The Script Ended

Pour like a French Person

Living in someone else's country is to be forever a student of "understanding others". You know from previous posts that I have learned cross cultural values such as the grave importance of the iron or the joys of ubiquitous strikes in la vie française. Buying your daily baguette while sporting a shirt straight from the bottom of the laundry basket is simply not done.

But let me tell you of an infraction even more grave than a wrinkled chemise -----

pouring your own wine at the table - especially if you happen to be a girl. It's rarely acceptable to do so if you are a guest but it is NEVER allowed if you are female.

I will never forget the look of abject horror on the face of a new french friend when I, in my liberal California way, reached across and replenished my own glass one night at his house.

Oh, the shame! He immediately fell all over himself apologizing for not noticing that my glass was empty. I remember thinking, so?? My glass is my responsibility, not yours. I thought it was an isolated case of an overly polite new friend.

Wrong.

Chivalry is alive and well in France and no where is it more evident than at the table. The number one faux pas for a woman is to - god forbid - pour her own wine - even touching the wine bottle will elicit an immediate intake of breath by everyone present. You better even be verrryyy careful about refilling your own water glass.

Apparently female fingers and liquids to not mix in this country.

This rule has several effects.

1. One must carefully regulate liquid intake and eating so as not to run out of fluid before the host makes his first refill pass around the table.

2. If you want to see what it feels like to be some kind of alcoholic, try being a girl at a French dinner party who desperately would like to have a second glass of wine before her host gets around to re-pouring - you find yourself gazing longingly at that bottle just in front of you and must physically restrain yourself - so close yet so very far away.............

3.The worst is that after all that waiting you can easily be skipped even if your glass sits empty since it is universally assumed that females don't drink much wine. A proper french woman when offered a refill will grimace and make one of those totally french shushing noises while slightly shaking her head and waving her fingers over her glass as if to say she couldn't possibly force down another ounce -

damn girls all make me look bad.

I don't know if anyone in the US has noticed but not only are our cars and houses bigger over there but so are our glasses. Our drinking habits tend to match the volume and we drink these greater volumes really quickly too.

This does not only go for alcoholic beverages - cokes, water, orange juice - they're all the same.

But in France, a drink of any kind begins with a ridiculously undersized glass that's never and I mean NEVER filled to anywhere near the brim. One is expected to only take occasional sips as if you've forgotten you even have a drink.

I can't tell you how maddening it is to be dying of thirst and ask for a drink of water only to be poured a miniscule glass one-third full. When someone starts to pour for me I feel like saying - fill 'er up - as if I was talking to a gas station attendant. If I don't make such a crass request, I know what's coming - interminable minutes waiting for enough time to pass before I can ask again without seeming like a whiny child.

3 1/2 years of fluid deprivation later I am getting the hang of it.

Now when I am poured a glass of wine at the dinner table, I see just how long I can go before even taking a sip so that I can enjoy the first part of my dinner psychologically reassured every time I glance at my still full (by French standards) glass.

When I do finally put rim to lips I sip how I imagine all those dainty French women do it - with my lips pursed almost shut. This way just a dribble can escape into my mouth; a quantity small enough that I can barely taste what I would soon be missing if I actually took a proper swig.

I gauge how I am doing by glancing regularly at everyone else's glasses - I'm ahead if my glass is behind.

Last night at a dinner party, I smugly noticed that the other three women's glasses were empty while mine had barely been touched. Hah!

I'm feeling more French every day, and trips to the toilet have been reduced too.

Real Cross Cultural Learning

I had the bright idea of gathering some of the MBA students I work with together for a drink. I suggested that the group be composed of those from North America. They could share experiences from their common base, ask questions, support each other and hopefully have a laugh.

Make that a whine mixed in with some crying.

When you hear those grand words - Cross Cultural Experience and International Exposure - visions of creative discoveries made while exercising magnanimous patience come immediately to mind. At least they did for me. Most of these students too seemed to have had something like that in mind when they decided to do their MBA in France rather than in the Great Halls of Learning, USA.

The ugly truth is that Cross Cultural Experience is code for repeated "brick wall hitting" mixed with continued "you cannot be serious" revelations.

