Pardon My French

by Allen Johnson

  I was seated between two women I had never met. To my left was a pale-skinned, plumpish woman with shocking red curly hair and an orange and blue dress with puffy sleeves that dropped below her shoulders. Her name was Dominique and she talked incessantly. To my right was Yvette, a pretty woman with high cheekbones and a black, spaghetti-strap evening gown. She looked stunning. I found myself leaning more and more toward Yvette or, to be honest, increasingly away from Dominique. By the end of the evening, I was practically sitting in Yvette’s lap.

  After the first course—salmon and shrimp—our host, Georges, who was looking dapper in his white dinner jacket and red bowtie, introduced the first game of the evening.

  “This game is a test of your literary skills. You must select three slips of paper from this bowl,” Georges said, brandishing a cut glass crystalline basin. “You will find a French expression on each snippet. Your task is to weave the three expressions into a true story—something that has happened to you in the last year.”

  “Oh, I just hate these kinds of games,” Dominique squealed. “I am just such a twit.”

  I leaned a little closer toward Yvette.

  The game was a hit. The guests strung the phrases into funny anecdotes about misadventures, intrigue, and, of course, sex. Everyone laughed out loud, only a shade overly exhuberant.

  Then it was Dominique’s turn. “Oh, I just don’t know. You are all so clever. Oh là là! What can I say?”

  I looked over at Nita, who pursed her lips and shook her head ever so slightly.

  “What can I say?” Dominique repeated.

  “Well, say something,” Georges said, with only the sound of good humor in his voice.

  “Yes, I must say something,” Dominique said. “All right, here we go.”

  Dominique took in a deep breath and offered a convoluted story that had something to do with turtle soup, a beach ball, and a girdle. I couldn’t make any sense out of it whatsoever, but the French seemed to enjoy the story well enough.

  After the “phrase game,” the second course was presented. Fish and more shrimp. Then Georges, who was a doctor before his retirement, said, “Let’s all move to the operating room,” meaning the living room where he set up the next game.

  “This is a test of agility and speed,” Georges said, sounding more like a boardwalk barker than an operating-room physician. “Allen and Pierre will stand on these chairs,” he said, positioning two straight-back dining room chairs in the middle of the room. He then selected two plump oranges from a fruit bowl and handed them to Yvette and Dominique. He paired Pierre with Yvette and Dominique with me—not my first choice, but I was trying to remain in the jaunty spirit of things.

  “Your job,” Georges said to the women, “is to pass the orange up the left pant leg of your partner and down the right pant leg. The fastest contestant wins.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that!” Dominique squealed. “I just couldn’t.”

  “Then perhaps we can find another contestant,” Georges said, reaching for Dominique’s orange.

  “Not so fast,” Dominique snapped, ripping the orange away from Georges’s clutches. She stepped up to me like a bowler approaching the line, the orange positioned just under her chin, scrutinizing my “pins” as if they were a seven-ten split.

  “Please be gentle,” I said to my partner.

  “One, two, three, go! ” Georges whooped, and the race was on.

  The first “leg” of the race was easy going. Dominique inched the cool orange up the inside of my pant leg with relative ease, but when the orange reached midpoint in the course, there was a bit of a traffic jam.

  The dozen revelers howled with laughter and started clapping rhythmically. “DO-MI-NI-QUE, DO-MI-NI-QUE.” Meanwhile, Yvette had adeptly run the course, leaving Dominique, the orange, and me center stage. Dominique was doubled over with laughter, her right hand on her side, her left hand holding the reluctant orange in place at twelve o’clock high.

  “Go for it,” I said to Dominique, squirming now to make room for the barricaded citrus.

  Dominique was doing nothing—still doubled over, holding the orange in place with a straight arm. She looked at Georges. “Anything in the rules about unzipping?”

  “Ah no,” I said, gyrating more vigorously now.

