Pardon My French

by Allen Johnson

  I quickly collected the five cents. “Whenever my mother sang this song, she would give me one penny for each line of music. It was her way of saying that she loved me. I would like to do the same for you.”

  I displayed the first penny to my audience and sang.

  “This little penny is to wish on and make your wishes come true.”

  As I sang that first line, I placed the penny in Armelle’s hand, curling her fingers over the coin.

  “This little penny is to dream on, dream of all you can do.”

  I folded the second penny into Roger’s hand.

  “This little penny is a dancing penny. See how it glitters and it glows. Bright as a whistle, light as a whistle. Quick, quick as a wink upon its twinkling toes.”

  Naturally, I placed the dancing penny into the hand of my dance partner, Marie-France. When I wrapped my hand around hers, I could see tears in her eyes.

  “This little penny is to laugh on, to see that tears never fall.”

  I placed the fourth “laughing” penny in Tani’s hand, along with a pulled punch to his nose.

  “This little penny is the last little penny and most important of all. For this penny is to love on, and where love is, heaven is there.”

  Normally I would have placed the last penny in my wife’s hand. But this day was in celebration of an international family. So I pressed the last penny into the hand of my brother, Juanito. He tightened his fingers around the centime and pumped his fist, a gesture that said, “Yes, you are my brother.”

  “So with these five pennies, if they’re these five pennies, you’ll be a millionaire.”

  The last note disappeared into a zephyrean brush stroke, leaving only silence. And then, as if one, they all stood, faces shining, and applauded. Naturally, I responded with my most elegant curtsey.

  “And now, the cutting of the ribbon,” Roger pronounced. He gestured to me and then to the ribbon. “Monsieur Johnson, if you will.”

  I stood up and straightened my back. “Monsieur le Maire.” Mister Mayor. “It is my honor. The scissors, if you please.”

  “Well-well-well, I’m sorry, we don’t have a pair of scissors, but we do have this.”

  Roger handed me a small white box tied with a red, white, and blue ribbon.

  “What is this?”

  “It is a gift for our American friend.”

  “But your friendship is sufficient.”

  “We cannot do the ceremony without it,” Roger said.

  I opened the box and found a five-inch pocketknife, the famous Laguiole blade. The traditional Occitan folding knife, with the distinctive forged bee symbol at the base of the blade, was first designed in 1829. Every Frenchman owns at least one, and this one was a beauty. It had a polished rosewood handle and a scalloped spine. I had to take a deep breath. “Thank you, Roger,” I finally managed to say.

  “Do not thank me,” Roger said. “It comes from all of us.”

  “Thank you all. Shall we see how well it can cut?”

  “Ouais!” the French shouted.

  I had the ribbon in hand. “Mesdames et Messieurs,” I said, “in the name of all that is sacred—good wine, fine cheese, hearty bread, a perfect salad, and cherished friends—I christen thee, this magnificent garden, Le Jardin de la Famille.” The razor-sharp Laguiole sliced through the ribbon in a single, swift stroke, and as the blue streamers fluttered to their repose, the life of a French-American family was born.

  Acknowledgments

  IN PREPARATION FOR OUR FIRST YEAR in France, my wife Nita and I joined a French club in our hometown of Richland, Washington. Michel and Liliane Billaux, a Belgian couple with enormous hearts and abundant patience, were our guides to the subtle nuances of the French language. Their counsel saved us from countless blunders.

  In France, our dear friends, Jean-Marie and Monique Ducros, greeted us with open arms. We first met this wonderful French couple in a Berber mountain village in Algeria in 1972. The four of us were teachers at the local high school—Nita and I teaching English, and the Ducros teaching science. Housing was difficult to find, so we shared the same cottage for the first two months of our two-year term. We stayed in contact over the years—first by letters and then by email.

