Why I Heart France Reason# 16: Being French Means Never Having to Say You’re Sorry.

Please carefully consider this conversation I overheard yesterday at the bank:

French Lady w/ pancake-ass: Bonjour, I need to make a deposit into my account.

(she hands him a fat envelope.)

Mr. Dim-witted Bank Teller: Merci Madame, Just one moment.

(Insert sound of dim-witted tapping sounds on computer keyboard.)

Mr. Dim-witted Bank Teller: There you go Madame, Please sign this form.

French Lady w/ pancake-ass: Uhm, Excuse me. This isn’t my account. You put my money in someone else’s account!

Mr. Dim-witted Bank Teller: Oh?

French Lady w/ pancake-ass: Yes! That’s not my name!

Mr. Dim-witted Bank Teller: Ooooh! Good thing you caught that!

(Insert sound of more dim-witted tapping sounds on computer keyboard)

Mr. Dim-witted Bank Teller: There you go Madame, Please sign this form.

(French Lady w/ pancake-ass carefully re-examines and then finally signs form then storms out of bank.)

(End Scene)

Yep. The dim-witted bank teller acidentally deposited this Dame’s 3235€ (make that 4,524.86 USD) into someone else’s bank account (yeah I have the eyes of a hawk and I could easily see the amount written on her deposit slip over her right shoulder.) and then blows it off like it’s no big deal?

Now, after living in France for so many years I’ve grown accustomed to the French inability to assume responsibility for their actions or to make a proper apology, but syriousleee…as soon as I heard him say “Good thing you caught that!” I thought to myself “Good thing it’s not my money you f*cked up buster because I’d have to leap across this counter and mince yur teeny frog brain a bit.”

Ok, my heat and hormone induced violent tendancies aside…wtf? Am I the only one who thinks that since he made a grave error concerning a boatload of cash, that he could have broken the Frenchy Code of diss-Honor and at least offered this woman a "Oh, Excuse me Madame!"?

Heart-felt Sidenote: Just for the record I would like to state that I have nothing against the pancake-assed folk among us. I am well aware that not everyone can be blessed by the great Godess of Junk-in-the-Trunk. But since this poor woman's ass was so insanely nonexistant, that's pretty much all I can re-call about the woman's physical appearance. Please refrain from sending me hate-mail relating to pancake-assed people's rights etc etc.

I even have a hat to prove it. But not really.

Sweet Jesus Get Me to France.

Dear Madame K,

I've been reading your blog for a while now, and I'm wondering how you ended up in France. Partly because I'm interested, and partly because sweet jesus, get me out of Metro Detroit.

Thanks,

Susanne Summers

Dear Susanne Summers,

That’s a damn good question. How did I end up in France? I ask myself that question every day. Twice on bad days.

The quick and easy answer is, I met FrenchBoy. And once we decided that we were gonna get hitched, it was obvious that one of us was gonna have to move. We could have just as easily chosen to live in the US, but since he already had a job and an apartment, it was just easier for me to move to France than to start from scratch in the US. Plus I'm an artist. I have a job that I can do from practically anywhere. It just made sense. So I moved to France, and here I be.

But since I have time and a tendancy to over-analyze damn near anything, I'd like to take this moment to elaborate a bit on that question. How the hell did I end up in France? Well, I like to think that anyone’s life is the sum of the decisions they make. Given, life throws sh*tstorms at us that we definitely do not choose, but the rest is up to us. You know the old expressions about lemons....lemonade. So, I’d have to say the path that lead me to France started when I saw 12 years old. Yep. Before I even had boobs.

When I was in Jr. High, we were forced to take a foreign language. All of my friends chose to take Spanish, but being the contrarian that I have always been, I chose to take French. For the next 5 years of my life I studied French in school. In fact I took so many French language and culture classes that by the time I’d graduated from High-school, I was actually exempt from having to take any language courses at the University level. That fall after high-school graduation I went on to The University of Iowa where I spent the next 4 years drinking copious amounts of vodka and promptly succeeded in forgetting absolutely everything I had learned about France. Or so I thought.

Ok, fast forward like a million years.

