Oddly Enough . . .

I moved back to the U.S. one year ago today.

It's hard to believe that it's been a year already, but it's also hard to believe that it's been only a year. I never experienced any huge culture shock with my move, and yet I still don't feel fully settled into my life here in Minnesota.

To mark the day (and cross something off my interminable list of things I need to do to re-integrate into American society), I went and got my Minnesota driver's license today (my DC license was still valid until 2011) and also updated the address on my car registration (the title had my temporary address from Minneapolis last summer). They asked if I'd ever had a MN license before, and I told them yes, but the last one was cancelled in 1997. That was too long ago for the number to still be in their system, but they said, "Welcome back!" just the same. That was nice.

I have been welcomed back with great affection and openness by many friends here, and that has made my transition much easier and more pleasant. And while I've rediscovered many things from my homeland and my native culture which resonate in my soul, there are also many things which make me long for France. To name a few: intrusive service at restaurants and stores; bad yogurt; the difficulty and cost of finding decent bread, pastry, and food in general; . . . topics I've been meaning to post about for some time and may still get to one of these days.

One year back, and my home is still where my heart is: solidly divided between two countries.

The Perennial Paris Posting

Here I am, in the ultra-modern terminal 2F of Charles de Gaulle airport, a beautiful glass building with the atmosphere of a greenhouse. OK, there is air-conditioning, but it's French, and as we have already established, I have definitely been re-Americanized, at least as far as my temperature preferences and my shoe-shopping habits are concerned. But I'm on my way to North Africa, and it's not going to be any cooler there, so I guess I should shut up and get used to it.

One thing I haven't lost is my French taste for decent yogurt: as soon as my flight from MSP had landed this morning, I went through security and then high-tailed it to a snack bar to buy some Jocky Fromage Blanc (literally "white cheese", but it's eaten like yogurt, with sugar, and is very, very delicious). I'm thinking I probably need to go get a good baguette sandwich before I board my next flight. Jambon beurre ? Mixte ? Or . . . maybe they'll have rillettes, with cornichons! Mmmmmmm . . .

And I've had several lovely conversations with France friends this morning. Does it really make sense to pay 50 euro cents per minute on my French mobile (I've already spent over 30 euros--probably about $40--on calls this morning) when I could call all these people for free from my Vonage phone in the U.S.? Absolutely! Somehow, it's much more satisfying to talk while we're in the same time zone.

Updates: P and A are doing well. Isabelle and EJ and the boys are getting ready to move to California in August, to spend 2 years there, so that'll be a fun place to visit them. My other friend I is traveling a lot for her job with nGo (the first place I worked in Paris), and she has to work more directly with my former boss there. She has my deepest sympathy. I also called the Office (the last place I worked in Paris) to say hello to my friends there, but no one could talk, because they're crazy busy, trying to finalize a huge project bid that has to go out tomorrow (and on which, I'm pretty sure, the company's survival literally depends). I'm SO glad I'm not there for that!

So my life is looking pretty good these days. Now I'm going to go get a good French sandwich, which will make it even better!

OBG: Frencher and Frencher

OBG = Oldies But Goodies (recycled material)


I've finally begun my formal reintegration into the American Healthcare System, but before I start pontificating on that, I thought I'd share (or repeat, if you've known me long enough) one of my more memorable interactions with French Healthcare. The following true story is from an e-mail that I sent on February 1, 2005:
__________


Hi everyone,

It occurred to me recently that it's been a while since I've sent out one of my mass e-mails regaling you all with Tales of Life in France, simply because I don't seem to have many tales to tell these days. Why is that, I wondered? Is it because I'm unemployed, and now that I've discovered a channel playing reruns of "Law and Order" every weekday (you really haven't lived until you've seen Briscoe and McCoy dubbed into French!), I've become a total recluse and no longer have any interaction with those wacky people known as the French? Or . . . is there something darker at play here? Could it be that I no longer NOTICE the wackiness that surrounds me? Could it be that I'm (gasp!) getting Frencher?!

