Whoops! What Not to Say in France

To continue the previous posting’s theme of blog confessions, I feel compelled to tell you about my not-so-little cultural slip this afternoon. I don’t think I did any permanent damage to U.S. – French relations, but it’s only because I was lucky enough to be obnoxious in front of someone who didn’t care. (I hope.)

Before we go into the ugly details, I have to say that I know better. I have been thoroughly battered with cross-cultural sensitivity training. I received 10-weeks of pragmatic, down-to-earth cross cultural training from the U.S. Peace Corps, that even included a demonstration on how to go to the toilet when there isn’t a toilet. (Marty, not having benefited from Peace Corps training, had a little trouble with that one when we were in Gambia.) I spent nine months on the campus of the School for International Training (SIT), where students snipe at each other to prove who is the most culturally sensitive. It is also at SIT where I was introduced into the more theoretical realm of multiculturalism. I cannot plead ignorance.

I’d like to tell you that my gaffe came after five days of forced labor, sleep deprivation and a little water torture. It didn’t. I have no history of schizophrenia. I wasn’t in a bad mood. My feminist friends would be appalled if I claimed I was suffering from PMS. I wasn’t even hungry. In other words, I have no excuses.

Okay, I’m obviously beating-around-the-bush, trying to avoid telling you the ugly truth. There’s no disguising it, however. I can’t figure out a way to put a decent spin on it. Here it is: today I declared to a French friend that the French are stupid. Ouch.

It hurts for me to share this information with you. I am grimacing as I type. It is only my psychological baggage from 16 years of weekly Catholic masses that forces me to admit this. Perhaps there will be redemption from my confession.

I know what you all are thinking. My Peace Corps friends are feeling sympathetic, remembering the gaffes they made during their years of service, and feeling grateful that they never said anything as bad as that. SIT people, if I told them about my blog, which I didn’t, would be sending emails to everyone they know and don’t know, condemning me and declaring that they were suspicious anyway given that I am from New Hampshire, and we all know that the dreaded “conservatives” live in New Hampshire. A few of them would be starting a petition to the SIT administration trying to prevent my degree conferral. My granola friends are worried that I am too stressed, and perhaps I should enroll in a yoga class, eat more organic food, consider taking up meditation, or, at a minimum, I should light a few candles. My university friends are thinking that they just read a book that addresses the epistemology of oral gaffes and are wondering if they can remember where it is. Marty’s physics-types are completely unaffected by this confession and thinking they are too busy to read this drivel. My family is simply wondering what’s so bad about saying that the French are stupid.

I don’t know if it helps my cause at all, but I blurted out the “s” word because of mittens. Yes, mittens, those wholesome, sock-like things that are more effective than gloves at keeping your fingers warm and that remind you of childhood, snowmen, snowball fights and snow days off from school. I love mittens. They are like warm chocolate chip cookies, flannel pajamas and sleeping babies. They make me happy. They are innocent. They deserve respect. Down-deep, in the profound recesses of my gut, beyond the reach of any cross-cultural sensitivity brainwashing, oops I mean training, a tiger within me roared in their defense. Yes, believe it or not, I lost my oral control in defense of mittens.

My French friend, spotting the mittens that I keep in my bike basket for cold morning bicycle rides, asked me if I knew what French people think of mittens. I immediately felt the tension spreading through my shoulders and into my neck. No, I didn’t know what French people thought of mittens, but I suspected that it wasn’t going to be good.

How can people that wear high-heeled winter boots and bare-shouldered sweaters possibly understand the goodness of mittens? They obviously don’t get it. They don’t understand winter or winter clothes. They don’t look forward to gaining winter weight (just to keep warm of course) and burying their bodies under massive amounts of winter clothes, like we New Englanders do. They think they’re supposed to look good in the winter. They don’t understand that winter is a time to forget about looking good. It is a reprieve from self-consciousness. Self-consciousness can rear its ugly head in the spring, when the clothes come off and we are left looking at our pale, pudgy flesh. Winter liberates us from all of that nonsense. It is only in the winter that we are truly free. And mittens are a part of that liberation. Perhaps we should have brought mittens, not armaments, to Iraq. (Whoops, I’m out of control...)

