and margaritas), followed closely with Let it Be, What a Wonderful Life, Fly Me To the Moon (can't help remembering my ex-husband's disdain for Frank Fucking Sinatra every time that I swooned to his music - now I am free to swoon in peace and can almost forget the middle name poor Frank had acquired ), a couple French favorites sandwiched in, and then the all time party favorite, yes, you got it -----

I said Young Man, are you listening to me?

I said Young Man, there's a place you can go.....

Its fun to stay at the y-m-c-a............................

Everyone was on their feet. Here I was in France surrounded by people from everywhere and we all knew the words, the hand motions, the tune - it was part of our shared experiences, our individual histories and our collective humanity.

You never know what will bring people together and capture their hearts or their imaginations. When I came to France I didn't expect to be singing La Bamba in Paris or dancing to YMCA with both French villagers and City of Light sophisticates but then again what had I known anyway?

Rules of the Road

I'm a big city commuter now - not the driving kind of commuter, no, I am part of the sea of train riders flowing in and out of Paris each day. Here is some of what I've learned.

Never stand on the left side of any moving sidewalk or escalator - never. The left is reserved for the speedy. I pardon, excusez-moi, my way down the left side, always trying to pass all those sauntering slow pokes jabbering away on their mobiles.

French people are incredibly oblivious of their surroundings when they walk. Drives me nuts. I don't know if it is their famed arrogance or just plain old lack of attention that results in the way that they navigate. They do not look where they are going and basically demand that YOU watch out for where THEY are going. Not the other way around. Whenever a French person is approaching me on the street, they are invariably texting or fiddling with their cigarette or basically not looking up and I always have to swerve and side step around them. Their personal progression unimpeded by anyone else must be part of their birthright or something.

When streaming through the metro tunnels and the train stations, one should never pause to do anything - your transport pass needs to be ready to slide seamlessly over the turnstiles - don't stop to dig it out of your purse. Best is to have it placed just so in your bag so you just swipe your bag over the reader and pass through.

If someone hands you a morning metro paper - grab it without slowing down as you whisk by. If you are really French, you can start to read it and allow everyone else to watch out for you.

NEVER stop at the top of an escalator - everyone behind you will pile up like a car wreck and domino back down. Don't stop at the bottom either - you'll be trampled like a weak first-day-of-the-sales shopper.

If you hear your train buzz - leap immediately into the nearest car. The buzz is followed 2 seconds later by the automatic doors slamming shut. There is no sicker feeling in the world then being just on the outside of those doors. Once they close - they are unforgivably closed and the train starts to move.

There are no such things as lines in France. At least not the orderly, polite kind that we are used to in the US. Here the mob rules. When it is time to get on the train, cutting in front of everyone else is totally acceptable. Not that others won't snarl or try to elbow you out of their way but its all fair play.

Make friends with at least one other regular commuter (preferable a co-worker). Gossiping or philosophical conversations go well with the morning commute almost as well as does a cup of coffee between trains.