The degree of my cultural integration was thrown into sharp relief last week by the arrival of a newcomer from the States. "L" is the friend of a friend, and she's in Paris for 5 months to study French. I've been helping her get settled in and figure things out . . . how to get an internet connection, where to buy oatmeal, which brands of anti-perspirant don't sting after shaving . . . you know, all the basic information needed to survive as an American in Paris.

On Friday, L and I went to a movie and out for a drink with a German friend of mine who's lived here for years. We were all sharing funny stories, and I began to recount an odd-but-true incident that happened to me a few months ago. The following is a vaguely approximate transcript of that conversation. Any alterations were made for the amusement of my readers.

*****
Stephanie - "My doctor always has her dog with her at the office, and . . ."

Others (interrupting) - "WHAT?! A DOG?! In the DOCTOR's OFFICE?!?!"

S (confused) - "Yeah, well, you know . . . French people love their dogs. They take them everywhere."

L - "Isn't having a DOG in the DOCTOR'S OFFICE kind of a hygiene issue?"

S (thinks about it) - "Huh! Well . . . I don't know. I don't think the dog normally comes into the EXAM room, he mostly just hangs out in the office, under her desk. He's just a little lap dog, a bit yippy, but cute. Really, it seems pretty normal for him to be there. . . . But anyway! One day I went to see the doctor because I had the flu or something, and Sasha (the dog) was really nervous and yipping every time anyone moved. The doctor said that that morning, some workers had been installing a new window in an upstairs apartment--she just has a small office in a residential building--and they dropped a sheet of glass, and the noise totally traumatized Sasha, which was why he was acting so nervous. He was lying on a chair right behind the door, and when I got up to leave, I guess my opening the door scared him, because he flew out of the chair, latched onto my leg, and bit me! The doctor didn't see it, she just heard him yipping and said, 'Sasha, be quiet.' Stephanie: 'Doctor, your dog just bit me on the leg!' Dr.: 'Really?' I point to my thigh, from which I've just removed the vicious little fur-ball, and say 'YES!' The doctor glances down at my pants leg, doesn't see a hole, pats me on the leg, and says, 'Oh, you'll be fine. Have a good day!' And all I could think was, 'Do you not understand that, as an American, my cultural instinct is to sue you for this?!' "

Others (stunned silence) - "?!?!?!"

Stephanie - ". . . I mean, don't you guys think that it's kind of weird that the doctor didn't even want to look at the wound, to see whether the skin had been broken, and maybe disinfect it or something?"

German friend (finally regaining capacity for speech) - "Stephanie, do you still go to that doctor?!"

Stephanie - "Oh. Well, yeah! I really like her! I mean, in the end, the doctor was right, it wasn't THAT big a deal. The dog only broke the skin a LITTLE, and of course I had a big bruise on my thigh, but I had actually forgotten about it by the time I got home that day, and later it took me a while to figure out where the bruise came from. I just think Americans get too paranoid about germs and stuff, you know?"
*****

To recap: I was bitten by my doctor's dog, in my doctor's office. I was surprised that the doctor didn't offer to look at and disinfect the bite. However, I didn't think that (a) it was strange that my doctor brings her dog to the office with her, or (b) this might be a reason to find a new doctor.

So, does this mean that my attitudes are becoming Frencher? Get back to me on this!

Hope you're all doing well!

Love,
Steph


_________

And here's a photo from last January of Sasha in the waiting room, trying to get back into the doctor's office:

La fin d'une époque

Eh, oui, mes amis. C’est une journée de double malheur : non seulement un vendredi 13, mais aussi la fin de validité de ma carte de séjour et donc la fin légale de ma résidence française.

Je sais que je pourrais toujours avoir une nouvelle carte, mais je suis triste de voir la fin de cette série-ci, que j’ai tenue depuis presque 7 ans. Et après tout ce que j’ai fait pour l’avoir, j’en veux toujours énormément à la dame à la Préfecture qui a rejeté ma demande pour une carte de résidente (validité : 10 ans) l’année dernière !

Aujourd’hui, la France me manque.

Can't read this? Either study French harder or copy the text here to get the gist of it. Although I do feel compelled to add that what Babelfish translates literally as "I want some always enormously with" is actually an idiomatic expression for "I'm still very angry at".

