“It’s pretty here, Billy, but the French are so rude,” said my sister Cathy, as we sat on le Verdun’s terrasse, side by side, facing out. Cathy had come for a week visit from Canada.
“C’mon Cath, that’s only a stereotype you’ve heard,” I said. “You’ve been in France three days, so you can’t really judge. Not all Canadians are polite and not all French are rude; it just seems that way.” The waiter placed an espresso in front of me, a café crème in front of Cathy, and a water carafe and glasses in between. That covered the entire surface of the bistro table.
“You know they’re rude, Billy. You love France so much you don’t want to admit it.”
“Well, I have a different way of looking at it after being here so long. Most French people adhere to the French Politeness Scale.”
“You’re making that up,” said Cathy. “There isn’t a scale.”
“I did make it up, but it works,” I said, lifting the tiny cup to my lips. “Listen. The first level of social interaction on the scale is ‘Between Friends and Acquaintances.’ In France, if someone is a friend, they are a friend for life. They will welcome you into their home, ensure you have a drink and something to eat, never rush you, really listen, and never let you leave until you are satisfied with how the third bottle of wine paired with the cheese course.”
“I thought you didn’t have many French friends here.” Cathy knew that was a sore point, twisting the knife. She sipped her coffee and burned her lip. Karma.
“Not many, because they don’t want to invest time in someone who’s leaving soon. Friendships here are long-lasting. But I have some. Anyway, relationships between acquaintances are also pleasant and polite. The first time you meet someone, the proper greeting is ‘Enchanté.’ ”
“I’ve heard that. What does it mean?”
“It means ‘I am enchanted to meet you.’ ”
“That seems a bit much,” said Cathy. “Do you tell guys you are enchanted to meet them? Like those guys over there?” She nodded her head in the direction of two men in flowing scarves and pointy boots who emerged from Passage Agard. Wait a minute…I was wearing a flowing scarf and pointy boots.
“Yes, I would. It’s the manly thing to do,” I said. “And polite. Actually, everything between friends or acquaintances is very polite, very pleasant. There’s a lot of kissing too. If you go to a party, and there are 30 people there, that’s an automatic 60 cheek kisses. Girls and guys.”
“You aren’t serious.” Cathy leaned forward and held each side of the round table. “No one would kiss every person in the room.”
“It’s different in the Luberon, which is north of here. There, it’s three kisses for each person, so that’s 90 kisses.”
“I’m not doing that.” Cathy took a long drag on her cigarette and tapped ashes into the well-worn ashtray on the next table.
“I do it. I had to learn the proper way, too. When you’re planting your cheek kisses, you always start by kissing the kissee’s left cheek, touching the kissee with the left side of your face. If you don’t do this, the other person doesn’t know what you’re doing, and there’s jerky, confused head-bobbing. It can result in the worst faux pas, a kiss right on the lips. This is bad if I’m kissing the kids’ principal, or my friend’s 15-year-old daughter. Or a guy. If you’re not gay, that one is not much fun.”
“You didn’t kiss a guy on the lips,” said Cathy, laughing.
“Hey, it was an accident. It felt weird. Don’t tell mum.”
“Maybe I will. Is that the end of the first level?”
“I call the second level of the scale ‘Overly Polite But I Don’t Really Give A Shit.’ It’s used in clothing stores and cafés. A salesman doesn’t try to be your friend, like in Canada. He’ll say ‘Bonjour, comment est-ce que je peux vous aider?’ That means, ‘Hello, how may I assist you?’ And if he wants to say ‘please’ or ‘thank you,’ you’ll get the overly polite ‘Je vous en prie.’ ”
“Which is…….?”
“Literally, it means ‘I pray of you.’ If you say thank you, you’ll hear, ‘Non, c’est moi qui devrais vous remercier,’ which is ‘Oh no, it is me who should be thanking you for gracing me with your presence.’ Something like that.”
“That sounds civilized,” said Cathy.
“It sounds that way, but it isn’t. They’re overly-polite French phrases, repeated unthinkingly. They mean nothing. They hide indifference, bordering on contempt, just below the surface. Obviously, no one likes these jobs, but unlike in Canada, they’re something to be endured, not something you’d work harder to get out of. In France, a job is a job, a means to put in enough years to qualify for a pension, supplied by the socialist government. There is no incentive to be better at your job than the next guy, the tip is included in the price, so why make an effort? There is an inverse relationship between the degree of politeness used by a French waiter or salesperson and the amount they care for your comfort or satisfaction.”
“Okay, what’s the third level?” Cathy lit another cigarette, her third since we sat down. She was trying to fit in.
“ ‘Everyone Else Can Go To Hell.’ If you don’t fit in the first two categories, you’re in ‘Everyone Else Can Go To Hell.’ This is a crowded country, and if you want to survive, you have to concentrate on your own happiness, and the happiness of your family and friends. You can’t worry about everyone else. So if a person isn’t a friend, or an acquaintance, or someone you’ve met in a café, restaurant or store, you’re allowed to be as rude and selfish as you want. That’s why when you drive a car, it’s like an enormous video game of The Fast and the Furious. It’s why there aren’t any lift lines at the ski hills; it’s a big pushing blob of people, all standing on each others’ skis. It’s why the teenagers lie on the sidewalk in front of the high school and throw their triangle sandwich containers everywhere. It’s the reason there’s dog shit all over the streets and garbage in the ditches.”
“I thought you liked it here.”
“Are you kidding? I love it here. I even love the chaos. I don’t have to love everything here to love it in general. The ‘Between Friends and Acquaintances’ level of the scale can make up for a lot. And there’s an upside to the overall rudeness toward strangers. When the French do something rude, I can swear at them, or make snide remarks right in their faces. I do it in English so they won’t understand. You don’t know how enjoyable that is.”
“Oh, I see how you’d be excellent at that, Billy,” said Cathy. “Wait, is that guy over there drinking wine? At 10:00 o’clock in the morning?”
In Vancouver I would never drink at 10:00 a.m. “Oh, we’re definitely doing that,” I said, raising my index finger in the direction of the passing waiter.