“Okay.”
“Now, where do I go to have the damage assessed?”
“That’s only done from 8:00 to 10:00 a.m.”
Not surprising. “Where do I go tomorrow?”
Jacqueline drew the directions on a business envelope.
“And where do I go to get the car repaired?”
“We can talk about that later.”
“No, let’s talk about it now.”
Jacqueline sketched the directions on a second business envelope.
Day three: When I arrived at the adjuster’s office at 8:00 a.m., a man in a blue smock was noting the damage to another car. I waited fifteen minutes, during which time the adjuster walked around the car, into the office, and out again. When he was finally finished, I directed the man to my car.
“Go into the office,” he said, “and speak to the receptionist.”
Okay, I’m going into the receptionist’s office now.
I stepped up to a counter. The receptionist was transferring papers from one stack to the other. Five minutes later, she got up and walked to the counter where I was tapping out Calypso rhythms. I noticed that the adjuster was now standing next to me, his chin in his hand.
The receptionist gave me a form to fill out—including my name, address, and, just in case the question should come up, my place and date of birth. Meanwhile, she made photocopies of my car registration.
A few minutes later, I handed the form to the receptionist, who handed it to the adjuster, who was still standing beside me with his chin in his hand.
The adjuster and I walked outside. He made a few notes on the form, gave me a copy, and said I was now authorized to take the car to a garage for repair.
That sounded good to me, but just to be safe, I returned to the counter in the office and asked the receptionist if I might use the phone to contact my insurance company.
“You don’t have a mobile phone?” the receptionist said.
I wanted to say, “Yes, I do, but my real goal in life is to irritate the French.” Instead, I bit my lip and said, “Unfortunately, no.”
“D’accord,” she said, clenching one side of her mouth in irritation.
She dialed the number for me. The line was busy. She returned to her work. Fifteen minutes later, I asked if she could call again.
“Oh, are you still here?” she asked.
“Yep, I’m still here.”
She dialed the number again and this time got through. I stepped behind the counter to take the call.
Jacqueline was on the line.
“I’ve had the car assessed for damage,” I explained. “They tell me I can go to the garage now to have the car repaired. Are you in agreement with that?”
“Yes, I will call the garage to tell them you are on the way.”
“Great.”
“But you will have to pay a two hundred and seventy-euro deductible until the office in Paris determines who was at fault.”
“He was at fault. That is the only judgment that can be made.”
“We will see.”
I gave the receiver back to the receptionist, thanked her, and started to leave. Then, a question occurred to me about something the adjuster had written on the damage report.
“May I have a quick word with the adjuster?” I asked.
The receptionist let out a gasp of air. “What for?”
Not the response I was looking for. “I have a question for him.”
“He’s in a meeting,” she said. “You’ll have to wait.”
In fact, I had seen the adjuster light up a cigarette and walk into the office of the patron, the boss.
I waited. Twenty minutes later, I was still waiting. Now, I’m thinking there’s no telling how long this meeting will take. I decided to knock on the door. I heard the receptionist protest, but I pretended not to hear her. The adjuster opened the door, allowing a billow of cigarette smoke to escape the sealed office.
“Yes?” the adjuster said.
I voiced my concern, was told not to worry, made an about-face and left—at no time making eye contact with the “protector of the gate.”
I drove to the garage and spoke to the receptionist, who took another photocopy of my car registration and set a date for repair in one week.
Day ten: I drove the car to the garage. It was a happy day. I was growing weary of squeezing in and out of the caved-in door on the driver’s side.
“When will the car be ready for pick up?” I asked.
“In about three days. Just call to check up on the status.”
“Could you call me when it is finished?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“We’re very busy. It would be better if you called.”
“Right.”
Day fifteen: I called the garage in the morning. No, the car was not ready. They had to order a new headlight. I wondered why the headlight hadn’t been ordered five days earlier but said nothing. The job would take a couple of extra days. When I asked if they could call, I was told that they were awfully busy and that it would be best if I called them.
Right.
Day seventeen: I called the garage. Yes, the car was ready. I could pick it up at four o’clock that afternoon. I arrived on the hour.
“I’m sorry,” the car is not quite ready, the receptionist said, “but we’re on it.”
“Fine.”
An hour later, just at closing time, I was given the keys to my car.
Day nineteen: The garage called and said that the mechanic who had worked on my car thought that the horn might not be attached. He was right; the horn didn’t make a peep. I returned the car to the garage, and the horn was rewired.
Day thirty: I still had not heard from the insurance company regarding a judgment of who was at fault. I called Jacqueline.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “The other driver was found to be at fault.”
“Great. When do I get my two hundred and seventy euros?”
“We are processing that now.”
“So, what should I expect? A week or two?”
“Oh, no, it will be a tiny bit longer than that.”
“Just how much of ‘a tiny bit’?”
“A tiny bit.”
One hundred and eighty-two tiny-bit days later, I received my check for 270 euros. Arrrg.
