Our French Connection
For some Americans, the French way of life is best. Other people simply prefer "freedom fries." A two-week journey across the U.S.—passing through a handful of towns named Paris—to find out what Americans really think about France today. (Part two of four.)
In every town I visit, it’s easier to find guns than books, and that’s true on the drive into Paris, Ky. But the Paris-Bourbon County Public Library is a squat, red bank of literature, and its collection includes two French dictionaries and an instruction manual called French: Step by Step by Charles Berlitz. It’s only been borrowed once, Dec. 5, 2001, despite promising to teach anyone “to speak correct, colloquial French as it is spoken today…without lengthy and involved explanations.”
Previously in "Our French Connection": Part One
The book says its method is conversational, of dialogues that “apply to everyday living” and “will not only hold your interest, but they will also stay in your memory.” I am chiefly intrigued by this point: “You will learn how to start conversations with people—how to tell a story—how people speak when they are excited—and you will even acquire the language of romance.”
Emphasis mine.
I find my way to a secluded table in the back of the library. In the book, three languages are displayed: French, English, and a version of French that’s meant to be read out loud as if you’re reading English. For example, if someone in the book says “Steak frites et sauce béarnaise,” it’s rendered as:
Steak frites et sauce béarnaise.
Steak and French fries with Bernaise sauce.
“Stake freet ay sewce bear-nayze.”
Sometimes this actually sounds semi-accurate out loud—I do so in a whisper, to avoid getting kicked out: “Par-dohn. Oo ay lo-tel ritz?” “La-ba, ah gohsh.” “Ess un bohn no-tel?” “Wee, muss-yuh. Tray bohn…ay tray shair.” But the majority of dialogues pertain to scenarios too bizarre to be of use to anyone. For example, the following conversation, from “At a Soirée (Evening Party),” could be a Wes Anderson movie casting session, but that’s about it:
Pierre: What a pleasant gathering!
Jean-Paul: Yes, the guests are very interesting. Mrs. De Laramont has many friends, in very different circles. In that group over there by the window, there is a lawyer, a composer, a banker, an architect, a dentist and a movie star.
Pierre: Well! I wonder what they are talking about, architecture, finance, music, law…who knows?
Jean-Paul: You can imagine! They surely talk about the movies.
Pierre: Do you know who that very pretty brunette is, in an elegant black suit?
Jean-Paul: She is a star dancer from the opera. Her name is Yvonne Thomas.
Pierre: And the two men who are talking with her?
Jean-Paul: The old gentleman is a conductor and the handsome young man is an actor, rather a bad one really.
Pierre: Look! Do you see who is arriving now? It is Commander Marcel Bardet, the explorer of the bottom of the sea.
Jean-Paul: Well, do you know there is an article about him in today’s Figaro? What an adventurous life!
Pierre: …and dangerous! You know, I know him well. He always tells about very interesting things. Let’s go and talk to him for a while. I’ll introduce him to you.
On the shelf is also Italian: Step by Step. In it, the same scenarios are repeated, word for word, though with subtle cultural modifications. Case in point: The French version of “At a Disco” has only one exclamation point; the Italian contains seven.
I’m walking out when I see that week’s New Yorker on a magazine stand, with the cover flap headline: “French Sex and Death: James Wood on Michel Houellebecq’s new novel.” In his review, Wood makes the latest book from probably France’s best-known living novelist sound quite undesirable to read. But he does not—disappointingly—fulfill the headline’s premise that sex and death in France are different from sex and death in other places—perhaps with fewer exclamation points? On another rack is Marie Claire. Its cover promises “The French Girl Diet—Eat Your Way Gorgeous.” Which turns out to be a truth well-stretched. The diet is called “Le Forking,” and its secret is that you are only allowed to eat what you can spear with a fork. Peas, not soup. But the rules are confusing. You can stab a chocolate pie, but you don’t get to swallow it. Perhaps the real benefit is to improve your hunting skills—Hunger Games for hungry girls.