TIMM: Bisous

TIMM = Things I'll Miss the Most

There is another thing that I miss about France: the kissing. (No, not that kind of kissing.)

Les bisous or la bise is the kissing-on-the-cheek that the French do as a greeting, as a good-bye, as a thank you, as almost any expression of goodwill or affection between friends and acquaintances. There are lots of little rules about how bisous are done that you learn over time (Isabelle and other French experts can feel free to add or correct):

1. Generally, it's not really a kiss. You just press your cheek briefly against the other person's cheek and perhaps make a vague little kissy noise. Once in a while, you'll come across someone who does actually kiss you on the cheek, but this is usually the French equivalent of your grandma or great aunt pinching your cheek. My friend A and I have a mutual acquaintance who gives a big, wet sloppy bise, and A and I always complain to each other about it.
2. If both people are wearing glasses, at least one of you will have to take them off, otherwise you will inflict and receive injuries to your face (and possibly your fashionable frames). If only one of you is wearing glasses, they can remain on, but the glasses-wearer will need to tip her/his head very carefully, to avoid scratching the other person. The truly considerate always take off their glasses, even if the other person is eyewear-free; I am not that nice and feel that the possibility of scratching the other person is much less important than the hassle to me of removing my glasses.
3. Most people begin with their right cheek to the other person's right cheek. Going in for the wrong side can lead to disaster, or least a sore nose.
4. The number of bisous given (alternating cheeks) varies according to region and social class. Two, three and four kisses are the most common, although in Rennes, Brittany, where I spent a semester abroad in college, a single bise was the norm. There's definitely an element of social hierarchy: two-bising people will usually tell you that giving three or four bises is low-class or for country hicks; four-bising people say that those who only give two bises are stuck-up snobs. Two is most common in Paris, and when in doubt, I generally do two bisous and then pause, pulling back only slightly, so I'm ready if the other person keeps going. You don't want to be the person trying to keep kissing while the other person is pulling away--that's a real faux pas!
5. Women give and receive bisous more than men. Bisous are generally shared between any two women who have an even slightly warm or affectionate relationship (relatives, friends, colleagues, acquaintances), between a woman and a man who are friendly, between two men who are family members or very close friends of long standing, and between an adult and almost any child under 12 or so. Otherwise, the default greeting or good-bye is a handshake. In professional settings, you always shake hands with people on a first introduction and generally continue to do so with colleagues until you've established a "work-friend" sort of relationship. I was often surprised at casual parties at friends' home, because almost everyone I met would immediately give me la bise as soon as we were introduced. Women who don't want to receive a kiss from someone can pre-emptively stick out their hand for a handshake instead.
6. On special occasions, bisous are even more freely given. Every year at Christmas, my building superintendent in Paris, along with his wife and their two children, would all line up in the hallway to give me bises to thank me for the tip I put in their Christmas card (I was never sure if this was normal or a sign that I was tipping too much). And when I was moving back to the U.S. and went to say good-bye to the people at my boulangérie, we all exchanged bisous for the first time.

As a good Minnesota girl who was brought up hugging close friends and family, all this kissing weirded me out at first. It seemed far too personal and intimate. But over time, I came to see bisous a warm and heartfelt way to express affection for the people in my life. And hugging--pressing my body against someone else--that seemed like a weirdly intimate thing to do with relatives and platonic friends!

After six months back in the U.S., I'm used to hugging again, but what I really miss about la bise (or even hand-shaking) in France is the constancy of it. French etiquette requires that you consciously greet and say good-bye to those around you, every time you see them, and every time you leave them. Families generally exchange bisous every morning when then get up and every evening before they go to bed. Friends give la bise every time they get together. Colleagues make the rounds of each others' offices to shake hands or kiss or at the very least formally say hello when they get to work every day. Not to do so would seem cold and rude.