  Finally, Dominique stood upright and gave the orange a punch with her fist. It was one of the more frightening moments of my life. Luckily, she hit her target, and the orange popped through and down the right pant leg in an unattended free-fall. I stepped down from the chair and readjusted my belt. I looked at Nita, who shrugged her shoulders and said with her eyes, “That’s life in the big city.”

  We all returned to the dining room where we were served roast beef, string beans, and mushrooms. By this time I was thinking I would not have to eat for a week. The conversation bounced along from one topic to the next. At one point Dominique leaned over toward me and said in a half whisper, “I hope I didn’t hit anything vital.”

  I smiled demurely. “Oh, that’s okay,” I said in my best Mickey Mouse voice. “We didn’t want children anyway.”

  After the main dish, Georges was up on his feet again. “It’s time to dance,” he pronounced.

  We all filed back into the living room. Georges put on a Latin CD, and we all gave our best renditions of the salsa.

  “Change partners,” Georges shouted.

  We all dutifully obeyed.

  “Change partners again,” Georges called out fifteen seconds later.

  Again, we obliged.

  At this point Georges was linked with Nita and I with Dominique.

  “Don’t change partners!” Georges boomed.

  We danced like that—alternating between rock and roll and Latin melodies—for the next twenty minutes. Then it was a conga line, as Georges led the string of Christmas dancers from the living room into the hall and back again.

  I’m generally not a stick-in-the-mud, but frankly, I much prefer a quiet evening of discussion to a frenetic Mardi Gras, but that’s just me.

  At three o’clock in the morning—after the salad and cheese, after the bûche de Noël, after the fruit and coffee, after two grueling tangos with Dominique—I whispered to Georges that I thought it was time for us to be going home.

  “So early!” Georges protested.

  “Well, yes,” I said, “unless you have an extra pair of pajamas.”

  “I can accommodate that,” Georges said, sounding deadly serious.

  “Just the same …” At that moment, I was wishing I could say I had a dog that needed tending. Not that we were ungrateful for an incredible, once-in-a-lifetime cultural experience. We were just bushed.

  By 3:30 a.m., after having kissed everyone good night, we finally worked our way to the door where we said good night all over again and wished everyone a Joyeux Noël.

  On the drive home Nita said, “The French sure know how to throw a party.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “How do you feel?” Nita asked.

  “I feel overwhelmed and grateful, truly grateful.”

  “I feel the same way.”

  “But I’m also thinking that finding a friend—whether French or American—with whom you have a real kinship is rare and very precious. I think those friendships need to be protected.”

  “And do you have such a friend?” Nita asked.

  “You mean besides you?”

  Nita smiled. “Yes, besides me.”

  There was a pause, and then we both said in unison, “Terry Barber.”

  Terry is a former neighbor and retired elementary school principal. In 2002 he was studying to become a Catholic deacon. He is a man with a noble soul who always ends his letters to me with “Love, Peace, and Joy,” which pretty much describes his character.

  When Nita and I arrived at our little apartment, we listened to our phone messages. There was only one: a Christmas wish from Terry calling from his home in Olympia, Washington. Terry’s last words were, “I love you
guys.” And I thought what a perfect ending to a perfect day.

  * * *

  DURING OUR YEAR IN FRANCE, friends often asked if we missed anything in particular from the States. When I answered “not really,” I was not being entirely truthful. There was one thing I did miss: an old-fashioned American hug. I am not talking about a no-contact teepee hug. That’s not a hug. It’s more like, I don’t know, a litigation. I’m talking about a full-body bear hug. Although there are a fair number of Americans who have a problem with a full-contact embrace (those who confuse intimacy with sexuality, for example), in comparison with the French, we Americans are champion huggers.

  During conversation, Americans will often touch each other with, say, a tap on the hand or a squeeze to the forearm. The French are less likely to accent their conversations with physical touch. It is a cultural preference. To high-touch Americans the practice is thought of as friendly and positive, but to low-touch French men and women physical contact is more likely to be viewed as intrusive and even improper.