After living in Brooklyn for 5 years I decide to leave the thrill-ride of life in New York City behind and I moved to upstate New York to squat live at me mum’s place while I figured out what the hell I really wanted to do with my life. After 6 months I was bored nearly into a coma and thus start planning an escape to….hell who knows...Timbuktu? Nova Scotia? Hell, even Europe? All I was thinking was sweet jesus get me outta Rochester, New York.

By the time I finally made it to Europe and met FrenchBoy, I still didn’t speak French, but having studied it for so many years there was a familiarity with the language and culture that really bridged the gap between us. It just made it easier. Freaky Frog accent aside, he just seemed….familiar to me. And I figured that re-learning French would be a snap! Or so I thought.

So I guess I should blame thank the hell out of my 8th grade French teacher for helping to land me here in the land of the frogs. And I thank the heavens everyday that I came from a family that allowed me to take risks and go for big adventures, even when they were a bit leery of my choices. But I give myself a lot of credit too. Thank god I’m one of those difficult head-strong people that decides to do stuff the hard interesting way. Or at least I like to think of myself that way on my good days.

So yep. Life is full of choices. God knows I've mad a crap-load of bad ones, and as much as I bitch and moan, moving to France definitely isn't one of them. At the very least, my decision to live in France has made for some big adventures that I'll be able to tell my grandchildren someday. The censored versions anyway.

I will however proudly leave in all the parts about the smokin' and the boozin'.

Have a question you’d like me to rant about?

Send your question to: Madamek at ymail dot com.

The Good, The Bad, and The Very Ugly.

Dear Madame K,

Just love your blog! I'm reading a book on cultural misunderstandings, written by a French anthropologist, and was wondering if you could share your overall insights into the Good, the Bad, and Ugly of adjusting to French culture in one encompassing list ( well, you know what I mean?). I've got this thing about France and the French way of life seems so inviting.

Thanks a bunch,

Janet Jackson

Dear Janet Jackson,

I started to reply to your question, but then realized that it was turning into a short memoire of my years in France. There is no way to compile all that experience, observation, and analysis into one list. I’m starting to think that perhaps me mum is right. I should write a book.
So instead I’ve just narrowed it down to the basics:

The Good:

I’ve thought about this one really hard and the only ‘good’ thing I can think of in terms of adjusting to French culture is well, the food. Oh and let’s not forget the wine. It’s no secret that I’m a Foodie, but I certainly didn’t start out in life that way. For those of you who don’t know, I grew up in the Midwest. Des Moines, Iowa is not exactly a food culture hot spot unless you consider a jumbo corndog to be a gourmet dish. It wasn’t until I moved to France that my love affair with food began. Especially with cakes. I’m not much of a cheese fan, but oh pastries, how I adore thine elegantly crusty texture and long to take thy fluffy cream into my mouth. Yep, cake porn.

Anyway, I could go on and on about how much I love French food and how cool it is that you can get ripped at lunch on a bottle of wine and nobody threatens to send you to an AA meeting, but before you get all carried away, I’ll leave you with this bit of tragic info. Since moving to France, I have gained 50 pounds. So, there ya go. Everything comes with a price.

The Bad:

Again, it’s hard to make a list, so I’ll just tell you a bit about my struggles during my first year in France---because the first year is the hardest. First and foremost unless you are exceptionally talented with languages, you will be confused and overwhelmed in the midst of all those irregular verbs and all those nonsensical clever French expressions. And you will be humbled time and time again by those who are inpatient with your weak language skills.

When you are finally able to understand and speak a bit of French, guess what?---- sucks for you because all of your friends live back in (insert-name-of-your-home-town-here) and thus you have nobody to talk to anyway. You will try to make French friends but instead you will end up hanging out with just about any Anglophone Ex-pat you can find because in general French people really aren’t all that interested in making new friends, especially with people who barely speak French.

The Ugly:

According to the Wikipedia Gods, France has been a world famous center of global fashion since the 17th century. But nowhere in this wikipedia article do they mention the persistant ugliness that is Euro-Trash.

photos courtesy of www.hotchickswithdouchebags.com

So there you have it. Have I convinced you to move to France yet?

You see, Janet Jackson, If I ever did make that all encompassing list, I'm afraid it wouldn't make a pretty picture of this here country. I love France, or maybe that's too strong of a word. Let's just say I'm OK with it. Even after almost 6 years, there isn't a day that goes by where I don't feel like a complete an total outsider. I have been "Frenchified" in so many ways that even I am astounded, yet I am who I am, and God help me, I think I'll always be more American than anything else, and day by day I'm becoming very OK with that fact.