You know that reputation that the French have for being cold and rude? Part of it may stem from the fact that the French see Americans as being rude, every time they enter or exit a shop without greeting the people there. That's right: in France, it's considered polite to say "Bonjour mesdames, bonjour messieurs" whenever you enter a store or a public room and "Au revoir" when you leave. I once heard a crotchety old lady on a French bus complain at great length about the rudeness of kids today after a group of teenagers got off the bus without thanking the driver and saying good-bye to the other passengers!

And the thing is . . . taking a second to acknowledge other people is nice. It makes me sad that when I reflexively say "Hello" or "Thank you, good-bye" to the cashier at a restaurant in the U.S., I often get a strange look. And it makes me sad that I'm starting to lose that lovely French reflex. I miss the unquestioned certainty that each and every time I greet or say good-bye to a friend, there will be a physical acknowledgement of our friendship and affection for each other, whether the acknowledgement be a kiss or a hug or a handshake.

I miss les bisous.

Six Months Out

So, it's 2009 now, happy new year, blah, blah, blah. The more important event that some of you may have overlooked this week was on Tuesday, December 30, 2008, the six month anniversary of my departure from France.

People these days are fond of asking if I miss living in France, and I have to fumble around to find an appropriate response, usually saying something vague like, "Oh, sure . . . but you know, I mostly feel like I'm still just getting settled in here, so I haven't had time to miss it too much yet." This is mostly prevarication, my feeble attempt to hide the dark, awful truth lurking in the depths of my soul:

I don't miss France as much as I thought I would.

Or perhaps I just don't miss France as much as I think I should.

Or perhaps missing France doesn't look and feel like what I thought it would look and feel like.

In any case, my missing of France is too far complicated and sensitive to discuss with strangers in small talk. So instead, I'll post it here on the internet.

Any good living-abroad book will tell you that cultural repatriation is often far more difficult than expatriation. With expatriation, despite its many challenges, you at least have the excitement of new discoveries, and you're surrounded by people who know that you're different and will (usually) tolerate at least some of those differences. Returning "home", you're often faced with being re-immersed in the same-old, same-old and are surrounded by people who expect you to be just like them, and just like you used to be, without really caring or wanting to hear about the ways that you've been Changed by your experiences abroad. Shortly after returning from my semester abroad in France in 1990, I remember sitting talking to a dear college friend, sobbing and telling him, "I just feel like I'll never be happy again, living in America!"

So I was fully expecting to be abjectly miserable upon moving back this time, and I'm really rather discombobulated that that hasn't happened. Yet. (A girl can keep hoping!)

My theories on why I haven't been missing France that much? Well, this is the first time I've moved to a place where I already know a lot of people, many of whom are among my oldest and dearest friends, so I've had less social downtime to sit and pine for Paris than might otherwise have been the case.

It's also true that I still don't feel at all settled here. Moving to a new city while almost simultaneously starting a new, work-from-home, part-time job means that I still feel like I'm waiting to get back to "real" work. So far, I am working enough and billing enough hours to make ends meet, but it hasn't really sunk in that I'm not on vacation and probably need to establish more a of real routine in my life. The huge towers of book boxes remain steadfastly unpacked in my office (I've sworn an oath to unpack by Monday, which is good news for you, since when given the choice of unpacking or blogging, you can see what I choose!), and I still have no couch around which to organize my living room (in my own defense, I'll point out that after weeks of couch-shopping this summer, I ordered the stupid thing back in August (!!), but the furniture store which shall go unnamed, although it rhymes with Freight and Peril, is finally supposed to deliver it next Tuesday. That's January 6. Four and a half MONTHS after I ordered it, not that I'm counting.)

And I was profoundly grateful not to be living in France while my dad was in the hospital this fall.

So I guess there are a number of reasons for me not to miss France so much, just yet. It's also possible that my missing of France is manifesting itself in more subtle ways than flashy, abject misery. For example, it's possible that my unpacking procrastination is indicative of a deep-seated, pathological desire not to admit that I'm actually living in Minnesota, and that I'm clinging to my boxes as proof that I'm ready to return to Paris at a moment's notice. But no need to give any more fodder to my more therapy-minded readers.