To get back to my story, my French friend, smirking, explained to me that French people wouldn’t be caught dead wearing mittens. She even suggested that I ask the 10 year old kid sitting in her living room if he would ever consider wearing mittens. I didn’t have to ask him, however, because she quickly assured me that he wouldn’t in a million years wear mittens because of “the look.”

That’s when I lost it, and I said that French people were stupid about “the look.” I know you mitten lovers out there are thinking that I have a point, but, while I appreciate the support, I really shouldn’t have said that the French were stupid. Part of the problem is that it’s really easy to say things like “stupid” in a foreign language. Technically, I didn’t say “French people are stupid.” I said, “Les Français sont bêtes.” Now that doesn’t really sound so bad to all you Anglophones, does it? No, of course not. In fact, “bête” is kind of a cute word to our Anglophone ears. How bad can it be? It wasn’t until I thought about it later, outside of the passion of the moment, that it occurred to me that maybe I had been a bit rash. Concerned, I looked up the translation for bête in my dictionary. It was then that I realized I had declared the entire French population to be stupid. Hmmn, maybe that wasn’t such a good idea.

While most of the time I maintain at least a minimum control of my mouth, every once in a while the filter between my brain and my mouth lets go. The result is quite similar to the unfiltered sewage that enters rivers during periods of high rainfall that in EPA-speak is referred to as “combined sewer overflows,” but in normal-speak is just called “poop.” Without much success, I’m trying to explain that, on occasion, my mouth spews unfiltered poop. It’s not pretty.

Marty calls this my “Kick-The-Orange-Peel” Syndrome. This is an allusion to one of the two times during my grade school career that I got in trouble in school. For absolutely no reason and with a complete lack of consciousness, I kicked an orange peel across the cafeteria floor when I was in 7th grade. It was a movement completely unrelated to my brain. Call it what you will, a muscle spasm, a misfired neuron, an ill-fated synapse; it was a mistake. It probably wouldn’t have been a big deal except that the orange peel landed at the feet of the supervising teacher. The consequences were relatively minor, given that we are talking about the sordid world of junior high, but for a goody-goody, like myself, it was traumatizing.

The mitten episode is not the first international crisis provoked by the Orange Peel Syndrome. A few years ago, Marty and I were sitting in Paris having dinner with some German friends of his that I had just met for the first time. Those of you who have had the misfortune of talking politics with Marty know that he has occasional lapses of spewing fascist rhetoric. It’s actually a bit of a surrealistic experience when a seemingly normal, middle aged American man who has voted for Democrats his entire life starts espousing the virtues of dictatorships, among other equally distasteful things. In any case, after one of his misguided political tirades, I suggested, in front of this very nice German family, that maybe he should stop sounding like a Nazi. Recognizing from their shocked looks that this was perhaps not the most sensitive thing to have said, I tried to dig myself out by saying that Marty was like a “little Hitler.” Right, I know, that’s digging in the wrong direction. My mouth was like an explosive strapped to a suicide bomber, and I was going down in flames.

Perhaps not coincidentally, I have never met that nice German family again. The consequences of this particularly scandalous faux-pas are still not clear. The French gendarmes haven't yet showed up at our door. My degree from SIT is definitely at risk. We’ll see what happens with my French friend. Well, at least I still have my mittens. I wear them proudly.

Dog Abuse

I have a little secret that I have kept from you: a few weeks ago I advanced from the B1 level to the B2 level at French school. Okay, okay, maybe you think that such a progression is to be expected from someone who has spent many months in French school, but understand that it was a traumatic and devastating transition for me. Needless to say, it was with much reluctance and insecurity on my part that I made this move. I believe the claw marks from my fingernails scraping across the walls and chalkboard as I clung desperately to B1 will forever be visible in the B1 classroom.

I was happy in B1; it suited me. It was in B1 that I more or less successfully sorted through the direct complementary pronouns, the indirect complementary pronouns and, my personal favorite, the pronouns tonique. I tackled the auxiliary verbs in the passé composé and most of the time could even correctly identify the past participles. I developed a command of the imperative, and I could definitely deftly apply the indefinite adjectives and indefinite pronouns. It was far from all fun and games, however. B1 introduced the unforgiving relative pronouns into my life, and it was in B1 that I drowned in the imperfect, conditional, future and subjunctive tenses. Alas, I have still yet to make peace with the pronouns “en” and “y.”

