I really like French trains. Not because they’re usually on time, which, in my experience (and contrary to most), they tend to be, and not because they’re inexpensive, which, in general, they are (have you seen Amtrak rates lately? Yikes!). It’s mostly because I like the feeling of riding on a train that can take you through countless different types of countryside, through little villages and big cities.
I like the fact that, for most people in France, riding a train is not a big deal, and I like feeling the same way as they do until I remember that I’m on a train in France, and no matter how long I live here, riding on a train in France will always be cool.
I like that there’s no Internet on trains.
I like riding through familiar scenery, seeing familiar town names, or seeing towns I think I know, but I don’t; they just look like another town. I like imagining what people are doing in the towns that I pass, wondering what the people getting on the train are thinking, where they’re going.
I used to like to get off the train for the two minutes that it’s in the station to try to suck through a cigarette, but since I don’t smoke anymore, I like to watch other people doing it and pretend it’s me.
I like to hear the SNCF lady say, “Cannes, ici, Cannes. Assurez-vous de n’avoir rien oublié dans le train.”
I like the French conception of time, which TCB assures me is uniquely countryside, though I’m not so sure. Knowing what’s normal in different places has ceased being in my purview, seeing as I’ve pretty much romanticized the normal out of everything that used to just be.
Still, I don’t recall anyone in my American life ever talking about time in such wide terms as I’ve heard in France. “We’ll be by in the matinée,” means prepare yourself at 10, but don’t expect me before 11:30. “Let’s try to get to town in the début d’aprèm,” means when lunch is eventually over, we can smoke a cigarette and have some coffee and maybe smoke another cigarette and then mosey in the general direction of town.
To reconcile my type A self with this, I have created general definitions for what these broader terms entail. Matinée, in my mind, is from 9 to 11:45. Début d’aprèm is from 2pm-4pm. Fin d’aprèm is from 4pm-7pm. I have kept this well hidden from my laissez-faire French boyfriend, or had, until very recently, when I made an appointment with a rural beekeeper for the début d’aprèm and started freaking out because we were late for my secret arbitrary accepted arrival time of 2:10pm.
I am not French.
I really like that France has reasonable air conditioning. I’ve been back in the States for 6 weeks, and I may well have walking pneumonia (or at the very least, the beginnings of an ear infection). My contact lenses are affixed firmly to my eyeballs every evening. And I don’t like carrying a sweater in my already heavy handbag when it’s 99 degrees out.
I really like la bise.
I haven’t always. I haven’t always been good at it. It’s very hard to suddenly begin to intuit something that everyone else around you has been intuiting since they were too young to speak. At first, I didn’t know if it was appropriate to bise everyone, or just people I knew. Did I actually kiss or just make a kiss sound? Or did I make a sound at all? Some people didn’t, just brushed their cheek against someone else’s. And then it became normal, except when walking into or out of a room with over 10 people. Because then you have to go around, stop everyone else’s conversation, say goodbye, remember who you’ve said hello to.
But then I came back to America and didn’t know what to do when I walked in the room. I started by hugging people, but then do you hug people you don’t know? I did, and sometimes it was unwelcome. So now I’ve started walking into a room and awkwardly raising one arm in sort of a half wave generally directed at the empty far corner of the room.
I miss la bise.
There’s a general lack of preciousness in France that I appreciate. It’s something that I don’t necessarily always think about until I’m in the States, and I’m struck by the exact opposite.
Case in point? Well… there are a few.
I was watching a commercial in California, for example, that was advertising a brand of soup for cats. I know people who give bottled water to their dogs. And it doesn’t stop at pets. There are just generally a lot of special requests in America, from line-cutting to special ordering at restaurants to other exceptions I can’t quite explain. I’m convinced that the reason that people are so obsessed with ordering dressing on the side or asking for their fish served atop steamed spinach instead of alongside rice or cutting to the beginning of a supermarket line because they have hypoglycemia, you understand,… all stems from a need to feel unique and special.
In France, you’re not a special snowflake. No one is. Ennui, I find, is much more tolerable than special snowflake syndrome.