However, I do miss France some. And some things in France more than others. At the head of the list of What I Miss Most in France is my friends there. While I lived in France, Thanksgiving was the one and only day each year that I knew I would be fiercely homesick for the U.S. and my family. So I was very surprised that this year on Thanksgiving (the first I'd spent with my family since 1993!), I was fiercely homesick for my group of ex-pat friends in Paris. I missed the sense of coming together with my fellow country people, with our tales of triumph in finding rare and exorbitantly expensive turkey and pumpkin, for our national feast which we would generously share with the untamed natives (who were always stunned to learned that pumpkin can be made into something other than soup!). I miss the stories of hardship and heartache as we struggle with renewing our residency permits on either side of the ocean. I miss the bizarre French-English franglais mixture we all speak without even realizing it. I miss hanging out with these people I love.

The other things I miss about France were brought sharply to mind and heart during the week before Christmas, when I was in North Africa for a work trip and had access to some of those tantalizing tidbits of France which are so readily available in its former colonies. The first night there, we had a working dinner at a colleague's house, and someone picked up bread and pastries from chez Paul. Yes, the best chain bakery in France has a franchise in North Africa, and my soul was singing with the first bite of baguette de tradition--not to be confused with the pathetic "baguette traditionale" sold at Lunds in the Cities ("traditionale"?! not a word in English, not a word in French)! The chocolate macaroons were nice, too. Later, I turned on the TV in my hotel room, and my heart was made glad again: not only were the stars of NCIS and Les Experts--Miami, New York ou autre--speaking French once again, just as God intended them to*, but the French commercials were also tugging at my heartstrings! I got misty-eyed when I saw the Christmas station-identifier ad for TF1 and was inordinately pleased to watch the holiday commercial in the Bouygues ad series "Le répertoire de Mathieu".

So maybe if I feel like I haven't been missing France, it's just a case of out of sight, out of (the forefront of my) mind. But six months out of France, it's definitely not out of my heart.


*One very disconcerting part of my return to the U.S. has been trying to get used to the American (aka "real") voices on some of my favorite shows, like NCIS and the various CSIs. I started watching these shows when I lived in France, and I've found that I have a very different perception of (and less liking for) several of the characters, because of the accents they have when they speak English. For example, several of the characters on CSI: Manhattan have a strong Brooklyn accent, which automatically (to me, at least) signals "swaggering blue-collar tough guy", an image that I did not have of that character in French. Very weird.

TIMM: My Sunday Morning Commute

TIMM = Things I'll Miss the Most

We Parisians have a saying about the boring routine of our lives: "Métro, boulot, dodo" (subway, work, sleep). Like anywhere in the world, it's easy to get stuck in the rut of the daily grind and become immune to the amazing beauty of the city where we live.

It takes me 45 minutes to an hour to get to church by métro, and I admit that there are many Sundays when three hours (for the round trip plus the service) just seems like too much for church, so I stay home and sleep in and eat fresh croissants instead. But when I do manage to go, there's always one moment in my commute which makes it all seem worthwhile. Because when I come out of the métro at Alma-Marceau, this is what I see:


I never get tired of it, because every time I see it, I'm reminded how lucky I am: I see the Eiffel Tower on my way to church on Sunday morning. How cool is that?

The Mean French

One of the most common American stereotypes about French people seems to be that the French are mean and rude. Let me say upfront that I do not think that this is true. Like people anywhere, some people in France are nice and some are not, but generally, I find people here to be pleasant and gracious, and I am at times overwhelmed by the kindness extended to me.

So where does the stereotype of "The Mean French" come from? I think part of it stems from very specific French-American cultural differences that I'll talk about some other time. Part of it stems from the fact that most Americans' principal experience of France is in Paris, where they encounter typical big-city brusqueness--New Yorkers don't exactly have the reputation of being the nicest people in the U.S., do they? And part of it stems from the fact that there is often at least a little, tiny grain of truth behind most stereotypes.