I really do love corndogs.

I'm always cautious when it comes to answering questions about transitioning into French culture. I think it's such an individual thing. Some have a harder time than others, but nobody finds it to be easy. You can ask any ex-pat living in France if they think of France as being an "inviting" culture to try to integrate into and I think you'd be hard pressed to find any who would use that term.

Hope I didn't rain too much on your parade.

Love,

Madame K

Have a question you’d like me to rant about? Send your question to: Madamek at ymail dot com.

Eureka!

Ok, so just yesterday I mentioned how I'm having trouble coming up with "new material" as it were, and then all of a sudden it became obvious what I should do.

At least twice a week I get e-mails from peoplez asking for information or advice about France, or just asking for an opinion about something. Whenever I actually have the time I reply to individual e-mails and I find myself answering alot of the same questions over and over again. Now, I truly don't mind this, but I was thinking---wouldn't it be more efficient and way more cool if instead of that info just going out to individual peoplez, I re-posted it here for everyone to benefit from?

OK, so here's how it works: Email your question to me at madamek(at)ymail(dot)com, and not only will I reply to you personally, but I will post your question and answer here on the blog as well. I promise promise promise that I will not reprint your personal information unless you beg me to, or you want me to link to your blog.

So come on, ask away. It doesn't even have to be France related! (Although questions about my opinions on France are always welcome because they inspire the best rants.) You know you have questions you've been dying to ask. Like haven't you ever wondered where I bought my shoes, or what my favorite cheese is?

So join the fun by giving in to your not-so-hidden voyeuristic tendencies. I mean, What's the point of having the internet if you can't blog stalk people?

Not Exactly a blog-athon.

You may have noticed that I haven't been around lately. Uhm, thats mostly because I haven't really been up to much. OK, that's not exactly true, but unless y'all wanna hear about how much fun I had rearranging my bookshelves on Friday or how crappy I am at playing guitar, well, there isn't much to say except...

I love summer! Althought the weather here lately has been dreadful, it still feels like summer, and that means long lazy days. Aaah sooo good!

After the month of May where I was pretty much all over the place, hopping from country to country, June has been a month of total relaxation. I haven't been doing much. June has been all about spring cleaning, playing my guitar, and resting my brain so I can get ready to start making some new artwork within the next few weeks.

Normally, I'm one of those super organized control-freak types who sets up entire time-lines and agendas for even the smallest of tasks, but a few days of sunlight combined with a few cocktails and I've managed to completely short-circuit that system of thinking. At this very moment my life philosophy is "Eh, Whatever." I half-heartedly make my to-do lists knowing full well that I no longer feel beholden to them, and I never beat myself up when at the end of the day less than half of the tasks are completed. Two months ago this would have whipped me into a frenzy, but today---I can't be bothered.

But I did find this little gem to share with you:

We were at Castorama (French version of "Home Depot") Saturday and I wandered down an aisle and saw this. So my question is---since it's titled in English, did they do this as a joke?

Uhm, dude, what were they thinking?

Frickin Oooouch!

Well friends, I just got home from my first guitar lesson and well, I’m having a really hard time typing this post because…..MY FRICKIN FINGERS ARE BLEEDING. What kills me is that not one of you dear readers warned me about how badly it would hurt. To make matters worse, my guitar is heavy as shit and is twice as big as my teacher’s guitar. You know that guitar case I bought for it 6 months ago and then promptly threw on a shelf in the garage? The damn guitar won’t even go half way in it! I had to carry “the beast” to the lesson nude.

Question: How hard would you laugh your ass off if you saw a ‘lil black lady jump out of her fancy mom-mobile, pop open the trunk, pull out a big-ass black guitar that looks like something Johnny Cash would play, then start running down the street with it? If I had video footage of my arrival to my lesson this afternoon I would post it on YouTube so you all could enjoy it as much as I am enjoying replaying it in my head right now.

On the positive side, my teacher is fabulous and very patient with my lack of magical guitar playing ability, although I’m sure she thinks I’m mentally challenged in some way because every time I got confused I would wrinkle my face up right good, close my left eye, and just start grunting like I was constipated.

