the land of UHT and artisan honey

[I wrote this on Wednesday]

Two immediate thoughts:

1. People are really weird.

2. People are surprising.

Today was a very odd day for me, and an odd day for my relationship with France. After a month-long break from speaking French for any prolonged period of time, I had my first tutoring session this afternoon. It wasn't a disaster by any means, but I looked at my "tutee" across the table at Starbucks and knew we wouldn't meet again. Kind of like when you're about to tell a date "I'll call you," or when you hear it yourself. You save face. Niceties followed by that I-want-to-get-the-hell-out-of-here feeling.

Where to start? I'll call him Mr. Q.

Mr. Q told me over email that he was a 67 year old composer, and currently directing an operetta he wrote himself. He told me he was looking for a native speaker to help him with his conversational French, and perhaps some letter editing. I told him that while I am certainly no native, I have confidence in my skills, and would be happy to meet him. We went back and forth to settle on a time and location, and after I suggested we meet at my personal coffee haunt, he nixed it. Noise is a distraction for him - especially music. He requested Starbucks, where they play inoffensive "easy listening" and will gladly turn down the volume upon request. Ummm. Okay.

The man who turned up, frowning slightly and muttering something about having gone to the OTHER Starbucks down the street, was a character not even I could have anticipated. It is a rare day when I am the party to initiate hand-shaking. It is a rare day when I find myself making the majority of the eye contact. It is a rare day when I find myself struggling to cheer up a stranger in a foreign language, and assuring him that his life's work isn't for naught. Mr. Q seemed to be at his wits end, and while I asked him immediately what in particular he hoped to get out of our time, he launched into the question I didn't ask: what's wrong.

His French, spoken in an flat and lifeless American accent, was excellent. His grammar was nearly spotless, and I'm abashed to admit probably better than mine. Most of his questions had to do with those frustrating prepositions. C'est "dans" ce cas, ou "en" ce cas? [Thanks to Google, I now know I gave him the wrong answer. Ha!] Comment dit-on "throughout"? He questioned me when I said "partout." He used the word "malavisé," of which I could guess the meaning, but had never heard. He told me he'd learned most of his French from reading literature, and we agreed that his vocabulary was a bit more formal than mine, and perhaps a bit old. He made some comment about how the language of youth - like the music of youth - is of no interest to him. Ha. I almost expected him to ask for my drivers' license. Music nowadays has no harmony, melodies, or lyrics, he said. He turns on the radio and finds it empty. Gone are the days of Debussy and Chopin. That went on for an hour.

The whole thing felt like a test, frankly, and one I'd rather not take. Perhaps this speaks ill of me, but I haven't really used a French dictionary since I moved to France two years ago. Those prepositions rarely matter. Literal translations are cumbersome, and frankly, of little use in moments when it counts. As I told him - if you are searching for a word, you should walk around it. Sometimes it produces very poetic results! "I devoured a mango last night" becomes "I devoured a yellow, golden, green tropical fruit last night with pleasure. I think I'm allergic."

Mr. Q told me at the end of the hour that he needed to get to his acupuncture appointment, and thought that he'd be too busy with his rehearsals to continue our lessons for the moment. I have to say I was relieved. I love French, and though I actually said relatively little in his grumpy, chatty shadow, I love speaking French.

But I'm not sure I love the Francophiles of this country. People hear the word France and they start getting ideas. Often, I find, they assume you're as big of a snot as they are. That you're into fashion and very smelly cheese, and that you're a sideshow waiting to be summoned. "Say something! Say something!"

It's something I've thought about a lot, and discussed almost as much. My friends Laura and Kate tell me they're very reluctant to admit their time abroad because they hate getting that instant reaction of disbelief and assumption. I laughed when they said that, and told them I kind of love it. I love that look of shock, even if just for a moment. My life feels so routine sometimes; it's nice to remember that it's been anything but.