Given the limited successes and much more expansive challenges that B1 brought , it was not clear to me that I needed anything more to make my life complete. I told my French teachers that I was happy to spend the rest of my life in B1, as I was sure it would take me a lifetime to master the bulk of the B1 material. Marina, my then-B1 teacher, called me the “doyenne” of B1.

My professors, disguised as seemingly kind French women, were discontent with my contentment. Their greedy sadism hungered for satiation. They wanted a different future for me; a future racked by even greater insecurity and feelings of inadequacy. They unanimously agreed it was time for me to move on.

I begged for more time. I had just returned from the Gambia, and my brain cells were awash in a slurry of Mandinka and French. I could no longer distinguish the two languages, forget conjugate an irregular verb in the present subjunctive tense. My first day back at school, I blurted out “ha,” the Mandinka word for yes, instead of “oui.” I knew when I saw Marina’s shocked look that this little transgression had bought me at least a couple more weeks in B1.

Eventually even I came to see that it was time for me to move on. I started getting excited about the idea of advancement. I felt proud that they believed I was ready for B2. I was starting to feel confident. Naturally at that point Marina told me that she didn’t think it was a good idea for me to go on to B2.

Why didn’t she just punch me in the stomach – it would have been easier to recover. The teachers had been on my case for weeks to move on to B2, and when I finally thought I was ready, I was told I couldn’t. More shockingly, they told me to take two weeks off because they were temporarily cancelling the B1 class since there were only two of us left (think Survivor Episode: French School).

I was stunned. They’d rather have me leave then let me into B2? My French teachers should star in the next psychological thriller. Hannibal Lecter has nothing on them.

Not wanting to be accused of blatant psychological cruelty, Marina explained to me in her sweet, but direct, way that B2 was currently in the advanced stages, so it would be a bad time for me to begin the course. Okay that made sense; I wanted to believe that she was protecting me from a pitiful start. I didn’t have to see it as an indication of my inadequacy. Until, of course, she added that I had screwed up my adverbs that morning, so obviously I wasn’t ready for B2.

Despite making up adverbs that were completely unrelated to the French language, flaunting a remarkable lack of understanding of the subjunctive and exhibiting a pathetic inability to correctly express hypotheses, I eventually moved into B2. After untold weeks in B1, you would think I would naturally transition into B2, like going from second grade to third. Wrong. There is a deep and dangerous chasm between B1 and B2.

B1 was filled with poor sods like me, who came to France with a little high school French behind them and maybe a course or two at the university level. A few of the more courageous among them had come to France with nothing and clawed their way from A1 through A2 and into B1. Many of them were taking French classes as an entertaining sideline while they were having a whopping good time in France. In B1, I was an exemplary student simply because I consistently showed up within 2 hours of the official start time of the class and completed my homework assignments, rare qualities among the B1 riffraff.

B2, however, is a different planet, an entirely different cultural experience. I have left the hedonistic Romans to find myself among the Spartans. Needless to say, the leap from party-hardy to Puritan is bewildering. Not only do they do their homework thoroughly, they type it. They write lengthy essays, not just a few paragraphs. They look up grammar points in their extensive French reference libraries. Most offensively, they use idioms. In B2 we find the French majors, the people who just love French, the people who want to be French teachers, the longtime residents of France. I am unworthy to be among them.

To give you a taste of the B2 elite, let me introduce you to Karen, a Philippina who immigrated to California at the age of 8. She has a degree in French and Linguistics from UCLA, spent a year working in France and just got accepted to a Masters program in French at Stanford. Bettina and Georgina have fewer French credentials, but they have both lived in France for three years now. Christie is currently a French major at a university in Scotland, plans to be a French teacher and will soon be completing a 2-week teaching internship in Luxembourg. And then there‘s me. I know, I know, it’s good for my French to be a peon among the elite. It’s just devastating to my ego.