CHAPTER 6
Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité
I KNOW I HAVE BEEN WHINING. And, as often is the case, I have to remind myself that living in another country should not be a lesson in comparative cultures. It should be a lesson in understanding a single culture. But that’s not always easy for me. My brain has been well schooled to compare new and novel encounters with my past experiences. And, naturally, when I do that, there is the risk of becoming grumpy.
I hope my French friends will accept that as an apology and grant me one more indulgence—to take a shot at explaining what makes the French so, well, French.
Why are real estate agents insensitive? Why are French drivers often frenetic and rude? Why are insurance companies long on their own personal conveniences and short on customer service? In a word, I think it is linked to the French concept of liberty.
The French are passionate about their personal liberty, which I am defining as “doing what I damn well please.” It is seen in every segment of French culture: education, politics, mass media, social behavior. Unfortunately, that freedom often results in the violation of the rights of others.
On the beaches of Carnon, there are numerous signs that forbid the presence of dogs. Yet, those signs are constantly ignored. The French allow their dogs to run free and leave their deposits on the popular beaches.
I remember overhearing an angry conversation from the terrace of my apartment one sunny afternoon. A Frenchman, who lived on the first floor of our complex, was shouting at a countryman whose golden retriever was scampering along the beach.
“Don’t you see the sign?” the angry resident asked.
“Yes, I see the sign.”
“Je m’en fous—I could care less,” the dog owner said.
In the last ten years, every major city of France has been defaced with what the French call des tags (graffiti). Jacque Lang, who at that time was the Minister of Culture, called the practice “art” and used tax resources to set up expositions for the artisans. Now, there is hardly a building that is held sacred in France. I have seen grand seventeenth-century doors desecrated with tags that are nothing more than initials scrawled in black spray paint.
On the car ride back from a day hike, the conversation turned to abortion.
“It is clear,” the French driver said, “we must protect the rights of the woman.”
“Yes, I agree,” his wife added. “A woman should be the ruler of her own body.”
At no time was there any mention of the rights of the unborn child.
I asked a former high school principal what is was like to be an educator in France.
“It is very hard,” he said. “There is no respect for the teacher any longer. They are ridiculed, shouted at, even spat upon.”
“Is it really that bad?” I asked.
“Not in all neighborhoods but in too many—particularly in larger cities.”
“Do you think it will improve?”
“I don’t see how.”
“Are you glad to be out of it?” I asked.
“Oh yes. I just wish I had left sooner.”
One day on the radio, I listened to an interview with a Frenchman who had just won five million dollars in the lottery.
“What is the absolute greatest satisfaction in having won so much money?” the interviewer asked.
What would the man say? To start a business? To take a world cruise? To help his family and friends? No, no, and no. His response was “Maintenant je peux dire ‘zut’ à tout le monde.” Now I can say “get lost” to everyone.
One day, in a small French Mediterranean village, I was stuck in traffic on a narrow street. Not atypically, a truck driver had stopped in the middle of the road to unload his cargo. For no particular reason, I looked in my rearview mirror. In defiance of French law, a businessman in an upper-end Renault was expounding into his mobile phone—curious, I thought, given that a police officer was standing on the corner, literally within arm’s reach of the driver. Two minutes later, the businessman grew impatient and decided to back up—through the intersection—and make a right-hand turn.
I looked at the policeman. He was chatting with a villager, clearly unconcerned about the flagrant traffic violation.
When I asked a French friend how that could happen, he just smiled. “You’re in le Midi,” he said. “We are relaxed here.”
A conversation with a twenty-five-year veteran of the Montpellier police helped clarify the phenomenon.
“What is it like to be a policeman?” I asked.
“It is very difficult. The spirit of the French is to break the law, particularly in southern France. That spirit is really more Latin than French. You will find the same attitude in Italy and Spain.”
“So, how are police officers viewed?”
“We are the enemy. Have you ever noticed oncoming cars flashing their lights at you as a warning that the police are down the road?”
“Yes, I have noticed that.”
“That is an example of what I mean. A police officer is not seen as a friend—someone who can help, someone who can protect—but rather as someone to trick or avoid. And the people will join forces to defeat us. As soon as we become more diligent in enforcing a law, the people will protest. They will strike or demonstrate to challenge our duty to protect them. C’est dingue—It’s crazy.”
That lack of respect for policemen is even typified in the French language. For example, the slang word for a “speed bump” in France is “un gendarme couché” or “a sleeping policeman.” In other words, the police are something to be run over.
* * *
MIDWAY THROUGH OUR FIRST YEAR IN FRANCE, I decided to join a singing class led by an operatic soprano, Marie-Françoise. I knew that the students were asked to sing a solo at each session, so I strapped my guitar to my back and bicycled to the small community center.
There were six students, three men and three woman. In French fashion they kept pretty much to themselves, so in American fashion I introduced myself to each student.
