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How to Survive the French

As my housemate casually passed me a book entitled `How to Survive the English' (written by a French woman, who else?), I had a definite inkling that this would serve as material for my first ever blog post. I was right.
Living in Paris has made me painfully aware of the cultural differences between l'Angleterre and la France and the self-confessed superior attitude of the French towards oh-no-not-the English. This book was so rude concerning the country of which I feel so proud that I have been googling the authors' contact details ever since in order to send her a long letter criticizing the French to my hearts content.
She calls us every insult under the sun whilst trying to portray the Frenchies as perfect. Bah, non!
So with my letter I'm looking to give her a taste of her own medicine (that's one thing of which she probably already has cupboards full; the French are known to be the biggest hypochondriacs, after all).
I run the risk of boring you with my indignation over this subject so I will keep it as short and sweet - perhaps not so sweet - as possible. I shall save my profound criticisms of the frogs for my letter to this grossly misinformed woman, and shall instead give you some tips on surviving the French...

- Best to start off knowing that you, as a foreigner (and especially as an English one), are wrong. The French are right. Don't try and convince otherwise because they're just French and they're just right.

- Don't be over the top. The French are cool and highly unexaggerated. You might think something is `amazing and wonderful and.. Oh my gosh!!', but don't say it. They will immediately retort with `Yeah, it's not bad'. Making you feel, quite honestly, a bit silly.

- Never smile in the metro, this will immediately give you away as being a foreigner. Try to throw the best irritated look you can manage to the person next to you. They'll love it.

- For goodness sake, never speak to anyone you don't know. If you're wondering where that French girl got her beret (why not) from, then guess. Guess from glancing, but do not stare. Stare at nobody, whether it be man or woman. Any more than a 3 second gaze at someone will definitely provoke a `Hey, what's your problem?' from a femme or `Hey you, mine or yours?' from a homme.

- `Oui, ça va bien et toi?' This always has to be the response to the famous `Ca va ?' Even if you've lost your job, home, and had a bird do their business on you all in one day, you still have to reply `Oui, ça va'.

- Throw in some Anglicisms. `Too much' or `trendy' are some particular favourites. 'Oui, oui, c'est trendy ça'. Oh how I cringe.

- Talk about sex. In France, it is abnormal to abstain from talking about a subject so taboo in our own darling country. Sitting around a table at lunchtime with your work colleagues (yes, even your boss), the conversation inevitably leads to sex. With this, you are supposed to describe some recent sordid detail from your sex life, and nobody blinks an eye. However, blush and mumble that you have nothing to add will leave everybody in an awkward silence.

- `Bon' must be their favourite word. It means `have a good..' and it can be paired with nearly any noun (I'll let your imagination run wild..). Bonne journée, bonne soirée, bonnes vacances, bon appétit? The whole thing becomes very tiring and very confusing for us foreigners and often leaves me thinking `Oh please stop bonning me'.

Well, I hope this has given you some insight into life as a `frog' (very different to the life of an `rosbif', trust me), and I'll leave you with an `Au revoir' and a `Bonne soirée!'

"I feel the past and future pressing so hard on either side that there is no room for the present at all"

4th May 2009

Darling Chloe;

I am pleasantly surprised by the prolific and pleasing content of your last post; although you claim that your involuntary solitary confinement is having a detrimental affect on your mental health, I must comment that it seems to have given you time to digest and fully eject from your system any love hangover for ****, and this can only be good. I am indeed familiar with the notion that language is governed by thought, having studied it in a linguistics class, and from experience communicating with both english speakers from abroad and natives from other regions and have first hand knowledge of the fact. You seem to have put your superfluous time to good use, and I have high hopes for the outcome of the looming exams.

I must admit, however, that although pleased about your declaration of recovery from your past love, I had been slightly sceptical, knowing that whilst sober and out of eyeshot of the bane of my life, I was able to declare myself 'over' and residual feelings, yet night after night would find myself tearstained and re-enamoured, and was worried that this could have been the case, due to your distance both from ethanol and the boy. However, the use of the plu-perfect tense in this case is highly significant. I now am able to declare myself, if not completely recovered then well on the way to full recuperation. This is due to a number of significant events, cumulating in the receipt of a message which previously would have had me in tears in the soberest of states, but which instead left me slightly nostalgic yet dry-eyed in the most inebriated of states.

The above quote is from Brideshead Revisited, and I feel the sentiment reflects exactly my present state of mind. The last few weeks have been overflowing with sunny days, visits,trips and extremely amusing soirées, yet I find myself constantly filled with a nostlagic ache for times past; memories distant and comparitively recent preoccupy my thoughts, and the moments in which these are happily laid to rest the future creeps in to excite and worry me, and leaves no time for the happy present to be enjoyed. It has been a topic of conversation, and I realise that it is a common state of mind, but despite this am struggling to fight against it and make space for the present.

Today we are going to the beach, and I find myself writing this at 9 o'clock as I rose in time to fit in a gym visit before the trip. It is as though all I do; sunbathing, exercising, studying, is all avoiding the present, and I am constantly in wait of the toned and tanned figure which will miraculously appear to fit in with the glamour and beauty of both my new housemates and our new apartment, which the very thought of gives me shivers of impatience. I intend to return to Manchester the picture of health, and it is this futurity which gives me purpose in the otherwise goal-less erasmus life. I hate that I am wishing time away, and by no means would I want this year to pass any faster than the rate it already is, but I simply cannot wait for our next semester - until when all romantic and career based ideas will have to be put on ice.

I am aware that nostalgia, as heartache, fades with time, but also that all memories gain a timely gloss, that all episodes past become glorified and though I wish desperately to return to last year, to our fabulous life of shopping and parties, that I neglect to consider the bad sides, which would once again spring to life were I to return. I have decided to wallow in the sweet mud of memory of my own accord; my new aim is to utilise all my force, and push the past and future to arm's length, and make room for the gloriously sunny present. Though I am impatient for the love, career and downright uproar of the future, I shall gain nothing by willing it, rather lose events that shall soon enough join the patchwork of happiness that makes up the past.

I shall bid you adieu now, my ray of northern sunshine, as I have rather alot to acheive before the day takes hold. I look forward to hearing more of your solitary thoughts, and hope I have been able to add a little interest for the day. In addition I am rather anxious for the first addition of our new contributor, and news of the highs and lows of her painfully cool Parisian life, which is another gaping hole in my life...

Love and muchos besos,

Hannah xxx