I had a brief hiatus from being the sole loser in the class. Much to my delight, Jan, a German engineer who used to work for Airbus, joined our class a week after me. Although fluent in German, English and Spanish, his French is, let’s just say, imperfect. Jan fortuitously sat beside me, creating an impromptu caucus of the incompetent. After a particularly grueling grammar lesson, our B2 teacher, also Marina, looked at the two of us and said we looked like “two beaten dogs.” Woof.

Unfortunately for me, Jan has returned to Germany, leaving me as the lone, flea-bitten stray among the mighty and considerably more glorious wolves. Like any good master, Marina keeps me on a short leash and regularly checks to see if I have any idea of what is going on. “Ça va, Nancy?” (Translation: Do you have the slightest clue as to what is going on, Nancy?)

Normally I would have gained a great deal of confidence from achieving B2 status. After all, I’ve made it to the highest level currently offered at my school (until summer comes, and they’ll offer C1); I rub shoulders daily with the elite. I must be able to speak French fairly well, right? Well, I’d be able to enjoy that delusion if it hadn’t been for Shuzo. Shuzo single-handedly ruined my B1 graduation.

Shuzo was my B1 friend who was forced out of B1 several weeks before me. (He was showing signs of not being sufficiently demoralized.) Shuzo, an older Japanese man, was a grammar master; he could conjugate any verb in any tense as well as the best of them. He could properly use just about any kind of pronoun you can think of in a written sentence. He even seemed to know when to use “en” and “y.” Regrettably, he could barely speak a word of French. And Shuzo went on to B2.

I believe Shuzo suffered from grammar paralysis, a syndrome that I temporarily experienced in B1 in which you cannot speak because your mind, like a microprocessor caught in an infinite loop, is overwhelmed by grammar decisions. After Shuzo, I knew achieving B2 status was meaningless as an indicator of oral proficiency. Call it a social promotion if you will, but they won’t let you take the same grammar lessons indefinitely just because a little thing like an inability to speak intelligibly gets in your way.

What do B1 and B2 mean? Frankly, I had no idea until Ron, my former housemate, recently sent me the descriptions for the levels of proficiency for the “Common European Framework of Reference.” (Does that title mean anything to you? Me neither.) According to this “framework of reference,” as a B1 graduate I can understand the main points of clear standard speech on familiar matters, and I can deal with situations likely to arise while traveling in an area where the language is spoken. In theory, I can also enter unprepared into conversation on topics that are familiar. Not bad eh? It’s only when you look at the B2 abilities that you realize what the B1 description so conveniently omits: B1 achievers cause pain to native speakers. B2 proficiencies include the critical nugget “that there is no tension in a conversation with a native speaker.” In other words, B1-ers cause pain to native speakers, and B2-ers don’t.

You may wonder why I hesitated to tell you about my new status of learning how not to cause pain to native speakers. For one, I suspected that there was a risk of being sent back to B1. More disturbingly, I had to recover from my rather painful transition. And finally, who cares? Just because my life has been irreparably damaged, I’m still in France, and there is a great deal of consolation to be found in cheese and chocolate. Woof.

What People Say About US

As you know, the last few years have not exactly boosted the United States' reputation in the world. I've included (below) a photo of a not-very-nice graffiti covered storefront that Marty and I saw in Marseille that rather crudely illustrates this point. I have yet to find a European who likes or in any way respects President Bush. In fact, today a man I met while riding my bicycle expressed fear that Bush may have a son. He was visibly disturbed when I told him that Bush had a brother who is the Governor of Florida.

Despite the obvious political animosities, I have never encountered blatant anti-Americanism personally directed towards me. People are always polite. It probably helps that when the topic comes up, I quickly assure people that I didn’t vote for Bush. It would be interesting to learn how people would respond to a Bush supporter. A British man recently told me that he has never met an American who admitted to voting for Bush. I encourage some of you Bush supporters out there to come for a visit so we can see what happens. Consider it a cultural experiment. (I have a first aid kit in case any injuries are sustained.)

