Clarke - Talk To The Snail: Ten Commandments For Understanding The French

TALK

TO THE

SNAIL

Ten Commandments for
Understanding the French

STEPHEN CLARKE

BLOOMSBURY

To the French, with my sincerest apologies

DONT GET ME WRONG FRANCE IS A GREAT PLACE to live. Its a country devoted to pleasure. And pleasure is one of my hobbies. No, its all of my hobbies.

But gaining access to that pleasure can sometimes be as fiddly, painful and ultimately frustrating as eating a lobster. You use a hammer, nutcrackers, surgical probes and a laser-powered meat detector, and you can still end up with lacerated fingers and a mouthful of lobster claw.

Many people visiting France, or coming to live here, get stranded in the pre-pleasure and partial-pleasure zones. They get little further than the moody waiter or the rip-off estate agent. They need advice on how to break into the total-pleasure zone. Because living in France is not a gift that youre born with. Lots of French people never learn to do it properly. Thats why theyre known as a nation of complainers.

Living in France is a skill that you have to work at. Ive spent half my adult life here, and Im still learning.

This book sums up what Ive learnt so far.

STEPHEN CLARKE, Paris, 2006

CONTENTS

Why every Frenchman is Monsieur Right

Why long weekends are good for the French economy

Just because it smells of pigs droppings doesnt mean itll taste like them

Getting the best out of the French national drug habit

Fun ways to mispronounce words and offend people

A French artiste says: Pretentious, moi?

Dont mention the war, nuclear power, tax or structural surveys

Oui, I am smoking into your dinner, et alors?

Garon? Waiter? Bonjour? Oh, forget it

Bonjour, Madame, vous tes une idiote

The perils of French-style amour

Attentive readers may note that there are eleven, not ten, commandmentshere. But surely you didnt think you could fit a nation as fascinatingand complex as the French into just ten commandments, did you? Merde alors!

Nude ptanque, a French game that gives a whole
new meaning to the phrase playing with your boules.

THE
ST
COMMANDMENT

THOU SHALT BE WRONG

(if youre not French)

W HEN DEALING WITH A FRENCHMAN, YOU NEED TO BE aware that there is a voice in his head. It is constantly telling him, Im French, Im right.

Even when hes doing something that is quite obviously illegal, antisocial or just plain stupid, he is sure that right is on his side.

Of course, the French arent unique in this. We Brits think we invented Western civilization. The Americans are convinced that they live in the only place on earth where people are truly free. The Belgians are certain that they invented French fries. Were all sure that were right about something. The difference with the French is that they not only think theyre right, theyre also convinced that everyone in the world is ganging up to prove them wrong. Why, they wonder, does everyone on the planet want to speak English instead of le franais? Why does no one else play ptanque? Why does the world prefer Hollywood blockbusters to French movies about Parisians getting divorced? Ce nest pas normal.

Their reputation for arrogance comes from this. Theyre not sure of themselves. Theyve got something to prove to the rest of the universe.

Observe a Parisian driver when he or she comes up against a red light. How dare this coloured bulb assume it knows best whether it is safe to cross this junction? the driver thinks. Its obviously safe to go through, theres nothing blocking my way except a few annoying pedestrians. He ploughs through, certain that the universe is on his side.

Its the same with much of the French service sector. How can the customers possibly be right? What do they know about the service industries?

The list goes on and on.

Pushing LEnveloppe

One of the best ways of seeing the French persons innate sense of rightness in action is to visit a crowded post office. The people who work here have even more reasons to be right than the rest of their compatriots. They have two layers of rightness that they wear like armour.

First, of course, they are French.

Second, they are state employees and therefore impossible to fire. Even if they were to snooze all day or feed all the letters through a shredder, the worst sanction they could expect would be a transfer to some distant outpost of the French empire like Tahiti or Calais.

In a relaxed rural post office, this can be to the publics advantage, because the people working there will be able to take the time to help their customers (and thereby show how right they are about things).

But if you walk into a busy urban post office at nine a.m., things might not go so smoothly.

There will probably be a long queue of people wanting to withdraw money from their post-office bank accounts, pay their electricity bills in cash, or simply post a letter because they dont have change for the automatic franking machine.

A post-office cashier whos just coming on duty will enter the room, sum up the size of the queue, see the urgency of opening another window, and smile inwardly. Or sometimes outwardly. He or she will then proceed to interrupt their co-workers transactions in order to exchange good-morning kisses or handshakes.

Any grumblings from the queue will be answered with a look, or an overt comment, to the effect that, yes, we state workers are human beings and we have the right to greet our colleagues just like anyone else, non?

They are in the right and are therefore totally shameless.

Next, the new arrival will sit down at his or her counter and settle in, starting up the computer, slotting in the cash drawer, checking that the books of stamps are all in place.

Any customer who dares to venture from the wait behind this line barrier up to the counter at this point will be politely told that the worker has to get properly prepared before receiving customers. That is normal, non? In what other job does a worker have to start work before things are properly prepared?

They are in the right and therefore completely unhurried. The only thing to do is stay patient. It can be tough.

Once, in my local post office, I was praying that fate would not send me to the counter nearest the door, because it was about to be manned by one of the worst cases of Im Right, Youre Wrong Ive ever met, even in France.

Monsieur Right was just coming on duty, and was apparently testing his seat for signs of bounciness deficiency that might oblige him to put in for a months sick leave if he sat on it for a whole morning. He could see all the people waiting, and seemed to be relishing the groans of frustration emanating from his audience. I was next in line, hoping desperately that hed keep bouncing until one of the other counters was free.

But no, fate decided to be cruel to me that day.

Bonjour, I said loudly, as you must.

Bonjour, he replied, slightly put out by my merriness. Outside of the post-office combat zone, Im sure I would have got on fine with the guy, who was a fairly laid-back, jeans-and-earring type and probably listened to the same kind of music as I do. But on his throne, he was obviously a complete tyrant, the Sun King hoping to burn my fingers.