  Both Jean-Marie and Monique were raised in small villages—Jean-Marie in the Pyrenees and Monique in the Rouergue. Perhaps it was the influence of that quiet rural upbringing that produced a couple of such extraordinary generosity. Whatever the reason, we could not have made the trip to France without them. For our first month in France, while we were struggling to find lodging of our own, their home, a welcoming two-story stucco villa in Pérols, was also our home. They were our lifeline during our first year in France (and ever since): always accessible, always helpful, and always family. One would be hard pressed to find more loyal friends.

  Jean Pommé was my language tutor when I lived in France. A former high school French teacher, Jean knew all the nuances and intricacies of the language. He graciously met with me for at least two hours every week to coach me on French grammar and vocabulary. Whenever I was unsure of the subtle meaning of a word or phrase, Jean could always set me on the right course.

  My wife, Nita, has always been a trooper—not just for this adventure, but for every exploit that has ever tickled my fancy. As I have leapt from one passion to the next—entertaining, flying, motorcycling, scuba diving, mountain climbing, photographing—Nita has always been there to applaud my awkward forays. And when I systematically fell flat on my face, she would lift me up, dust me off, and give my bruised derriere a loving pat as if to say, “You can do it Bunkie. I have faith in you.” Although we were both excited about going back to France, I think at least one of Nita’s motivations for taking flight to the other side of the world was to support my dream. She is a wonder.

  As always, my literary agent, Peter Riva, is an alacritous source of encouragement and guidance. It feels good having him in my corner.

  I’d like to thank Doris Lisk, Michel Billaux, Patricia Johnson, and Annie Tchemitcheff for their gracious proofing of the original manuscript. Finally, Joanne DeMichele is a wizard of a copyeditor.

  APPENDIX A

  Twelve Secrets to Understanding the French

  THIS IS REALLY A SUMMARY of Pardon My French. To my mind, these are the qualities that most characterize the French. Do not think of them as absolutes for there are certainly exceptions. But I would argue that they are strong tendencies.

  1. It’s not personal. Many Americans think that the French are cold. Other descriptors are even less flattering. Snobbish, arrogant, haughty. Those critics miss the point. The French are not cold; they are private and reserved. The French will seldom ask if they may help a foreigner who is obviously lost in a strange city (for that you will have to go to Germany). But if you ask for help, they are more than pleased to set you on the right path.

  2. The French like to be wooed. Connected to the first secret, the French enjoy being sought out—it’s easier for them. They love to be invited out for the evening—for a movie, for dinner, for a concert. They like to feel that they are special and worthy of the pursuit. In this quality, they are not unlike Americans.

  3. Fashion is fundamental. The French are very stylish and often sensual. A Frenchwoman knows how to make herself attractive with minimal accessories. For example, they can do wondrous things with a scarf or the basic black dress, the latter of which is a staple in nearly every Frenchwoman’s wardrobe. Sometimes their style feels a little peculiar—like wearing blue jeans under a dress—but if you observe carefully, you’ll realize they have thought it out. Besides, they walk down the street with such authority, such confidence, they invariably pull it off.

  4. Driving is a competition. The French don’t drive; they lift off. For the French, particularly the French of le Midi (southern France), driving is an aggressive sport—a competition—and for many an expression of macho bravado. They are notorious for speeding—whizzing through traffic circles as though they were anno
ying obstacles in a Formula 1 speedway. To live in France, one simply has to accept the idea that someone—probably in the next ten seconds—is going to tailgate. Live with it; it’s part of their Latin heritage.

  5. To live happy, live hidden. That is a French expression, and the French believe it. Their homes are walled, gated, and locked. Their shutters are fastened as soon as (or before) the sun sets. What is their concern? They say two things: (a) They don’t want others (particularly the taxman) to see what they have, and (b) they want to protect themselves from thieves. This sentiment goes back a millennium. In the middle ages, castles were built for defense. As such, all the windows were small—very small—just large enough to let an arrow fly at the approaching enemy. When windows became larger—to let in more sun, for the old fortresses were dreary places—iron bars were added to cover the opening. Those iron bars are still in use today. Some things just don’t change.