“Hi, I’m Allen. What’s that? Yes, I’m American. And don’t you think this should be fun?”
Marie-Françoise arrived a few minutes late and was visibly winded. “Oh là là,” she said. “I’m so sorry to be late. You cannot believe my life right now. But let’s not talk about that. Let’s sing.”
We formed a circle and started vocalizing, modulating a half step with each scale. La-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la.
After the warm-ups, the first student, Chantal, was asked to sing. She was an attractive thirty-something woman with black cropped hair and long eyelashes. When she was in position behind the microphone, she put her weight over her left hip and kicked her right foot out to the side. She was a beguiling siren in her black miniskirt and textured leotards—a French version of Liza Minnelli in All That Jazz. All she needed was a black bowler hat to complete the picture.
She sang Charles Trenet’s classic, “La Mer.” Her voice was pleasant enough, but she sang without expression while totally ignoring the audience. She made a fist around the microphone and sang in a somewhat breathy tone with her eyes closed from beginning to end.
When she had finished, we politely applauded.
“I love that song,” I said. “And you have a lovely voice.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Although I would have liked to have seen your eyes.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“And I wonder if you were paying attention to the lyrics.”
“Of course, I was paying attention.”
By now I could tell I had already gotten under Chantal’s skin. And I had promised myself that I would not be a bigmouth, which is hard for me. So I just smiled.
“Very nice,” I said, trying in vain to repair the damage.
I was up next. I had prepared an arrangement of “A Day in the Life of a Fool,” accompanying myself on guitar. It was a song I used to sing in Seattle nightclubs when I was in my early twenties. I knew the tune inside out, so I sold it as if I were playing to a full house.
When I had finished, the applause was enthusiastic, and Marie-Françoise said, “Et voilà, an American who knows how to present a song.”
I sneaked at peak at Chantal, who was chattering about something to her neighbor—something derogatory I imagined. Marie-Françoise was now coaching me about the quality of my voice. “Consider opening your throat even more,” she said. “Allow the resonance to vibrate from your head and chest.”
“How exactly should I do that?”
“It’s easy. What you need to do is …”
About then I was having trouble hearing Marie-Françoise. Chantal was still leaning into her neighbor, her voice picking up a couple of decibels.
I held my hand out to Marie-Françoise. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I really want to understand your suggestions, but I’m having a hard time hearing.”
Then I turned to Chantal, who was still oblivious to the world outside of her own leotards. “Chantal, excuse me.”
She didn’t register anything.
“Oh, Chantal,” I said, fully open-throated, my voice vibrating in my head and chest, “I wonder if you would be willing to be quiet for a moment. I’m trying to hear what Marie-Françoise has to say.”
Oh my. That request—sensible and quite dignified, I thought—was the beginning of a Greek drama. Chantal’s eyes were on fire. “How dare you! We are Latin here! We are not in the United States. We are in France. Please don’t tell us how to behave. You do not have the right.”
I could feel my blood start to rise. “Do I have the right to honor the words of our instructor?” I looked at Marie-Fr
ançoise. She was silent, clearly out of her comfort zone.
“You have the right to respect our culture,” Chantal said. “If you can’t do that, perhaps you should leave.”
“I see.” I looked at Marie-Françoise. She was actually picking at a piece of lint on her blouse.
Although tempted, I did not leave. If for no other reason, I chose to stay for the remainder of the session out of respect for our instructor. At the end of the class, I did not dare look in Chantal’s direction, and she did not dare look in mine. I waited for the room to empty so that I could speak with Marie-Françoise alone.
“I am sorry for that,” I said.
“Don’t worry about it,” Marie-Françoise said. “I think it is just a question of jealousy.”
“Perhaps. It is a shame because I know that I could learn from you. But I think it would disrupt the class for me to continue.”
“I understand.”
“But I am not willing to give you up.”
“That’s kind.”
I had been asked by the president of the local community center to give a concert for the village. I thought it would be wonderful to have Marie-Françoise join me as a special artist. “Would you be willing to sing with me?” I asked.
She did not hesitate. “Absolutely.”
That was the beginning of another beautiful friendship. First we sang for Pérols. Then we were asked to sing for a nearby gospel choir. Then we sang a third time for a choral competition.
“I love singing with you,” I once told Marie-Françoise. “You are such a gifted musician.”
“I feel the same about you. I know how to be a singer, but you have taught me how to be an entertainer.”
Making music with Marie-Françoise was always a snap. Becoming her friend was as easy as Do-Re-Mi. We are still the best of pals.
Wherever you go, there will always be a few people with an attitude or a grudge or, in this case, a misguided understanding of personal freedom. Chantal believed that her liberty entitled her to fawning adoration. The slightest criticism was a violation of her noblesse. To quote from the Bard, she expected the world to speak to her with “bated breath and whispering humbleness.” (No country has a monopoly on that. In the States, teenage girls wear T-shirts that read, “Not everyone can be a princess. Someone has to applaud when I walk by.”)
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