Knowing that some of you may be interested, I’ve been keeping notes of what people have said to me about Americans and the United States. All of these comments have come after people have spoken to me for a little while and feel comfortable. Keep in mind that most of these comments I translated using my not-so-perfect French, but I think they capture the flavor accurately enough. (Approximate ages and nationalities of the commentators are indicated in parentheses.)

---Americans don’t care about the rest of the world. (30+ Frenchwoman in a discussion about George Bush’s re-election)

---Americans are arrogant; they don’t want to learn other people’s languages. (20+ Spaniard)

---The reputation of the U.S. has gone down the tubes under Bush. (20+ German)

---Americans teach their children to be nationalistic. They make them sing the national anthem from a very young age. (40+ Swede) (Perhaps it’s best that he doesn’t know about the Pledge of Allegiance!)

---The United States did to Latin America what the Soviet Union did to Eastern Europe. (20+ Brazilian law student)

---What do Americans learn in school? I know a lot of Americans. They are really ignorant about the rest of the world. One American asked me if we have highways in Spain. (20+ Spaniard)

---I spent a year of high school in the United States and the level of education was much lower. (20-30+ German)

---The U.S. is scary. (40+ Canadian) (I overheard this comment.)

---Americans have simplistic, black and white views of the world and morality. They seem naive. The French see more grey. (30+ Frenchman a.k.a. Frenchman A – See previous post)

---Why do Americans get so fat? (20+ Spaniard)

In addition, I've seen or heard several news programs on obesity, a problem the French are just beginning to encounter, and in each program the Americans were presented as the gold standard of obesity.

In one of our conversations in class, a student said that he thought people in general were becoming more intelligent. The teacher, a 20+ Frenchwoman, disagreed with this, and, with apologies to me, used the United States as an example of how people are obviously not getting more intelligent.

In a discussion of France’s law prohibiting girls (Muslims) to wear veils in school, I mentioned that I thought such a law would not be acceptable in the U.S. because of freedom of religion. The 40+ Frenchwoman I was speaking to said she found that interesting because, as a result of the war in Irak and other things, they think of Americans as being intolerant of other people’s cultures.

I’ve also met a few Americans who have lived in France for a long time and who made the following comments:

---The United States has been working on world domination since the end of World War II. (30-40+- American woman who has lived in France for 6 years)

---The French used technology to gain more free time. The Americans used it to get more stuff. (40+ American woman who has lived in Toulouse for 6 years)

---When I go to the U.S., I’m amazed at how everyone seems so afraid. After my father dies, I don’t think I have any interest in going back there anymore. (50+ American woman who has lived in France since the 1970’s.)

It’s not all bad news, however. Here are the nice things people have said:

---When I went to Georgia as an exchange student, people were really welcoming...People there say hello to you when they pass you on the street. (20+ Frenchman / Another Frenchman present quickly agreed that he had a similar experience in New Hampshire.)

---The French welcome Americans because of Normandy and the liberation of France. We don’t like the British because they burned Joan of Arc. (40+ Frenchman)

---The Americans think of the cleverest things. (30+ Frenchwoman in a conversation where I mentioned the concept of Rent-a-Wreck)

---Americans aren’t afraid to take risks and encourage their kids to pursue their dreams. The French are always afraid and want security. (40+ Frenchman and 50+ Frenchwoman)

---I usually like Americans, they are more open. (50+ Frenchwoman)

Well though there are these few glimmers of hope, it appears that Americans aren’t likely to win the world’s popularity contest any time soon, despite our charming dispositions. Perhaps a good, old-fashioned American marketing campaign might do the trick (think Super Bowl commercials). In lieu of emergency intervention by Madison Avenue, we can all do our part by being nice to foreigners and taking a few foreign language classes. Let’s try not to say anything dumb, certainly don't mention our intentions for world domination, and, hey, watch those calories.

L'Amour

Do you think it is just coincidental that the words for love (l’amour) and death (la mort) sound eerily similar in French? In fact, my American tongue is unable to distinguish them. (This deficiency, as you may imagine, can make for perplexing conversations.) Love and death are pretty big things in life, and, in my opinion, it’s best not to confuse them. You’d think they would be important enough to merit pronunciations that are significantly more distinct than l’amour and la mort. This leads me to wonder if the concepts of love and death are profoundly linked in French language and culture.