We poor Americans. We really do live in a bubble. Things are so easy where we come from.

Until you have to live with it everyday, quaint sounds charming. 

But those quaint other ways quickly become maddening roadblocks that seem totally unnecessary when in possession of an American (or Canadian) mentality.

Why won't anybody answer my questions? Has anyone around here heard the word "organization"? How come searching for answers entails a long trip on a merry-go-round?

Is everything a secret around here?

After allowing for the therapeutic experience of a nice long bitch session, I posed the obvious question.

Just what did you all think is really meant when someone states that they have had international experience?

It's not only knowing the delights of a fine Bordeaux served with a run-of-the-mill lunch, or possessing the savoir-faire to navigate the cheese board.

Or even that the toilet paper is pink and scratchy and milk sits on unrefrigerated shelves.

No, international experience is exposure to ways of doing things and thinking things that is completely opaque - and may very well always just stay that way.

It means that there are certain things that one will never get.

And after it all or through it all, you add a layer to your being that you never would have sprouted without having gone down this particular road.

Unfortunately (or maybe luckily) I didn't sound quite so poignantly philosophical with the students. After-all - I do my fair share of kicking and screaming too so I am one of them in lots of ways.

They all sort of quieted down. I know that we didn't "solve" anything but they shrugged their collective shoulders and said that they felt a bit better.

Then they ordered more carafes of red wine...........they're learning.

The post I didn't delete

I tried to write a post and nothing came.

I started several times and deleted them. I guess I have nothing to say. At least nothing that I think anyone would want to read.

I have problems with one of my kids, but who wants to hear about that?

I have problems with one of the people I work with but she is not worth the ink to tell the story (besides, its boring)

My Frenchman is almost all moved in - now there ARE some stories here but I have to wait until I am in the mood. One comment on this subject -

I am not used to a man who has ironing piles all over the place and considers them of the highest priority - reminds me of my mother. That'll take some getting used to.

But as has been previously established - Real Frenchmen Iron.

Fini!

It's finished. I finally finished my thesis. In all the "hanging over my head" situations I have been in during my life, this one was one of the heaviest.

It looks so official to me, all printed out and bound. I know lots of people have written big long papers like this, but this is a first for me - I was an Accounting major back in my college days - If we had had to write 50 page theses on Accounting issues, someone probably would have died.

When I was planning my topic last year, I had great aspirations of writing a gripping account of my research discoveries.

That didn't happen. In fact, I can't tell anymore if what I wrote is even any good. I am so sick of it.

But who cares if it stinks - it's DONE!

Fun with French Sports

When I lived in San Diego I read countless "moving to a foreign country" ex-pat adventures. I couldn't get enough of them. No matter how exasperating the ex-pat writer thought her experiences at the hands of the foreigners were, I thought they all sounded incredibly romantic or exciting.

Now I know better.

Last Wednesday I set off in my taxi for Roissy (Charles De Gaulle Airport for all you non-natives) for the short hop over to Frankfurt. I was attending a Finance conference in Vallendar which is near Koblenz----------I know, I had never heard of either of those places either.

I had checked my flight status before going to bed the night before and found out that it had been cancelled. Normally, I NEVER check my flight status. I am one of those blind faith in the system types- who is lazy too - and I hate to be bothered with my reservations once they have been made.

But - NOW I live with Monsieur Organization (opposites attract) and so am nagged into checking and rechecking such things.

Okay - I guess it was sort of a good idea -I got to find out my flight was cancelled, expend frustrated energy trying to connect to Air France "Help-Lines" - an oxymoron. No self respecting French company can be reached by phone after 10 pm - are you kidding? And go to bed fretting about it.

No real worries, the next morning I got rebooked.

I climbed into my taxi and there was already 15 euros on the meter. I am getting bolder with my French these days so I questioned the driver and argued with him all the way to the peripherique.

To no avail -  but I felt better. Besides - this kind of dispute is practically a national sport in France.

At the terminal my new flight was also cancelled.

Shit.