There’s a concept in France known as culture générale that I don’t find nearly as pervasive in America. I appreciate culture générale in France. Culture générale is kind of hard to explain in precise terms. I notice it in little ways. The way that most French jokes would be perceived as highbrow, but aren’t. The fact that most people can cite dates of important historical events without Googling. Perhaps the best example was one that a student of mine, the Law Professor, recounted. He said that, in general, French people will never admit to not having read Proust, and will say that they are “rereading” In Search of Lost Time over the summer. I just like it when people aren’t afraid of being smart, I guess. And I’ve always liked when smart is perceived as cool.
The French have a very strong appreciation of free time. It’s near religious in nature, which for a country that prides itself on being entirely secular may be tough to swallow. But whereas in the States, free time is time to be filled — filled with that screenplay you want to write or that marathon you’re training for or a trip to India to help impoverished orphan girls learn to write, in France, free time is just that: free. I know a lot of people who believe that making plans for their free time wastes it.
It’s been something I’ve had to contend with and battle with a lot since I first moved here. I still don’t have the same love of a lazy Sunday as the Country Boy. I still feel like a waste of life if I haven’t accomplished something. Unlike some of my French friends, I don’t necessarily feel as though I deserve a vacation when I work hard, nor did I really look forward to my vacations in the same way as they did when I was working. But I can appreciate, from afar, the value of giving yourself time off the clock, time where you really are free to do whatever you want, whether that’s something or nothing, without a plan. Maybe someday, I’ll get to a point where I can do that. But if I’m honest with myself, I know I’ll likely be scheduling my “free” time until the day I die.
I grew up, like many people did, learning about table manners and etiquette. When I was growing up, it all seemed kind of arbitrary, but then I had to learn French etiquette, which, yes, is pretty different from American etiquette, and either because it was foreign or because I was older or for some other reason, I found it fascinating. Why? Maybe because it seemed to make more sense, intuitively, than American etiquette. Or maybe because every time I learned something new, there was a story.
Either way, one thing I have always loved in France is cheese etiquette. Mostly because cheese etiquette is a thing. It exists. That, in and of itself, is awesome.
But I also like the things covered by cheese etiquette, like the fact that whenever cutting a cheese, you’re basically trying as best you can not to screw over the other person’s cheese eating experience. If everyone could just think about not making everyone else’s experiences horrible when they do things, I think 90% of the world’s problems would be solved.
Cheese is a philosophical food.
The Internet is faster in France. That’s pretty awesome.
I really appreciate the fact that, in general, in France, children are expected to be a part of society. When an adult walks in the room, the child is expected to engage, at the very least, say hello. On the bus, in stores, whenever a child acts out, I’m constantly hearing parents reminding them not just to behave but the sorts of effects that their actions have on others. “Do you think this lady wants to hear you screaming?” “Stand up; this gentleman wants to sit.” Most adults don’t think of those sorts of things, but it’s nice to hear children being reminded.
I like a lot of things about France, but there are things I don’t like as well. Like the fact that they think that combining sweet and savory is strange. But more on things I don’t like about France later — that’s a whole other post.
Chicken, Blackberries, Feta, Mango, Red Onion, Spinach (serves 1)
Dressing:
1 shallot
4 Tbsp. balsamic vinegar
1 heaping tsp. Dijon mustard
8 Tbsp. olive oil
salt and pepper
1 tsp. olive oil
1 chicken breast
1 handful spinach
1/4 red onion, finely chopped
1/4 mango, sliced
1/4 cup blackberries
1 oz. feta, crumbled
Make the dressing. Chop the shallot and place into a container. Add the vinegar and mustard. Purée with an immersion blender until the shallot has completely blended into the other ingredients. Slowly drizzle in the olive oil. Season with salt and pepper. Set aside.
Heat the olive oil in a pan over medium heat. Add the chicken breast. Season with salt and pepper. Sear on both sides until brown, about 4 minutes per side. Set aside.
Place the spinach and red onion in a bowl. Drizzle with some of the dressing; you will have leftovers. Toss. Top with the mango, blackberries and feta. Slice the chicken breast and place on top.
