That's So NOT French!

Despite the bitter realization that I have somehow arrived to be a woman "of a certain age", I continue to imbibe a childlike sense of whimsy, an appreciation for the simple pleasures in life, and a sentimental sense of nostalgia. All things "Americana" appeal to me now more than ever. A rousing chorus of "Take me out to the ballgame", Route 66, Drive In theatres, and the romantic notion of the Santa Fe railroad forging a trail across the southwest tug at my heartstrings and bring a little tear to my eye every time! But I settled in France four years ago with the desire to be a française. Parisian women are after all, chic and confident, possessing a certain je ne sais quoi uniquely their own. I have come to realize however, that I am hopelessly American - and I am happy to own it. The cultural chasm between the french and American mind set never ceases to surprise me, or make me laugh heartily even as I am reproached by my french friends. I hear "C'est ne pas drole!" ("It's not funny!") on a regular basis, even though it really is. Funny I mean. I dare to do things no self respecting française would ever do, like smile for example. Or sabotage a dinner party with my remote control fart machine. (So NOT french!) Or something I did just the other day; wave at the conductor of a train! Actually, this was the first time I indulged in this most romantic of American traditions since moving to France, even though I have secretly always wanted to. The train is my current mode of transportation, I ride one every day, and I appreciate the men and women who get me to work safely and on time. But to wave at them is simply not done - unless you are "completely crazy" or addle minded. Last Tuesday was a different story however. I was enjoying a pleasant afternoon stroll with my friend Madame C in the quiet little suburb of Sevres. We were in no hurry, chatting about how she arrived in France from California some three decades earlier as a young college student, pausing from time to time to consider the architectural details of various homes, when we approached one of many bridges that traverse the railroad tracks. "Look" Madame C exclaimed, "a train is coming!" (She seems to have the same fondness for them as I.) We paused in the middle of the bridge to savour one of lifes simple pleasures when the urge took hold, it had been such a long time since I had done it, and as soon as I saw the whites of his eyes I waved at the conductor as the train quickly passed underneath us. And what do you know - he smiled and waved back! I was ecstatic, and jumped up and down clapping my hands in affirmation. (Also totally NOT french). "Yay, he waved back!" I giggled and did a mini fist pump. I was reveling in my American-ness. "That was so NOT french" I laughed to Madame C. "No, it wasn't" she agreed, "I didn't dare!" As we continued our promenade she said, "It could be considered an act of aggression you know." Waving an act of aggression? Only in France. "Did you hear about the sabotage during the weekend?" she asked. (In the French Alps, someone had stolen a section of copper wire from the tracks, which effectively disabled crossing signals throughout the region, and stranding hundreds of vacationers en route home from winter break.) I had heard, but wasn't getting the connection between the theft of copper wire and waving at a train when Madame C said with alarm, "The railroad workers could have gone on strike you know!" At this I burst out laughing, now that is so french! (Strikes being the National Pastime and all.) "It's not funny!" she reproached. She had a point, a perturbation is just that, a real pain in the cul. But to strike because of an act of theft, or perhaps an act of waving? I guess I'd better watch my whimsical American ass - I don't want to cause an international incident!

Perturbation

"Mouvment social.....la circulation des trains est perturbée". It's week 3 and counting in the latest of France's national pastime; le greve (the strike). With the unions strong opposition to Sarkozy's plan to extend the age of retirement, there have been marches, sit ins, and a vexing lack of transportation into and out of Paris for what seems like an eternity. Usually one can expect a day here or there when the train and bus schedules are cut in half, a minor annoyance and ineffectual in terms of a social movement. It's something I have come to expect since my arrival in France three years ago. "All the unions must strike together for at least one month!" my friend Madame V declares; "One day will not effect change!" I blame her by the way, my leetle commie friend who works for the largest union in France, CGT. "So, everyone should work longer so that YOU aren't inconvenienced by a transit strike?" my other Marxist friend J.P. called me out, his voice dripping with sarcasm and a strong sense of social injustice. Snap! Franchment, working until 65 might not be such a horrible thing, unless you are a stone mason, or a coal miner, or a fisherman on The Deadliest Catch. "But do we have to work until we're old and cannot enjoy the life?" Madame V demands, "there is much money in France, let the rich pay the tax! They can afford it!" I cannot honestly say I disagree with that logic, nor can millions of française who deliver mail, pick up trash, and work in restaurants and factories. The anethesiologist's union mobilized last summer and staged a massive sit in on the tracks at Gare Montparnasse, one of Paris' main arteries. This is the connecting point for me from the suburbs into Paris, and back home again. Fortunately on that day I had no work in the city and missed the perturbation! But for the last three weeks, there have been no trains going into town AT ALL between 4 and 8 p.m., only one per hour going home (instead of every 15 minutes), the last one of the night being at 11 p.m. instead of 12:58. This is severly cramping my style, and I am perturbed! (It's times like this I miss having a car.) The Senat was scheduled to vote on the issue of retirement last Wednesday, and the bill extending the age to 65 was expected to pass. I figured all hell would break loose for a couple of days, the strike would ultimately end, and life would once again return to normal. Instead, the opposition tacked on 362 riders to the bill, all of which must be debated individually before a vote can be called. A sort of french filibuster! Meanwhile, the perturbation continues.....