I traippsed over to the counter. The Air France people helpfully explained that the air control guys were staging  une gréve -a strike - and all the flights to Frankfurt were cancelled for the whole day. I don't know why they were picking on Frankfurt.

Strikes are ANOTHER French national sport. Thanks to this one I got to fly from Paris to Amsterdam, hang around there for a couple hours while the snow swirled out the windows and then get flown to Cologne where I got a train to Koblenz.

It is frickin COLD in Germany - and dark. Paris in winter may be famous for its grey skies but in comparison to the Rhine Valley - you need sunglasses.

No wonder Germans always seem sort of grim.

And no wonder everyone thinks I am deranged when they hear I am from San Diego - What are you doing HERE? When you could be THERE?

Sometimes I wonder.......

Fun with French Sports

When I lived in San Diego I read countless "moving to a foreign country" ex-pat adventures. I couldn't get enough of them. No matter how exasperating the ex-pat writer thought her experiences at the hands of the foreigners were, I thought they all sounded incredibly romantic or exciting.

Now I know better.

Last Wednesday I set off in my taxi for Roissy (Charles De Gaulle Airport for all you non-natives) for the short hop over to Frankfurt. I was attending a Finance conference in Vallendar which is near Koblenz----------I know, I had never heard of either of those places either.

I had checked my flight status before going to bed the night before and found out that it had been cancelled. Normally, I NEVER check my flight status. I am one of those blind faith in the system types- who is lazy too - and I hate to be bothered with my reservations once they have been made.

But - NOW I live with Monsieur Organization (opposites attract) and so am nagged into checking and rechecking such things.

Okay - I guess it was sort of a good idea -I got to find out my flight was cancelled, expend frustrated energy trying to connect to Air France "Help-Lines" - an oxymoron. No self respecting French company can be reached by phone after 10 pm - are you kidding? And go to bed fretting about it.

No real worries, the next morning I got rebooked.

I climbed into my taxi and there was already 15 euros on the meter. I am getting bolder with my French these days so I questioned the driver and argued with him all the way to the peripherique.

To no avail -  but I felt better. Besides - this kind of dispute is practically a national sport in France.

At the terminal my new flight was also cancelled.

Shit.

I traippsed over to the counter. The Air France people helpfully explained that the air control guys were staging  une gréve -a strike - and all the flights to Frankfurt were cancelled for the whole day. I don't know why they were picking on Frankfurt.

Strikes are ANOTHER French national sport. Thanks to this one I got to fly from Paris to Amsterdam, hang around there for a couple hours while the snow swirled out the windows and then get flown to Cologne where I got a train to Koblenz.

It is frickin COLD in Germany - and dark. Paris in winter may be famous for its grey skies but in comparison to the Rhine Valley - you need sunglasses.

No wonder Germans always seem sort of grim.

And no wonder everyone thinks I am deranged when they hear I am from San Diego - What are you doing HERE? When you could be THERE?

Sometimes I wonder.......

A proud Christmas Tree

We have a real Christmas tree. By real I mean that for the first year since we left our San Diego home and the subsequent exit of my husband from our family life, I have had a Charlie Brown tree in my Paris apartment.

Before Paris we always erected a giant tree picked out by a group effort and decorated it as if it was going to be in a magazine shoot - at least that was the goal.

Those decorations sit in a storage unit in San Diego. Paris has only known  2 footer's with some glitter thrown on.

A psychologist could probably do an easy analysis of what this all means and so could you so I won't go into it.

But this year is different. We bought a proud tree - probably over 6 feet and it has lights that twinkle and real decorations courtesy of My Frenchman.

It makes me happy - and it makes me cry too - for the family life I lost and for the family we are becoming.

At dinner with some of MFM's friends the other day I mentioned that I had four daughters and he corrected me - 5, he said - you have five daughters...........and 1 son.

Whoa.

6 kids around that tree.

Unglamorous me

Whoever reads my blog must be very patient with me. I don't post for ages and then when I do it sounds as if I am living this glamorous life traveling to exotic places and running around quaint French villages. All those parts are good but today was not.

It actually started with not being able to sleep last night - jet lag caught up with me. The sleeplessness was proceeded by an argument with my French man about where to put what furniture and what it all really MEANS in the big picture when we finally get to the moving in together stage (coming soon).