And thus goes the story of my first guitar lesson. A little bruising and lots of grunting. But still it’s better than air guitar.

With any luck, in about 6 months, I will be able to play “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” without crying or getting bloodstains on my left pant-leg.

Home again, home again, jiggety-jig.

Aaaaaaah. There really is no place like home.

After a month of non-stop work and travel I can barely begin to tell you how damn good it feels to just be home.

A quick vacation, my art opening in Brussels, then dashing off on a 10 day trip to London and Paris with one of my oldest friends. Sure, it was all great fun, but hot damn---travel is exhausting! Now that I am home, I may never leave my house again. I'm actually looking forward to doing laundry and reorganising my armoires. I am in full-on nesting mode.

Best of all, I have 3 glorious months of summer that are scheduled with absolutely nothing! No shows, no deadlines, no applications, no galleries, no nothing. Well nothing accept one little treat that I've arranged for myself. Beginning on Tuesday at 2PM I will officially be a guitar student.

A few years ago, I bought FrenchBoy a Fender DG-5 for Christmas because one time in some random conversation he casually mentioned that he would like to play an instrument. Of course, he really had no interest in taking guitar lessons, and a week after Christmas it was already collecting dust in a corner of our apartment. And Sadly, it has been doing just that for quite a few years now.

So, after nearly 10 years of hemming and hawing, I've finally signed myself up for guitar lessons because well, like everyone else, I secretly want to be a rock star. I'm really excited about my lessons, but also worried about how on earth I will acquire all the new musical vocabulary. Taking guitar lessons is one thing, but taking them in French is another. As the quote goes: "Some motherfuckers are always trying to ice skate uphill."*

*Mad props to anyone who know which movie that quote comes from.

My Vacation in a Nutshell.

Breath-taking architectural design, 3 room suite with a private swimming pool, excellent cuisine, stunning views of the Mediterranean sea, a half-day drive through the mountains, 7 leisurely days with a handsome Frenchman...

I'm happy to be back home in France?

Dear Mom I'm On Vacation.

My mom always gets really pissed off when she has to read on my blog, after the fact, that I've gone on vacation yet somehow managed to forget to tell her. "You left the country and you didn't even tell me?"

And once again this week we somehow got all the way through 2 hour and 37 minute phone conversation where I forgot to mention we were leaving Friday for a short holiday.

So...

Mom, I know you're reading this, so this is for you. We are leaving for Crete at 11 AM this morning. So although you're still hearing about it from my blog, at least for once you know in advance.

Photos of our resort (which by the by, is half price if you go off-peak)

We'll be back next Friday. 'kay?

Resistance is Futile.

Ah man, the last 2 weeks have been so jammed packed with everything and nothing at all. Does that make any sense? But the best and biggest news is: In September, with any luck, I will be spending the entire month studying French at La Sorbonne!

Yes, after 3 years of passive-aggressive (but mostly aggressive) refusal to continue my French language studies, I’ve decided to go all the way and assimiliate. And what better way to get froggy than to take an intensive 25 hour per week French language and culture class at the Mecca of French language and culture?

Also, what sucks about living in Paris for a month? Nothing, that's what! I'm looking forward to using the time to get to know Paris a bit better so that when FrenchBoy and I visit on weekends we can spend more time having fun and less time lost and wandering around in circles cursing the fact that there are no easily located street signs in this godforsaken country.

The only down side to all this is that FrenchBoy won't be coming with me. He'll only be visiting on weekends, so I'll be home alone like Macaulay Culkin. Also, I’m still in the process of looking for a short-term apartment rental and it will most likely cost la peau des fesses.* If any of you reading this have suggestions on agencies that can get me a short term studio, lord knows I’m open to them. Just last week I thought I'd found a perfect place through an agency that had a good website and a listing of amazing apartments---only to have the owner of said apartment "decline" to rent that month because he himself wanted to use it.

Sidebar: WTF? Can someone please explain to me the point of having your over-priced hipster apartment listed as available on an apartment rental website when in fact you have no damn intention of renting said over-priced hipster apartment? Dude, whatever.

In the meantime, I’m busy dusting off all my French language study books and preparing to be assimilated.

*coûter la peau des fesses – A fairly vulgar French expression which translates to "to cost the skin of my ass". Equivalent to the English expression: "cost an arm and a leg."