A few years ago, my friend Isabelle and I were comparing notes on the book Almost French, by Australian ex-pat Sarah Turnbull. I liked the book, but Isabelle did not. She thought the author was too whiny: "It seemed like she spent most of her time crying in the bathroom because someone said something mean to her at a party!" I blinked. I paused. Then, with the trepidation of someone revealing top-secret, classified, intercultural information, I said, "Isabelle, I think every American woman I know here has at least one story about how she broke down and cried because of something a French person said or did to her. Often at a party, where she had to go to the bathroom to hide." Stunned, Isabelle exclaimed, "Why?! What do we do to you?"

Well, that's kind of hard to explain. All I can say is that some French people can sometimes be critical in a way which many Americans find hard to deal with.


NOTE: The following story is purely anecdotal and should not be used to make sweeping generalizations about an entire country and its people. Even if that's kind of how I'm using it.

Two summers ago, I took a beginning ballroom dance class in Paris. It was a one-week intensive course, with an optional second week, and I signed up for both weeks. Now, I know that I'm never going to be the most graceful girl at the gala. I have many talents and strengths; physical coordination is not chief among them. However, I do not think that I totally, completely sucked at ballroom dancing (I remain open to the possibility that I am wrong about this). The first week of the class was fun. There were about 50 people, which meant that the room was very crowded, and the instructor couldn't do much besides show us the basic steps and then circulate among us to give the occasional comment. On the last day of the first week, we danced with one partner for the whole session, and I was fortunate enough to be paired with a man who had taken lessons before and was quite a good dancer. With him as my partner, I left the class feeling that I might have a bit of Ginger Rogers in me, after all.

Then the second week happened. The class was down to about 20 students, which meant that the instructor could give us more individualized attention. On the second or third day, I got his special attention, and not in a good way. When I was dancing with him, he started telling me that I was doing the turns wrong, and that if he weren't such a magnificent dancer, able to strong-arm us back in the right direction, that we would be dancing astray. I didn't really understand what I was doing wrong, and being criticized in front of everyone did nothing to improve my box step. We were changing partners every few minutes, and when I danced with one of his assistants, she told me that she understood what he meant, and she very sweetly started to show me what I needed to correct. But then we had to rotate again. When I had worked my way back to the instructor, he apparently decided that his Nice Guy act was over. He told me that he would just let us go wherever my terrible turning would lead us: straight into the wall. At least, that's what he said he was doing (and perhaps he was right; he was the expert dancer, after all). But what it felt like he was doing was physically throwing me against the dance barre along the wall, which, by the way, kind of hurt! So I got more and more upset and danced more and more badly. Finally, the Dance Lesson from Hell ended, and I went home to regroup.

I was determined to learn the basics of ballroom dancing, so the next night I bravely returned to the scene of my trauma. Fortunately, the instructor turned his evil eye on someone else: a poor guy whom I knew to be a slightly clumsy, but not horrible, dancer. The instructor berated the guy's every move, and he was getting visibly flustered and making more and more mistakes. By the time That Night's Victim rotated to dance with me, he was such a nervous wreck that the two of us kept getting hopelessly out of step and having to stop completely. He'd stutter and apologize, and I would try to reassure him that it was no big deal and that we'd get it figured out. After the third or fourth try, he said, "I'm sorry, I just can't do this," and left. The instructor turned to me and asked what had happened. I shrugged and said, "He was just too upset. He said he couldn't do this tonight, so he left." The instructor was outraged: "How rude! How inexcusably rude, especially to his partner, who was messing up so badly!"

Excuse me? Up until that moment, all I had seen was a guy who was upset about being ripped apart by the instructor and subsequently lost courage. It hadn't even occurred to me that it might be my fault, that I was so horrible that he couldn't stand to dance with me and was forced to leave! Once planted, however, the idea rapidly took root and blossomed beautifully.

There was no bathroom handy, so I had to wait until I got home to cry. I skipped the last dance lesson and stayed home, trying to figure out why some French people are so mean.

Manif'

Coming back from the doctor's office a little while ago, I saw notices taped to all the métro exit doors: RDV MANIFESTATION 13H LYCEE ARAGO ("Rendez-vous Demonstration 1 p.m. Arago High School"). Inner groan.