So I was in a fragile state when I arrived at my very French organization for a day of work.

Oh yeah...I forgot to mention the drunk guy on the morning train who insisted on sitting next to me when we were surrounded by empty seats, promptly leering in my face breathing out unintelligible French while pressing his leg against mine. Enough was enough when he lifted the armrest between us eliminating my last line of defense. I was out of there.

Settled in my new seat next to a sleeping and harmless looking girl I waited and waited and waited. This "express" train finally left just late enough to ensure that I would miss my next connection WHICH insured that I would miss my morning meeting WHICH would incur the wrath of our department assistant who is the de facto boss because everyone is afraid to make her mad.

When this assistant came to me later in the morning to tell me that I had yet again failed to fill out the required French gibberish form for some report I did not even know existed I ended up crying like a baby.

How professional of me! Yes, I was truly humiliated. Unfortunately for me, it did not end there. Before I could get a handle on myself, the Director of the department upstairs sailed into my office and came face to face with blubbering me.

He regretted it - but not more so than I.

I could have died. He hastily apologized and tried to back out the door - who knows what he thought my problem was.

And that was not all....I went for the perfect score when another colleague later came into my office and I (stupid me) thought she was coming to thank me for the great initiative I had shown by sending out a certain email promoting her event but...

nooooooooo

I had screwed up once again.

I had in fact stepped on her toes with this email and blah blah blah..you get the picture.

I basically could do nothing right while trying really hard to do everything right.

I should have stayed in bed. And yes, I cried in front of her too.

So much for my glamorous life.

Best friends

Speaking of New York. One of the cool things I got to squeeze in between meetings was a reunion of sorts with my 7th grade best friend. I am embarrassed to say that we are old enough to admit to not having seen each other for almost 40 years.

I spent hours at her house when we were 12 - dissecting our 7th grade dramas on top of her mother's bed. I don't remember why, but that is where we hung out. It was an intense friendship for me - of high importance in my life - the first real best friend that I can remember having.

The next year, in the 8th grade, we inextricably drifted apart.

39 years later we were two 51 year old girls hanging out again, dissecting the dramas of our middle aged lives - not on top of her mother's bed this time - but on the sofa of her New York apartment.

In a way, it is thanks to this blog that we reconnected. You see, as these things often go, she has had her share of major life changes. Her life has not gone exactly as she ordered it either. We have much in common when it comes to that. Thanks to the miracle of modern social media, she read my blog, we emailed, and basically picked up where we left off 39 years ago.

Do you think this would have happened if we were guys?

New York vs Paris

When I was a girl I used to dream of living in New York City. I fantasized about living in a high rise with a doorman and a view of Central Park. Frankly, I never dreamed that I would live in Paris instead - New York was enough of a stretch for me.

I just arrived back from 9 days working in New York with a quick trip to Boston thrown in. I have worked in New York before. Once when I was a new accountant at Peat Marwick I was sent to review loan files in a dreary New York bank office. Much more recently I attended several Collection showings for the clothing line I was selling. This time I was developing business, making contacts and shepherding a group of MBA students from one company presentation to the next.

I wonder what I will be the next time I work in New York?

I have to say one thing that is pretty obvious - New York is LOUD.  You would think that coming from the center of Paris I would be used to loud, but New York- style loud out-shouts Paris by a long shot. It also is expeeeeeeeeensive. For lunch one day I ordered a small bowl of risotto, a bread plate size portion of salad and a diet coke - actually 2 diet cokes - they charged for refills - for the bargain price of $37 including tax and tip. I am not kidding. Can you say rip off?

Makes Paris prices actually seem reasonable - which is a stretch. For once the painful exchange rate between the euro and the dollar worked in my favor - actually the company's favor - expense account you know.

I met a bunch of New York bankers - in spite of all the bad press - a really nice group of guys. At least they are nice while they are collecting their obscene bonuses.

With the price of lunch - no wonder.

Well my girlhood dream of living the New York city life morphed into my adulthood dream of Paris. Shows that all good things come to those who wait.