I learn from Amazon.com that people who purchase French Women Don’t Get Fat also buy All You Need to Be Impossibly French: A Witty Investigation Into the Lives, Lusts, and Little Secrets of French Women by Helena Frith Powell; French Women Don’t Sleep Alone by Jamie Cat Callan; Entre Nous: A Woman’s Guide to Finding Her Inner French Girl by Debra Ollivier; and Chic & Slim Toujours: Aging Beautifully Like Those Chic French Women by Anne Barone. There is also a French Women Don’t Get Fat calendar—which does not, to my disappointment, contain swimsuit pictures.
Also available at the library is French Women Don’t Get Fat, by Mireille Guiliano, the New York Times no. 1 bestseller when it came out in 2004. That title is also a lie. French women get fat all the time, and they’re getting fatter. In Michael Steinberger’s Au Revoir to All That, he noted that by 2005, more than 40 percent of France was considered overweight or obese (compared to 64.5 percent of Americans). The same year, a European product manager for Weight Watchers told the International Herald-Tribune, “The market in France is growing and we believe it has an excellent future.”
Back when I worked in Paris, I’d tell female coworkers about this industry of American women buying books about the superiority of the amazing—and imaginary—French woman. Most of them would roll their eyes—because if you think American women and their publications hold French women to an impossible standard, French society is much worse. But there were also two girls in the office, arrogant to begin with—beautiful, skinny but curvy, their hair and comportment as though they’d just been stolen away from vigorous sex—who suggested with a silent shrug, “But of course.”
Paris, Ky., is located half an hour’s drive from Lexington. It is a town of approximately 9,000 people—many of whom, judging by appearances, know how to fork. It is the seat of Bourbon County, named for the Bourbons of France, and is itself named after the French capital to honor France’s contributions to the Revolutionary War.
A fact I offer without explanation: Eighty-three percent of people I survey in or near Paris, Ky., correctly answer the question about whose side France was on during the Revolutionary War—as compared to the 66-percent national average.
Nearby is Versailles, Ky., pronounced “Ver-sails.” On three occasions, I’m reminded to say it correctly or else the locals won’t understand what I’m talking about. But my focus is on Paris. The town, like its Maine sister, looks beat up: a classic American small town skidding downhill, emergency brake light blinking on and off. There’s a main street with offshoots featuring old, pretty homes, some trash-strewn alleys, a few churches, a creek with a home appliance in it, and lots of front yard furniture and cars on blocks; the surrounding hills and fields are used for horses and horse-breeding, and the land is beautifully pastoral. Several people tell me the town’s on the rise. This includes a coffee bean roaster. He started his business downtown because he couldn’t find a decent cup of coffee in Paris. “Come back in 24 months, it will be a completely different place. For the better.”
Down the street, at Lil’s Coffee Place, a lunch counter, my question on what’s good to eat is answered with “the quiche.”
“The quiche?” I say.
“We make three kinds daily.”
I think about it. “Well, when in Paris…”
“Right,” the woman says, and turns to warm it up.
Later, I ask the owner, Lil, who says she’s pro-French, if people there identify with France or French culture. “People who are new, I guess,” she says. “They’ll say they’re from Paris, like as if it’s France. But it’s Bourbon County that’s more important to older folks around here—the history of the area. History is long here.”
I talk to several shopkeepers and people on lunch break.
I walk around for an hour and count four wireframe Eiffel towers used for decorative purposes.
In a garage on Main Street, Riley’s Auto Body, two mechanics are hanging around the counter. The older wears a hooded University of Kentucky sweatshirt, the younger wears a blackened jumpsuit and a Kentucky beanie.
I walk around for an hour and count four wireframe Eiffel towers used for decorative purposes.
“What’s happening, man?” the older says to me.
“Well, it’s unusual.”
“Nothing we haven’t heard before.”
“I’m a writer doing a story about what Americans think about French people.”
“There you go.” He nods for me to continue.
“So I’m going around the country asking people, especially people in Paris—Paris, Kentucky; Paris, Maine—”
“Don’t forget Tennessee,” the younger one says, lighting a cigarette.