  On a few occasions—even though I knew it was taboo—I tried giving a French friend an American hug (sometimes I just can’t help myself). Their reactions were almost comical: head bolted back, arms to the side, and eyes at full flame. And when I had the temerity to hug a Frenchwoman, eyebrows were raised all over Languedoc. “Oh là là,” they would howl in dismay. That’s just not right!

  During my entire year in France, I met only one person who felt at home with a hug. Her name was Nicole.

  It was New Year’s Day. The hiking club had planned an excursion in the Alpilles mountain range, including a visit to the medieval village of Les Baux-de-Provence. It was going to be a long day, so all the hikers met at the town’s community center at 7:00 a.m. As people were pulling gear out of their cars, I noticed Nicole driving up in her compact VW. I smiled. She had been away on a two-week vacation in Morocco, so I was delighted to see her pull in.

  She was parked about twenty yards from where I was standing. At first she didn’t spot me. But when she pulled her backpack out of her trunk, our eyes met. She actually squealed. She dropped her pack and sprinted the twenty yards with her arms open like she was running to her lover home from the war. When she reached me, she jumped into my arms and wrapped her legs around me, which nearly toppled me to the ground.

  As I swung her around full circle, I caught a glimpse of the faces of the other hikers with their mouths agape and eyebrows at full mast. The last time I saw faces like that was in sixth grade at an elementary school basketball game. “Johnson, get in there,” the coach barked. I was so excited that when I pulled down my sweatpants, I didn’t notice that my shorts went along for the ride. For three long seconds I stood there in my bare butt and jockstrap. Imagine the look in the eyes of the fans. The French had the same look.

  Later I asked Nicole where she learned how to hug.

  “It’s part of my job,” she said. “I’m a physical therapist. I touch people. It’s what I do.”

  “It is so rare,” I said. “You are the only French person I know who knows how to give a decent hug.”

  “That’s true,” Nicole said. “It’s just not done.” She paused for a moment and smiled. I could see she was running a movie in her head. “I want to tell you a story,” she said.

  Nicole explained that one of her favorite male clients was blind. Whenever she worked with him, it was her custom to take the man’s arm and guide him from the waiting room to the therapy room.

  One day, unbeknown to Nicole, the blind man canceled his appointment, and the timeslot was filled with a new client, a man who, coincidently, resembled the blind man. Mistaking the new patient for her regular blind client, Nicole took the man by the arm and folded it over her own, tapping his hand affectionately. The unsuspecting man jumped back in horror. He must have thought, “Just what kind of massage do you have in mind!”

  “The French are like that,” Nicole said.

  “I’ve noticed,” I said. “The French don’t touch. Sometimes, when I like someone, I’ll greet them with a two-handed handshake. I’ve learned even that is too intimate.”

  “Certainly,” Nicole agreed. “That kind of gesture is reserved for lovers.”

  “I’ve noticed, too, that the French have difficulty in verbally expressing intimacy,” I said. “For example, I get the feeling it is difficult for the French to say ‘I love you.’ Am I right?”

  “Yes. Again, that is for sweethearts. I think you Americans are much more liberated in that sense.”

  Nicole reminded me of an American CEO who ended his letters to his employees with the words, “I love you.” That’s pretty unusual, even by American standards, but for the French it would be inconceivable and probably laughable.

  That was how the New Year’s Day hike began. Just as memorable was how the hike ended.

  We were now in the hilltop village of Les Baux-de-Provence with its narrow streets and terra-cotta roofs. We were all tired and more than a little thirsty, so we stopped at a terraced café along the main street to have a drink. It was one of those crisp, sunny days in Provence. A couple of us leaned backward on the hind legs of our chairs under the broad-leaf shade of an enormous sycamore tree.

  We were all laughing about the events of the day, including Tani’s mischief. When we had pulled off our packs and sat down to take a breather, Tani had slipped a five-pound rock into my backpack when I wasn’t looking. I labored under the extra weight for ten kilometers until Tani’s compunction got the best of him, and he confessed his crime. I knew the joke on me was part of my initiation to the family of hikers, so although I made a melodramatic show of outrage, I was actually flattered that I had been tapped as the hapless victim.

