Pardon My French

by Allen Johnson

  A month after our hike to Les Baux-de-Provence, François invited me to go fishing on his eighteen-foot motorboat in the Mediterranean. It was a still and sunny day. We were sitting comfortably in lawn chairs at the boat’s stern, poles in hand, with bread, cheese, and wine on a small table between us. I didn’t catch a thing, but I was hooked on the conversation.

  François began talking about the virtues of the French culture. “Sure, we have all the tangible treasures—the incredible monuments, unforgettable museums, and diverse landscape—but that’s not ‘la France profonde.’”

  “La France profonde” was a familiar expression. The phrase is meant to capture the deep village and agrarian culture of France. I interpreted the depiction as “France plain and simple,” without the ostentation and feverish pace of Paris or Lyon.

  I asked François to elaborate.

  “La France profonde is joyful and proud. We love our history and traditions. We care about the next generation and the next and the next. We have a fondness for simple luxuries: a walk on the beach, a conversation with a next-door neighbor, a dinner with family. That is la France profonde.”

  We sat in silence for a moment, watching our lines rise and fall with the gentle swells. I think that François was allowing the ideas to penetrate my American psychic. I tore off another chunk of French bread and slathered it with a generous layer of goat cheese.

  “There is something else,” he said.

  “Oui?”

  “We are a small country.”

  “About the size of Texas,” I offered.

  “Yes,” François said with a smile, “but not quite so va-t-en guerre—so ready to go to war. Which leads me to my point. We know the bitter taste of war. Our beaches and hillsides are soaked with our blood and, as we both know, American blood. Enough is enough, don’t you think? Don’t you think it’s time to stop the killing?”

  “I get the sense that you are leading up to something François. What is it?”

  François smiled the way a man does when he has been found out. “Yes, I do have something in mind.”

  François explained that there was going to be a public demonstration in Montpellier to protest President Bush’s push for a war in Iraq. Would I like to go?

  I thought for a moment. I knew that the war drums were banging in the States. After 9/11 American flags seemed to be fluttering on every pickup antenna in the country. Yellow-ribbon bumper stickers called for all Americans to “Support Our Troops.” The country was in a fever pitch. Only a small minority wanted anything to do with talk about peace and understanding, but I was a member of that minority.

  “Yes,” I said. “Count me in.”

  Twenty thousand French citizens turned out for the march in Montpellier. The streets were jammed with protesters, all walking slowly as though in a death march from the Jardins du Peyrou to La Place de la Comédie. Appropriately, the procession began at the feet of two nineteenth-century sculptures by Jean-Antoine Injalbert: a pair of roaring lions tamed by two smiling cherubs. The theme of these sculptures was “love vanquishes force.”

  François and I were in the middle of the throng, shuffling down the street, taking it all in. Most of the banners were very simple, slogans calling for peace and reason. Other signs were less anti-American and more anti-Bush, one sign reading NI COCA-COLA, NI MACDO, NI BUSH. Another read LARGONS BUSH, PAS DES BOMBES (DROP BUSH, NOT BOMBS). A third was even less flattering. Something about “Saddam-izing Bush.”

  At one point I turned around to see the crowd behind me and caught sight of an American delegation toting a twelve-foot long banner that read in French, AMERICANS FOR PEACE AND JUSTICE. One of the American protesters wore a placard that read, BUSH STINKS.

  “I want to talk to that woman,” I said to François.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “I won’t be far.”

  I threaded my way through the crowd and touched the elbow of the woman who sported the sign.

  “Those are harsh words,” I said to the woman in English, hoping that she might elaborate.

  She did not say a word. Nor did she dare look at me. Suddenly, I realized that she had no way of knowing my intentions in questioning her. For all she knew, I was a demented jingoist bent on leveling my wrath on anti-American protesters. She could not know that my interest did not go beyond journalistic curiosity. I looked at the woman again. With every step, she seemed to be turning increasingly pale. Out of compassion I quickly moved away from her.

  It was then that something very curious happened. As the American delegation passed from one square to the next, the people who lined the streets and leaned out of their apartment windows applauded enthusiastically.

  I caught up with François just as we rounded a corner toward La Place de la Comédie.

  “What do you think of all this?” François asked.

  “I think it is terrific,” I said truthfully.

  “Really. You are not just trying to flatter a French friend.”

  “No, not at all. I have to admit, it feels pretty strange being surrounded by all this anti-American sentiment.”

  “But it’s not anti-American sentiment,” François said. “It is antiwar sentiment.”

  “Yes, I think I understand that now.”

  “Your American press has been very hard on us, but I don’t think they understand.”

  It was true that the American press had crucified the French. They reported with little objectivity that the French were cowards, that they did not remember D-Day, that America should dig up every GI casket at Normandy and ship them back to the United States for a proper burial. And, if that were not bad enough, they seemed to revel in reporting pure blatherskite. For example, there were scowling commentators who idiotically claimed that we should change the names of “french toast” and “french fries” to “freedom toast” and “freedom fries.”

