Cultural Hazards of France

It was time to pick the children up from their new school.

I had spent the day cramped in our little bedroom above where the workers were banging away and turning our basement into someplace livable. Our clothes were hanging on a temporary rack in front of the chimney and we barely had enough room to walk in between our queen sized bed and the window.

Sometimes I would take a nap along with Petit Prince, and close the shutters so the workers wouldn’t be able to peer in as they climbed the steps that led right in front of my window.

Sir and I had created a cozy nest out of our cramped little room, climbing over the bed to snuggle and watch “Bones” on dvd each evening. And we had created a cozy nest for the three children in the other cramped room across from ours. Petit Prince was still waking up at night to feed, even though he was 10 months, and we managed to fit the armchair, along with the crib and bunkbed.

I was still optimistic about when the work would be finished, had not yet experienced the cold winds, the banging and dust created by the workers. I was just frustrated that I couldn’t find everything I needed, as there was no room for the boxes upon boxes of necessities that were stored in the studio and garage. Succumbing to chaos, I headed off to school in an old pair of jeans, running sneakers and a tee shirt from H&M.

And it wasn’t until I got to the school that I realized that shabby wasn’t going to cut it here. I stood there awkwardly, looking at all the mothers who were so absolutely put together. Every highlighted hair was in place, every high heeled boot was polished, every skinny pair of jeans was topped by a sharp belt and a crisp shirt.  Inwardly I sighed.

I made my way to the classroom, smiled at the teacher who I had only met once before and said Young Lady’s name. She called out, “Young Lady – your au pair is here.”

A conscious blush and a sweeping glance on the teacher’s part as I corrected, “Not the nanny. Her mother.”

* * * * *

Sir heads to the banking clients near Opéra. He has come to know them over the course of some months, has even had lunch with some of them at times, something that is expected in France. Most people have a “ticket restaurant” from their company if there is no lunch room, so they can have their most important meal of the day. Few eat sandwiches, and no one eats alone.

He walks in and shakes hands with everyone he sees. This is a ritual that is repeated amongst colleagues every day, men shaking hands with each other, and giving the “bises” (the two kisses, one on each cheek) with the women. The women give the bises to everyone. This is also a ritual that kids pick up young – you start to see boys at the end of elementary school greeting each other with a handshake, and girls with kisses.

But Sir is not a colleague. He’s a consultant. And he wants to keep a distance. Most of the bankers respect his distance and extend their hand to him, men and women alike. But one, a sort of hippy-styled, free-lovin french gal has no interest in cold hand shakes. She goes for the bises each time. Sir always manages to subtly cut her off by sticking out his hand first. He knows that if he gives in once and does the bises, he will have to kiss her every morning he greets her for the rest of their working relationship. He already made that mistake, thoughtlessly greeting our older neighbor with kisses, that he will now be doomed to repeat forever until they move.

But today, as Sir heads out of the men’s room, shaking his hands dry because there were no more paper towels, he glances up and spots hippy girl coming his way. She smiles as she sashays up to him, perky breasts leading the way, face lifted up.

Resigned, Sir leans down to give her the bises.

* * * * *

I set my groceries down on the chair as Young Lady runs out of ballet class. She shows me the letters they made with their bodies, chattering excitedly and shifting from one position to another with limber fluidity.

A blond lady comes up to me smiling, saying that she is Manon’s mother and that Manon would like to invite Young Lady over for a Wednesday afternoon. I’m surprised and pleased by such warmth, so unusual in France, and try to work out a way to make it happen. I teach on Wednesdays and generally need to put the kids in the Centre de Loisirs since there is no school. But she can pick her up after dance class and keep her for lunch and throughout the rest of the afternoon until classes are finished. We arrange the details to everyone’s satisfaction.

I pick up my bags and start to call out to Young Lady to come on. She’s giggling with Manon and Caroline. Manon’s mother says something to me and I turn to her, and get my first whiff of the smell.

“She farted!” I exclaim in my head. I try to keep my face as neutral as possible. Hey, who am I to judge someone? But I can see that she is conscious – we’re both making an effort to be as pleasing as possible to one another and to overlook the lapse in decorum.

“But there it is again! And she’s still talking! She’s really making an effort here, okay well I will make an effort too. We’ll keep up this conversation in spite of this smell that we both cannot help but notice. Wow. Well I’m not one to make fun of someone else’s weakness.  So I’ll keep talking too, even if I feel a little embarrassed for her.  I think I’m even blushing.”

We finally finish our conversation, call to our girls and each head our own way.

Walking home I’m only half listening to Young Lady. I’m thinking about Manon’s mother, how glad I am to have a new possibility of friendship, laughing to myself about the awkwardness and wondering if she feels embarrassed.

I hug my heavy bag of groceries to my chest whereupon a thick wave of scent from the ripe camembert sweeps over me.

And realization hits me like a thud.

She wasn’t the one who was farting.

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