  Our bodies were weary, but our spirits were high. We felt at home with each other.

  I ordered my drink, a limonade, the French equivalent of a 7UP, and my hiking chums immediately started ribbing me about my relative disinterest in wine. That led to a general criticism of American behavior, especially what the French liked to call the “cowboy” tactics of President George W. Bush. The tone was lighthearted but not without a prickly undercurrent. I took their criticism in stride—I had heard it all before—and even contributed a jab or two of my own (knowing that, at times, the best defense is to slip the criticism by agreeing with the “enemy”).

  Although the assault was still in good fun, the French were starting to pile it on.

  Maurice was a man in his late forties with a quick wit and a flair for storytelling. “Here’s a joke that sums up American attitudes,” he said with a mischievous smile.

  A recent world survey included the following question: “If you please, what is your opinion on the shortage of food in the rest of the world?”

  The survey was a complete failure because:

  • In Africa no one knew the meaning of “food.”

  • In Western Europe no one knew the meaning of “a shortage.”

  • In Eastern Europe no one knew the meaning of “an opinion.”

  • In South America no one knew the meaning of “if you please.”

  • And in the United States no one knew the meaning of “the rest of the world.”

  Now I knew that the French loved a round of retorts, so I was not going to go down without a fight.

  “Have you heard this one?” I asked. “What is the difference between an American corporation and a French corporation?”

  They shook their heads.

  “If an American corporation is given two cows, they sell one, buy a bull, and build a herd.”

  “That’s right,” Maurice said with a chuckle.

  I held up my hand. “But, if a French corporation is given two cows, they go on strike and riot in the streets because they wanted three cows.”

  The circle of French hikers erupted with laughter. Maurice slapped the table with one hand and pointed at me with the other. “Touché, you got me.”

  In the middle of the friendly repartee, I noticed that François, a st
urdy seventy-year-old hiker, was sitting quietly, even solemnly, at the end of the table. I wondered what he was thinking.

  After bantering for nearly an hour, we paid our bill and started to stroll along the narrow streets of the village. I was looking in the window of one of the tourist shops that displayed an array of tawdry replicas of twelfth-century swords, daggers, battle-axes, and maces. Suddenly, I felt a firm hand on my shoulder. It was François. He was a big man with a ruddy complexion, round rimless glasses, and a baseball-style fishing cap. He reminded me of Teddy Roosevelt.

  “Allen, come over here,” he said in a voice that was just above a whisper. He led me to a bend in the road that was clear of tourists. He held my arm snuggly as if worried that I might suddenly bolt and threw a glance over his shoulder to make certain that no one was within earshot.

  “I want you to know something,” François said, looking at me intently. “We may joke about Americans, but I don’t find it particularly amusing. You were the ones who came to our rescue in 1917 and again in 1944. Too many of us have forgotten that. I have not forgotten. I was there when American troops liberated Paris. That was August 25, 1944. I was just a boy, but I still remember that day.”

  The eyes of François were beginning to well up with tears. “We are quick to protest American policies,” he said, “but you are the first ones we run to when we are in trouble.”

  I was quiet for a moment. From time to time throughout the year, I would hear other French men and women reflect the same idea but never with such emotion. I threw my arms around François and gave him an American-style hug, forgetting for a moment that he was, after all, still French. I felt François stiffen in my embrace. I released him quickly, mercifully.

  I was looking deep into his eyes now, my own eyes suddenly tearing. “Thank you, François, thank you.”

  “I just thought you should know,” he said, as he turned away, a little embarrassed by his own display of emotion.

  I don’t think I really knew François before he proclaimed his gratitude for the United States. Nor did I fully understand the complexities of the French personality. François was my guide to a deeper understanding. I think he may have adopted me as his special project.