I’ve been wanting to write about l’amour for a long-time, but, frankly, it’s a difficult subject to address discretely. I only attempt it now because I am in culture shock after some recent conversations I have had about the topic, and the blog serves as a sort of therapy for me. As a disclaimer, keep in mind that I have lived in France for seven months and I know a few, but not many, French people beyond the acquaintance stage. This means that everything I say could be ludicrous and is certainly based on too small a sample size to be statistically relevant. Given this disclaimer, it’s deliciously salacious and intriguing to consider that the stories I have for you might quite accurately reflect French society in general. And let’s face it, we all want to believe it’s true – that the French are having way more fun than we are. Consider it a bit of voyeurism.

Based upon conversations I have had with my few French friends, I get the impression that one could be considered “square” for believing in marital or relationship fidelity in France. In fact, one friend told me that French men say that American women are “dans une boite” (in a box) for their general unwillingness to participate in what the French so delicately call “l’aventures.” Obviously there are exceptions to this, but we are talking generalities here. In case you’re curious, the Swedes and Brits are reportedly more enthusiastic, but the Germans express some hesitation. The Italians and Spanish didn’t merit any comments, so you are left to your own imaginations or prejudices, depending on how you regard these sorts of things.

One French friend explained to me that the moments in life when you encounter someone with whom there is a mutual attraction should be considered “petits cadeaux” (little gifts). And, as we all know, it is rude to refuse a gift. If what I have learned is in any way an accurate reflection, there is a lot of gift exchanging going on in France, think Macy’s at Christmas time.

I know you want sordid details, but it would be rather indiscreet and tasteless of me to provide them. Then again, why not, you don’t know any of these people:

Within three months of our arrival here, Frenchwoman A tells me how enjoyable her two marital affairs were and then proceeds to ask me if I would like to have an affair with Frenchman Z, because he had expressed an interest in, shall we say, my piece of American pie. More recently Frenchwoman A mentioned that Frenchman Z has had the same girlfriend the last five years. Interestingly, this tidbit of information was not shared in the previous conversation with Frenchwoman A during which she solicited information on my intentions with Frenchman Z; apparently it was deemed irrelevant. Less surprisingly, Z has also never mentioned the girlfriend. (In case there is any doubt, I assure you that I respectfully declined Z’s offer.)

Frenchman A, who is divorced at least in part as a result of a “petite erreur,” has Girlfriend #1, whom he likes very much and considers a perfect lifetime partner for himself. Interestingly, Frenchman A also has Girlfriend #2, whom he likes less, but, let’s just say, enjoys very much. Frenchman A tells Girlfriend #2 that they need to take a break. This causes Girlfriend #2, who happens to be married to another man, much distress since she likes Frenchman A very much. Girlfriend #2 calls Girlfriend #1 and tells her about her relationship with Frenchman A. Girlfriend #1 is not happy. And how do I know all this? Well I happened to have had lunch with Frenchman A minutes after the house came tumbling down. Ouch.

Have no fear, Frenchman A has some resources at his disposal. Although asked, I was unable to provide worthwhile advice on how he should proceed. His brother, whom we will call Frenchman Ab, apparently has a great deal of experience with these sorts of problems, and A was planning on calling Ab for advice. A also can ask Frenchman B, who lives next door to A. Frenchman B, who has been married for a long time, is having an “aventure” with the secretary at work. I was given the impression that this was one of many “aventures” he has enjoyed during his marriage. Apparently of the 20 or so people at B’s office, at least 5-6 are having “aventures.” See the benefits that a 35 hour work week can offer?

Both Frenchwoman A and Frenchman A brought up the fact that everyone knew that the late French President François Mitterand had a mistress. And what’s good for François is good for the country.

As an aside, Frenchwoman A also asked me if Marty was jealous of a recent visit I made to a male friend. I assured her that, no he wasn’t at all jealous and that he encouraged me to go. She then asked me if I worried that he might fool around with other women when he traveled, and I assured her I didn't. She then felt a need to point out to me that, despite his good intentions, a French woman may decide to go after him, although she herself does not go after men who are involved with any of her friends. Perhaps to her disappointment, I remained completely unfazed by this apparently imminent danger to our marriage. (To reassure her, I should have pointed out that he’s a physicist, and therefore knows hardly any women.)