  “What does the American press not understand?” I asked.

  “I don’t think they understand our motivation. Some American reporters suggest that we are against the war because we have economic interests in Iraq.”

  “Yes, I have read that.”

  “And they may be right. We may have economic interests in Iraq—I don’t know. But tell me, do you think all of these people are protesting for economic reasons?” François waved both hands over the crowd that jammed the boulevard as if offering a benediction.

  I smiled. “No, I don’t think so. I think they are protesting because they love peace.”

  “Absolutely. They love peace. And is that so bad?”

  I looked again at the teeming crowd, moving slowly, solemnly like a sacred religious processional. Then I looked into the eyes of my friend again. “No, François, there is nothing bad about that. Nothing at all.”

  CHAPTER 14

  A Citizen of the World

  OUR FIRST YEAR IN FRANCE WAS COMING TO AN END. It was time to go home, which was a strange thing to say because we felt that we were already home. In one year, we had expanded our homeland to include the landscape and people of Pérols, France.

  A week before our departure, our friends, Armelle and her husband, Gil, invited Nita and me to dinner. They took us to one of only two restaurants in Pérols, Restaurant L’Estelle. When we entered the dining room, forty of our new French friends sprang to their feet, applauded, and sang the opening strains to the “Star Spangled Banner.” Although the lyrics dribbled off after “Oh, say, can you see,” it was the sweetest chorus I had ever heard. And when the song had faded, they stood there with open, childlike smiles and raised their glasses to us.

  “Please give me a glass of wine,” I said. “If ever there was a time for a toast, it is now.”

  Armelle poured and handed me a flute of champagne. I surveyed the room. They were all looking back at me with the most genuine, joyful faces. There was Odette and Tani and Marie-France and François and Nicole and, of course, Armelle, who had organized the entire farewell dinner. They were all there, filled with such goodwill I wanted to c
ry.

  “You are incredible,” I said. “I know it is not something that you say naturally, but there are no better words to express what I am feeling tonight. I love you. I love you all.”

  In attendance was Roland, a former IBM engineer who had lived in the States for several years. “We love you too,” Roland said in perfect English.

  “We love you too,” the crowd echoed.

  “How I am going to miss you all,” I said. “I wish I could squeeze you all into one big beautiful woman and take you back home with me. But that would never work. My wife would take one look at her and say, ‘You put that thing right back where you found it.’”

  The crowd laughed politely, which made me think that my little joke translated awkwardly into French. “So, I will just say, thank you for making our dreams come true. Most importantly, you must understand that our adventure is not yet over. It will only be over after all of you have come to visit us in the United States. But not all at once.”

  I was beginning to feel my eyes well up with tears. “Oh, there is one other thing that you should know,” I said. “We are coming back in a year. So, don’t forget us. We will not forget you.” With that I raised my glass, and we all sipped the sweet fruit from Champagne. I felt so giddy with joy that had there been an open fireplace, I swear I would have flung the drained wine glass into the fireback.

  I did not want that night to end. We ate a five-course meal, opened gifts (a Provençal serving platter for Nita, a tome on modern art for me), and danced until two in the morning. It was a night I will never forget.

  The sweet sorrow of saying goodbye was softened by the knowledge that four of our dearest friends—Jean, Juanito, Roland, and Marie—would be meeting us in Seattle in a month’s time. We would hike the Washington Cascades and Canadian Rockies. I called us the French-American Hiking Team.

  The morning we left France, Jean-Marie and Monique drove us to the Montpellier Airport at seven in the morning. Twenty of our friends were there to see us off. When we went through customs, the security guard asked me to open my bag.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “It’s a cornet,” I said.

  “You are a musician then,” he said.

  “Of sorts.”

  I looked through the gate. Our friends were still standing there, not willing to move until we had rounded the corner and were completely out of sight. I had an idea.

  “Would you like me to play it?” I said to the guard.

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” he said.

  I leaned forward and half whispered. “Do you see those people over there?” I said, nodding to the band of brothers and sisters on the other side of the gate. “They are our friends. Let me play a phrase for them.”

  The guard smiled, and I knew it was okay.

  I placed the horn to my lips while the guard motioned to a French soldier with a side arm that it was all right. I played the opening line of the French national anthem, “La Marseillaise.” Our friends looked puzzled for a moment, looking over their shoulders for the music’s source. Then they realized the music was coming from my breath, through my horn, to their ears, and they actually leapt off the ground. I did not have a better exit than that. I quickly wrapped up my cornet, thanked the guard, waved one last time to our new family and disappeared.

  * * *

  SHORTLY AFTER ARRIVING IN THE STATES, I decided to send a newsletter to our friends in France (a list of about fifty names). I wanted to keep in touch. I also wanted them to understand what I was feeling on reentry. The following is the first newsletter, which serves as an appropriate epilog to our first year in France. Most of our French friends can read English. Still, I included a few translations of American idioms.