  6. Anonymity is a personal right. The French avoid introducing themselves to others. I have bought a car, rented an apartment, and purchased insurance, and never has a salesperson volunteered his or her name. Part of this tendency has to do with the French distaste for being held responsible. If you have a problem with a product, you go to the organization, not the individual. Of course, the French salesperson relishes that anonymity.

  7. The glass is half empty. The French tend to be a bit pessimistic by nature. I think the characteristic has been influenced by their education system. Children are scored on a scale of one to twenty, and only God (and maybe the professor) gets a twenty. When students receive a high score—say a seventeen or eighteen—they are congratulated with, at most, a dispassionate “not bad.” Even the way the French say “you’re welcome” is couched in negativism: “It’s nothing.” For whatever reason, the French tend to be stingy with praise, and when they do receive praise (for their work is often impressive), they feel uncomfortable about accepting the tribute. More likely than not, they dismiss the praise with “Oh, it was really nothing.”

  8. The customer is on his own. The French have a curious notion of customer service. Basically, it doesn’t exist. That’s a little exaggerated but not by much. For the French, a customer is seldom right and certainly never king. There are a few exceptions. The people at the national telephone company, France Télécom, have been well trained. But most other companies have no idea of what it means to make the customer happy. Why? They have rarely been the recipients of excellent customer service themselves. How can they model what they have never experienced?

  9. Line of command is everything. For the French, respecting the management hierarchy within a company is key. When the boss is in the room, the boss talks and the employees listen. There is no royalty in France any longer, but there are senior managers. As an American, I have asked to see the patron (boss) on a number of issues. My requests resulted in one of two responses: (a) a flat refusal (one woman at a welcome desk actually laughed at me when I asked to speak to the boss. “Oh, no,” she said. “Not for a question like that.”) or (b) the salesperson will become more attentive to the customer (fear is alive and well in French enterprises).

  10. Politeness still counts. The French are sticklers for politeness. Although this custom is beginning to disappear among French youth (who are taking on a more relaxed—some would say “rude”—American attitude), it is still very correct to say “Bonjour Madame, Monsieur,” when entering a shop. Not just “Bonjour,” mind you, but “Bonjour Madame, Monsieur.” There is something about a naked “Bonjour” that grates on the ears of traditional French shopkeepers. At the end of a transaction, saying “Au revoir, bonne journée” (goodbye, have a nice day) is always appropriate and expected.

  11. Eating and drinking is not a task. Eating and drinking for the French is an exquisite pleasure. On the average the French spend two hours, fifteen minutes at the table each day. For myself, I have never spent less than three hours at the table (it is usually more like four hours) when invited for dinner at the home of a French friend. Meals are savored for the food and the fine wine, yes, but also for the fellowship, with conversation about people, experiences, current events, all seasoned with generous doses of humor—often below the belt, as the French say. As for the wine, I have heard Frenchmen rhapsodize about the virtues of wine. As one French friend told me, “It is not a drink, it is a way of life.”

  12. Vive ma liberté. More than all other secrets, this is the most important in understanding the French. The French are vigilant and tenacious guardians of their personal liberty. The problem is, by their own admission, their passion for personal freedom often violates the freedom of others. To draw from a favorite French expression, “All is permitted—even that which is forbidden is permitted.” That personal liberty includes highway speeding, drunk driving, tax deception, and, perhaps the ultimate indulgence, suicide (with rates that are sixty-three percent higher than those found in the United States). Where does this indulgence come from? The French say it is part of the Latin culture—as old as ancient Rome.

  Indulgent egotism got a boost in 1968 when the country was almost torn apart by a demand from students and factory workers for greater freedom. Unfortunately, the legacy has all too often resulted in chaotic classrooms and self-serving, shortsighted factory strikes. Unions have been instrumental in establishing a thirty-five hour workweek and twenty-five days of vacation. Many argue that such a relaxed work ethic has handed France an unstable economy, accentuated by an overall unemployment rate of ten percent, with a disturbing twenty-two percent unemployment rate for those younger than twenty-five.