Obviously incidences of, how shall we put it - simultaneous joint ventures? - happen all over the world, although in a few places you get stoned to death for it. I have lived in the United States for approximately 40 years of my life (I’m not counting my two years in Gambia, which, with its tradition of polygamy, provides an intriguing variation on the same theme), and I know of a few, but not many, stories like this in the U.S. I have lived in France for seven months, and, to put it mildly, the ground appears to be fertile. Admittedly, I am rather naive, so perhaps I am simply oblivious to what goes on in the U.S. I suspect the incidence of this sort of thing may be slightly higher in France than in the U.S. simply because there seems to be a general acceptance here that these things happen, and one is not judged for it. Consequently, there appears to be less social pressure to abstain from participation; in fact, I would say that I have actually been encouraged to join the fray (hence my aforementioned culture shock). The incidence of “aventures” may not be that much higher in France than the U.S. as it appears at first blush, however, as I suspect that it is simply easier to learn about these sorts of things in France because there is a greater openness about them. (In fact, Frenchman A and I had quite a fun time talking about his misadventures.)

One can start to see how the passion engendered by these tangled love affairs may provide some tenuous links to “la mort.” Imagine the potential for death from a broken heart or at the hands of an enraged lover. In fact, it is common knowledge in France that “crimes of passion” receive reduced sentences.

While it may serve as an interesting topic for speculation, whether or not the French have a higher frequency of passion-fueled trysts is perhaps beside the point. This is clearly a society that understands, accepts, expects and accommodates the power of l’amour.

Airbus

12,000 French people took to the streets today in Toulouse to protest the recently announced restructuring at Airbus. Conveniently, they marched by my school, so I have a few pictures for you below. The French are alarmed because the proposed restructuring includes 4,300 job cuts in France alone. (France has an unemployment rate of about 8.5%.) Toulouse, home to the largest number of Airbus employees and Airbus headquarters, will be impacted by the loss of jobs at its largest employer.

A lot of Airbus’s problems reportedly stem from its inability to deliver its newest airplane, the A380, which is the largest commercial aircraft in the world. We saw the A-380 during an Airbus tour and get occasional glimpses of it during test flights around Toulouse, and, trust me, it is BIG. It has 50% more floor space than a Boeing 747. The plane components are created in four different countries (France, Germany, Spain and UK), but the actual airplane is assembled here in Toulouse. The assembly line alone requires 25 acres.

A German Airbus engineer in my French class explained that the main problem with the A380 is its electrical system. The Toulouse and Hamburg sites use different design software. As a result of software differences, they can’t get the wiring system to connect correctly. The airplane has 300 miles of wiring, so perhaps we shouldn’t be surprised. Given the complexity of these projects, I find it remarkable that they ever work at all. According to our Airbus engineer, Boeing’s manufacturing is even more complex than Airbus’s.

The Airbus announcement comes in the middle of the French Presidential Campaign, which means that all the candidates are putting in their two cents. (The French government owns a 15% stake in Airbus’s parent company.) According to the Houston Chronicle, even Sarkozy, the conservative-right candidate who previously said that the government shouldn’t interfere with Airbus, recently said that the government “should be better represented as a shareholder.” Good luck Airbus!

Faux PCV Escapes to Germany

Thanks to all of you who wrote to Marty to encourage him to write a blog entry on his experiences in Gambia and Senegal. In response to each bit of encouragement he got he said,"I'm gonna do it." My mother even played hardball and told him that he wasn't allowed to read the track and field articles that she faithfully cuts out of the newspaper for him until he gave his side of the African story. (You need to understand that my mother is eager for him to discredit my years of stories from Gambia.) Those of you who know how much Marty loves track and field realize how painful it is for him to have these track and field articles be inaccessible. It apparently isn't painful enough. Tomorrow he is running off to 2.5 weeks in Germany, so I'm afraid I'm in the unenviable position of telling you that I don't think his blog entry is going to happen. It isn't, however, because you didn't try.