  Mes Amis:

  There are many things in the States that are refreshing to me after our yearlong sojourn in France—things that I truly relish. At a four-way stop (un croisement) most American drivers wait politely for the other to pass, standing by for his or her rightful turn to cross the road. That would never happen in France where the rule of the road is “every man for himself.”

  People say “hello” on the street in the States. The first day I went for a bicycle ride, a young woman greeted me with a big smile and said, “Good morning. How are you? Have a nice day.” And she was a total stranger. We all know that’s not done in France. So there is much that I adore about America, much that I am proud of, but there is also much that is troubling.

  I saw familiar images with fresh eyes. I noticed the little things that changed after 9/11:

  The American flag behind the Delta Airlines counter.

  A new name for CNN morning news: American Morning.

  American flags sewed to the jerseys of university and professional athletes.

  American flag emblems pinned to the lapels of American journalists (Lou Dobbs), entertainers (Jay Leno), and politicians (most notably George W. Bush).

  A car salesman, who said, “Even if we don’t find arms of mass destruction, we know they are there anyway.”

  A waitress, who said, “We stand behind our president, right or wrong.”

  Bumper stickers (autocollants) that read, “Together we stand,” “I pledge allegiance,” and “One nation under God.”

  These were all things that I had seen and heard before, but now they had new meaning. Suddenly, they seemed less about pride and justice and, sadly, more about fear and power.

  Little by little, I found myself feeling uncomfortable (mal à l’aise). I had the feeling that I did not fit in. A week after our return to the States, I spoke to my good American friend, George, about the problem.

  “I don’t know what it is,” I said. “I feel unsettled (mal dans ma peau). I am an American, but I don’t feel like an American. I know I am not French, so who am I?”

  “Why, don’t you know?” George said. “You are a ‘citizen of the world.’”

  My quest for a personal identity was briefly set aside when the French-American Hiking Team flew into Seattle. We spent two weeks hiking in the Mount Rainier National Park in Washington and the Jasper National Park in Alberta, Canada. It was a joyous experience for everyone, generating enough material for another book.

  On their last day in the United States, I drove the French delegation to the airport. We arrived early, so we had some time to circle up one more time and embrace each other. As I stood there looking at my good friends, I was overwhelmed with emotion. I could not control my voice. I could not stop the tears. At one point I practically collapsed in the arms of Jean (être sur le point de m’effondrer), sobbing with the grief of saying goodbye to my friends.

  Much of my sorrow emerged from the realization that I was not going to see our new family for a good long time—at least a year. But there was something more. I realized I was grieving over the loss of an old idea that was so important and reassuring (rassurant) to me for so many years: the unconditional, almost blind, trust in my American heritage. After all, we Americans were raised to believe that we are always, without question, the standard of virtue, that all our actions are motivated by the highest ideals. I had been disabused of that dream. The Bush doctrine of “Preemptive War” was not noble. It was based on power, fear, and intimidation. It was not the policy of a citizen of the world.

  As the five of us stood in a circle in the Seattle airport, I began to express to my dear friends how I felt. I repeated what I had said to George:

  “I don’t feel like an American,” I said, “and I know I’m not French. Who am I?”

  And amazingly, the French-American Hiking Team said, almost in a single voice, “Why, Allen, don’t you know? You are a citizen of the world.” They did not say words that were close to what George had said; they said the exact words: Tu es un citoyen du monde. That confirmed it for me.

  Since that conversation, I have allowed the voices of George and the French-American Hiking Team to sink in (faire son chemin). Gradually, I was able to describe what it meant for me to be “a citizen
of the world.” That new awareness became my personal mission statement:

  I am no longer committed to policies or regulations or doctrines. I am not driven by governmental mandates or religious exhortations.

  I am driven by higher, immutable ideals—principles that surpass any institutional mandates. In the end, I have nothing to prove because it has all been proven before. Principles endure.

  As a citizen of the world, I am committed to peace, tolerance, and understanding. I am stirred, not by aggression, but by genuine kindness.

  As a citizen of the world, I have no nationality, no religion, no political affiliations. I am in tune with the climate of the world. I feel the joys and sorrows of all people, regardless of national borders (frontières).

  Is that radical, even dangerous? Throughout history principle-centered men have been condemned and even crucified by those who were guided by ignoble doctrines. Nelson Mandela, Mahatma Gandhi, and Jesus Christ come to mind—all “citizens of the world” in the greatest sense of the phrase.

  I do not mean to place myself among such giants of virtue—I am just an incipient traveler (un voyageur naissant) struggling to understand—but I must say that today I feel more at peace. I feel more in control of my own life. I feel more relaxed (détendu), more able to walk calmly on the streets where, all too often, the person with the biggest stick rules.

  I am not anti-American. A citizen of the world is not against something—that is for Pharisees, for bigots, for extremists. A citizen of the world is for something. I am still an American. I will always be an American, but I believe that I am an American who is trying to live by the American ideal. I am attempting to live by the words—if not the spirit—of Thomas Jefferson and our founding fathers who wrote in our most sacred document, the Declaration of Independence, these immortal words:

  “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”