  APPENDIX B

  How to Live in France for a Year

  GOING TO FRANCE for three months is a lark. All you need is a passport. To live in France for a year takes the heart of an Ironman triathlete. You must be doggedly resolute.

  The first step as a Washington State resident was to go online to the French consulate in San Francisco. (To discover what French consulate serves your region, go to www.france-consulat.org.) The problem is that the site is outdated and incomplete. And when you try to reach the consulate by phone, you will be greeted by an ice-cold answering machine and a maze of menus.

  One day when I was feeling particularly tenacious, I stayed on the phone, jumping from one lifeless office to another until, by divine mercy, I was connected to a breathing receptionist.

  “Oh my God, I am so glad to hear your voice,” I said, unable to suppress my excitement. I wanted to be her best friend for life. “You have no idea …”

  “What do you want?” the receptionist asked in English. Her tone was so snappy even her French accent could not soften the edge.

  I heard the urgency in her voice and started speaking feverishly. “I-I-I am trying to get a long-stay visa, but I have a slew of questions. I need to find someone—anyone—I can speak to. But no one answers the phone.”

  “That is correct.”

  “And they don’t respond to email.”

  “That is correct.” I loved the sound of her “r’s,” but I was in no mood to be charmed.

  “And … and …”

  “Have you tried to fax?”

  “Yes, I have. I’ve done that.”

  “Then, you’ve tried everything, haven’t you?”

  “Huh? Well, yes, I guess so.” And then, with all the American sex appeal I could muster, I said, “Could you please help me?”

  “Ah, that I cannot do,” she said flatly.

  “Okay, but what if …” and suddenly the world hiccupped, and I was speaking to a dial tone. “RrrrrrAAHHH!” I spun out of my chair, hopped on one foot, and wailed like a banshee. I marched helter-skelter into the kitchen, flung open the refrigerator door, glowered at a cantaloupe, slammed the door shut, and stumbled back into my office.

  Sometimes being a world traveler is not easy. What I learned about getting a long-stay visa, I learned in bits and pieces, fragments from whispered hints from other expatriates.

  I can tell you this—and it will help enorm
ously: All American documents must be translated by an approved translator and then officially notarized. The authorized translator, who I discovered out of sheer luck, was Dominique of The French Class. And, best of all, she was located a few minutes walking distance from the French consulate in San Francisco (visit www.frenchclass.com). She was an invaluable resource.

  It took nearly six months to complete our paperwork and finally receive our long-stay visa. What I did not know then is that I would repeat the process in France. Hint: Take all your official documents with you (birth certificates, marriage certificate, proof of financial independence, verification of health insurance, and a half dozen extra passport photos—everything the French consulate requires in the States).

  Then, finally, after the research; after the paperwork; after packing 250 pounds of clothing, hiking and camping gear, bicycle paraphernalia, a trumpet, a flute, a laptop, shoes, cosmetics, guide books, and gifts for our French friends; after the goodbye dinners and retirement parties; after selling both cars and relinquishing our keys to the house sitter; after all that, we were ready to begin the adventure.

  APPENDIX C

  Suggested Further Reading

  THERE IS NO SHORTAGE OF INFORMATION ON FRANCE. In fact, if you let it, the deluge of literature could boggle the mind. I sifted through a lot of books and surfed a gigabyte of Internet sites. These are my favorites:

  Reading French Literature

  The language. Who can resist the French when they look into your eyes and say, “Comme je suis content de te voir”—how happy I am to see you. Who is not swept away by the sound of the syllables flowing like a quiet stream, one word after another? Who is not charmed by the romantic rhythm of unaccented words whispering tenderly, lovingly, “Pick up your dirty underwear from the bathroom floor”? I swear, everything is poetry when spoken in French. So, the sooner you start reading in French, especially aloud, the sooner you will revel in the music of the language.