Which brings me to the whole surprising bit. After my tutoring, my mom and I went to Whole Foods. My mom goes there often for her various meat substitutes (though she isn't a vegetarian...) and her produce. While I investigated the falafel (not awesome), Mom gabbed with the woman who works at the deli. They know each other pretty well, and I guess have been talking about the BP oil spill since it started. I don't know the deli lady's name, unfortunately, so I'll call her Helen. Helen told us that, for her, they only productive way to deal with the spill would be a massive showing of peaceful civil disobedience. She said that BP doesn't give a shit about anything but money, and that since Obama's in such a tight spot with this issue, he's as good as tying his own hands, and in the process, letting us drown in the mess. She had a sparkle in her eye when she said she thought we needed to rise up as a populace and get some major protesting on - like the 60's, she said. "That was how we made it happen. That's how we got our civil rights. And that's the only reason we got out of Vietnam." Then the conversation turned to something more recent:

Tuesday's election here in California, and the rise of Meg Whitman and Carly Fiorina, two very scary Republican women. I know most of you don't live in California, and most of you don't want to hear about our politics, but let me say this: immigration is huge. Our state is run by immigrants. Our immediate relatives are immigrants. Our fucking asshat of a governor, though he'd never want to put it this way, is an immigrant himself. Some immigrants are not here legally.

Helen, I should mention, is an older black lady. Her colleague behind the counter was a 30 something Latina. Helen told us that she was initially very impressed with Carly Fiorina, and supported her as a woman who seized her education and natural resources and pushed herself to the top. (She started out as a secretary at a law office, then went to law school, somehow became the CEO of Hewlett-Packard. She then sank HP. Whoops.) She's made her platform all about saving our shipwreck of an economy, and getting us back on track as a state blah blah blah. Then she was endorsed by Sarah Palin, and Helen took that as a cue for CRAZY. Meg Whitman is more overt in her crazy, and in addition to being entirely anti-abortion, she is also anti-amnesty for illegal immigrants. That is some scary and hateful bullshit.

The four of us - Helen, her coworker, Barb, and I - took turns looking at each other and muttering about how everything is about money. Trite as it is, this country was founded by immigrants. The only reason (I think) it works as much as it does, is because we've been able to exploit each other's talents and weaknesses.

We allow Mexican immigrants across our borders so they can pick the produce we eat, so they can slaughter the meat in our restaurants, so they can clean our houses and take care of our kids. Sometimes with a smile and a pat on the back with our American promise that hard work can lead to great things. Sometimes with nothing but a promise to deport. How my grandparents got their visas and greencards and eventual citizenship is beyond me.

That was where the conversation landed when Helen said "well, as many problems as we have, I still think this is the best place to be. At least when I go to the South, I know who my enemies are. People are still racist, but at least they're honest." My mom thought it'd be a good idea to bring me into the conversation, so she turned to me and said "what do you think? I mean, with your experience not here?" Helen looked at me, so I explained that I'd spent the last two years in France. She looked incredulous, and screamed "YOU GO, GIRL!" It made me laugh, but it also struck me as the most genuine thing I'd heard in a while. She asked me what it was like, and as I've said before... I love France. But I'm not going to lie.

I told her something I learned from Guillaume's blog: that France has one black news anchor. Smite me if I'm wrong, French friends, but African-French (can I say that?) seem to be an extremely minor part of society. I am particularly interested in French racial culture, and asked almost all of my classes about that impression at one point or another. One conversation comes to mind in particular - a teacher asked me to prepare something regarding African Americans so I brought in an article about Bill Cosby in recent years. After reading it, I asked my kids if they thought there were a racial divide in France, or whether French culture was more homogeneous. (One black girl in the class, mind you.) They told me they didn't think France had that problem. I asked them if black people had their own style of dress, or music they listened to. They said no. I asked them about the larger Arab population, and when I mentioned the new (to me) trend of tucking track pants into socks, they told me it wasn't "fashion" - it was "stupid." My kids are nice kids. Just sixteen and naïve. I hope?

Back in Whole Foods, I found myself getting weirdly emotional. I told Helen that I thought the French in some ways more racist. Their good manners keep inequality and prejudice under wraps. On ne peut pas être indiscret. We can't be indiscreet!

So. Meg Whitman and her anti-amnesty policy, or Sarkozy and his ban of the burqa? Which would you rather have?

Bottom line: we all got problems. And I'm not tutoring any more 60 year old men.