I explain about the questionnaire. The older one says, “Well, here’s your certified genius,” and gestures toward the other. “Yeah, I’ll do it,” the younger one says. “I got a 34 on my ACT.” His name is Tyler. Tyler’s got a wispy goatee and an eyelid droop. He smokes and keeps a running commentary going while he fills out his answers: “All right, one thing, they have good intentions, the French. But they don’t go about their foreign affairs correctly.” He grimaces, squints, and smiles. “They probably owed us at least one favor for World War II and Vietnam, back in 2003, when Chirac’s in the UN. Now, he should have backed us up, no questions asked.”
Tyler lights a new cigarette. The other guy, staring out the plate window, admonishes him, “Man, put that thing out in front of him.”
Tyler drops the cigarette. “Also, they should sweep up the dog shit off the sidewalk.”
“You heard that?” I say.
“Oh, I’ve been to Paris.” His tone suggests I’ve challenged him. Then he softens, caught up remembering: “I was like six when we went, I got a cousin over there, she married a French guy. What I remember is the streets were filthy, disgusting, then you look up and there’s the Eiffel Tower, so beautiful.” He rummages another cigarette. “It’s the contrast between those two—that’s France.”
Responding to the question, “Who is Nicolas Sarkozy,” 51 percent of respondents say correctly, “the president of France.”
One respondent, a wealthy businessman from Portland, Ore., gets into detail: “President of France. Has under 30-percent approval rating as of today.” He looks up and tells me, “If France would focus on the future more, I’d like it better. But they’re shackled to their past. They worship it. That’s what keeps France behind.”
Other responses to the question include “a writer,” “a politician of some kind,” “heard his name before but not sure,” and “Carla Bruni’s baby daddy.”
Americans are often surprised when I point out that Sarkozy is nicknamed “Sarkozy l’Américain” in France, that he loves Elvis and goes jogging. Living in Paris, I developed a thing for Sarkozy, his personality, not the politics—because he’s flashy, bombastic, short, despised, grandiose, and altogether nontraditional compared to the elite, stuffy competition. But even I was surprised, while doing research for this article, to learn that Sarkozy actually gave himself that nickname, l’Américain. Because it’s such a not-French thing to do—brashly self-inflating. In fact, it’s rather American.
My aunt and uncle, who put me up while I drive around Kentucky, live outside Lexington, near Athens. Once my surveys are done, they arrange for me to experience a day of French culture in Kentucky. Our 24 hours include:
- A symposium at the University of Kentucky, “Re-centering the Arts and Redefining Audiences: The Théatre des Champs-Elysées as Cultural Experience.” The Q&A session takes as long as the presentation itself. Scholars ask questions that require more time to pose than answer—not really questions seeking answers, per se, so much as opinions seeking audiences, raised in a tone of hostile, confrontational puzzlement. “It seems to me…” or “One can’t help but think…” With all the passive-belligerent manner and hogging the floor, the people wearing black, the scholars’ ostentatious slipping-in of French phrases (n’est-ce pas, c’est évident), the whole thing seems a bit like a Parisian dinner party, except without the wine, smoke, or fun.
- Spalding’s Bakery—if a Parisian croissant is a platonic ideal, so is a Spalding’s donut. If I lived in Lexington, I would need to go on a “No Forking Donuts” diet. They also sell “gooey butter bars,” which I decline.
- Several vineyards in the hills outside Lexington. Turns out that the French concept of terroir applies to Kentucky winemakers, too. One tells me, “People want my wine because it’s Kentucky wine. If it tasted like shit, they’d still drink it.” Another winemaker says, about the influence of the French: “People age in French oak for marketing, to say they do it, but only for the first year when the most flavor’s imparted, then they switch to domestic.”
- My cousin Robin, who lives in Lexington, tells me, “You know what they say about people in Paris? The ones born there are Parisians; the ones who move there are parasites.”
Watch for the third part of “Our French Connection” next week. Or you can read it in its entirety now when you pick up a copy at the Kindle Store.