When I First Moved to France

When I first arrived in France, I thought French sounded like a bird song. After a week, it sounded like an orchestra, and I went into silent mode. Observation was highlighted, and I was overwhelmed.

I was utterly lost after a person would say, “Bonjour.” I kicked myself for not trying harder in high school when I dropped out of French class. “Just think, if you had stuck with it, you would be chatting up everyone and at least getting directions.”

When I was first married French Husband, we lived in Paris. A few years later, we moved with his business to Marseille, starting a new chapter in our lives.

The first things I noticed when we arrived in Marseille:

The smell of pine trees.

That woman’s neckline dropped two inches. Cleavage was perfectly acceptable. I unbuttoned two buttons just to fit in with the scene. But I still didn’t have any cleavage.

Thirdly, the Mistral (a strong cold wind, famous in the south of France) seemed to blow away the Parisian accent, which made the French I knew to disappear with the current as well. Imagine learning a language by sound in New York City and then moving to Mississippi. The accent threw me, and I thought I would lose it.

Whenever anyone comes and stays with us, the questions mainly circle cultural differences.

Take cars; cars do not have the same meaning as in the USA. Having a nice car means you have a nice car. Status isn’t attached to it as it seems in the States. Why have a big expensive car in France when you have to drive it and park it in teeny-tiny places?

Where are the buckets of ice cubes? Yeah, forget about it. Now, I wouldn’t say I like ice-cold water. France has crept into me, and sometimes I doubt which is which.

Where are the toilets when you are out and about? If you are in a shopping center or at a gas station, which is not legal within the city limits, you are in luck; otherwise, forget about it or go into a McDonald’s.

Why do the French drive like crazy people? Are they on a suicide mission? I haven’t figured that out because I think they drive well.

Why do children seem so well-behaved? Because they are not catered to. It shocked me how French children have so many rules that parents “educate” their children to behave. I have seen plenty of children get spanked. Not me, not my friends, but I have seen it.

You guys eat so much; where are the overweight people? They walk, they don’t snack, and they do not eat between meals. Period.

Why are there so many strikes? Because they protest for what they want and are usually listened to.

What’s health care like? Excellent. Hospitals and health care are not for profit; they are not fancy and not outrageously expensive, as in the United States.

Strawberries

3, 20 Euros a kilo.

Roughly: A couple of dollars for 2.2 pounds.

But they come from Spain, and the cost of French-grown strawberries is double at least.

On the sign, it tells you where the product is from.

In the beginning, when speaking French was something I could not do,

yet needed desperately, I memorized the words I knew were French

And I tried to use them when I could…

A la carte,

Natural,

Avant-garde,

Belle,

Merci,

Beaucoup,

Carte Blanche,

Deja-vu,

Faux pas,

Rendez-vous…

I was also told that nearly every French word that ends with ‘TION” means the same thing in English as it did in French.

The trick was saying those words with the correct accent, which was tricky.

Super! is Super in French, too. Super became my best friend.

How are you? Super.

Do you like it? Super.

How is your meal? Super.

Did you have a good time? Super.

Isn’t it beautiful? Super.

Would you like some more? Super.

Do you want to go to the brocante? Super.

That one word saved me more than prayer.

“Du sublime au ridicule il n’y a qu’un pas.”

“It’s just one step from the sublime to the ridiculous.”

Napoléon

I can say this in English, but it doesn’t roll off my tongue in French.

Avoir le cafard literally means (to have the cockroach).

Translated, it means:

To be down in the dumps, to have the blues.

Passer le deuil means to grieve.

The first couple of years living in France were unlike “Emily in Paris”; it was a shocker to find adjusting to such a challenge. I often thought the Western world was more or less the same; how naive of me. If I were going to live in Ethiopia, I would expect a cultural difference, but not in France. I thought, how hard could it be? Not speaking French was a hurdle; my new French family was the opposite of mine back home. I was alone, and more than that, I wanted to understand what made the French tick differently than what I was used to. I read everything I could about French culture. I wanted to fit in. It took time, mainly because of language and a husband who didn’t think it necessary to tell me “what to expect when you come to France.” In honesty, my insecurity bugged the crap out of me! I didn’t feel myself, and that was scary.

Another little surprise when I arrived in France was how the hours were displayed.

One through twelve, such as:

1h00

4h00

10h00

And so, on and forth until noon, those are the morning hours.

Then it goes:

13h00

16h00

22h00 and so on.

Forget 12 am or 12 pm.

And remember the h and not the :

And why do French numbers have to be so damn complicated? I would ask French Husband, why can’t 97 be 97 and not four-twenties-ten-seven? Oh, those days of hanging up the phone and redialing to hear the same recorded message to get the phone message number straight.

When the internet came in 1993 or 1994, I discovered that the French keyboard was set up differently than the American keyboard, which nearly caused me to lose my marbles.

When you count with your fingers, one starts with your thumb. So, if you go to the bakery and ask for one baguette with your pointer finger, you will most likely be asked if you want two baguettes.

The funny thing is that everyone wants to speak English with me.

When people come to live the rest of their lives in France and are not here on a holiday, I tell them the motto that I have come up with that describes the Frenchness in France:

Why be simple when you can be complicated?

Eclaboussure – French verb,

Means: Splash.

The perfect man.

I found mine, sometimes, other times… well, when you are married, perfection goes out the window, and realness, which is the true self, kicks in. That’s perfect.

Avoir le démon de midi (To have the midday demon)

Means: To have a midlife crisis.

In the beginning (1988), I carried a French/English dictionary with me everywhere I went;

It was humbling.

Nowadays, the advantage of cell phones, wow, how easy it would have been.

I bought sour milk instead of milk and flour instead of sugar, and I was thankful for the spices I could smell and open. It is a language I knew by heart.