I've been in a bit of a bubble recently--I haven't really watched or read the French news for several days, and since I'm only in the office one day a week, I don't get much "water cooler" news. So I had no idea if this demonstration was an isolated one or part of something larger. I just checked Le Monde, and it turns out that there's an education strike today, with something like one-third to one-half of school personnel on strike nationwide. Strikes (les grèves) are usually accompanied by a demonstration (une manifestation, or manif'), but there are often demonstrations about some cause or another, with no strike involved.

I live a few blocks from Place de la Nation, a big public square. It's a popular spot for demonstrations, so I've seen quite a few since I've lived here. They're mostly peaceful--more like a parade than anything else, but there is generally a large police presence, just in case things start getting out of control. I always find it disconcerting to have to walk past groups of police in full riot gear when I go out to buy a baguette, even if the police are just standing there chatting, leaning on their clear plastic bullet-proof shields. It's one of those things that didn't often happen to me in the U.S.

Another thing that didn't often happen in the U.S.: having my doctor hand me a glass slide with my cell sample on it, for me to mail into the lab myself. This is standard procedure with French gynecologists. Anyone else have their Pap smear in their purse right now?!

(Sorry, Scott. I should have warned you to bring your smelling salts to this blog.)

Never Quitting

First and foremost, please train yourselves always to click on (and add to!) the comments at the end of each post. This will be very important here at Native Observation.

Early commenters have suggested that they are going to quit their jobs in order to keep up with this new blog, assuming that that's how things are done in France. Mais non !

But it does remind me of A Story . . .

When I first moved here, back when I was Young and Innocent, before I had learned all The Ways of France, I had to negotiate my first French employment contract. The HR person--let's call her Glinda--at nGo where I was working (I'd already been working there for a few months before we negotiated the contract, but that's A Different Story) was very kind and patient, explaining all the things that were strange unto my American eyes. "Why doesn't the contract say how much vacation time I will have?" I asked. "Because," Glinda told me, "French Labor Law requires everyone to have five weeks of vacation, unless the Collective Agreement for our sector provides for more. Anything in this contract that contradicted Labor Law or the Collective Agreement would be invalid, so there's no point in mentioning it." "But the contract doesn't say if I have health insurance!" I worried. "Stephanie, you're not in America anymore! Everyone who works in France is covered by French social security. Plus, of course nGo has private supplemental health insurance," the Good Witch told me. And on and on she went, assuring me that my every need would be taken care of by the Wonderful Wizard of URSSAF*.

Then we came to the contract clause which specified my place of work. The clause stated that I was assigned to work in Paris, but that nGo could transfer me on a short- or long-term basis to anywhere in the world, without invalidating the contract. Glinda seemed to think that this would be a sticking point, so she gently explained that while nGo did not foresee transferring me, it might need me to help set up foreign offices in the future, so nGo felt it was important to keep this clause in the contract. I shrugged and said, very matter-of-factly, "That's fine. I took this job because I wanted to live in Paris, so if you ever transferred me to a place I didn't want to live, I would just quit."

Glinda's eyes got huge, and she gasped, "Stephanie! You never quit a job in France, you always negotiate being fired!" I thought that was the funniest and most ridiculous thing I'd ever heard.

Six years, and two "negotiated departures" later, I begin to see her point.

So, gentle readers, please do not quit your jobs. If you need more time to devote to this (and other) worthy blog(s), please negotiate an alternative work schedule with your benevolent employers. Of course, those of you in America will probably just need to accept that you're going to be getting less sleep from now on.


*URSSAF is the French Social Security administration. One minor point that Glinda neglected to mention to me about life Over the Rainbow is that instead of a pay "stub", I would received a "bulletin de paie" that would be one to two pages long, to list all the deductions for social security and other benefits. But not income tax! Income tax in France is not withheld from your paycheck by your employer; you have to make quarterly or monthly income tax payments directly to the tax authority out of your take-home pay. So "net salary" in France means after social charges (about 25% of your gross salary) but before income tax (which may be from 0 to 15% or much more of your taxable income, depending on your salary level and tax deductions). Yes, French taxes can be high, but in my experience, it evens out: the French have many public benefits, paid for by taxes, which Americans have to pay for privately, out of their (higher) take-home income.