Just Say "Non"

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I went to the covered market this morning, and like every Sunday, the Communist Party was out there campaigning, in this case, for the European Union elections next week.  Or maybe I should say against, since the prominent word on their posters was the word NON (i.e., “no”).  As in say “no” to the uncaring European Union, who doesn’t give a damn about the workers.  OK, I can see their point, but isn’t it just a wee bit negative to use the word “no” as a campaign slogan?  How can you tell people to go out and vote (this was indeed a “get out the vote” campaign) for an institution that you are simultaneously declaring isn’t worth a hill of beans?

European Union elections are historically ill attended.  Apathy or downright animosity keeps people away from the ballot box, as does the generalized fuzziness about what exactly one is voting for.  For if everyone regularly complains that the “bureaucrats in Brussels” make undemocratic decisions that filter down and muck up the life of the common man and woman, they also are allergic to electing the deputies who at least give a semblance of democratic process.

But in France, this seeming contradiction bothers no one, since complaining is an age-old tradition and saying non is often the only honorable way to respond to a question.  For example, let’s say you ask a store clerk if they have bananas.  They will not equivocate like an American shopkeeper, who might say with a sad smile, “oh no, I’m sorry we don’t but we should have some tomorrow,” or  “gee, I just sold the last one, and boy were they tasty” (both comments geared to getting you come back another day).  No, they will look you squarely in the eye and say: non, or even more emphatically:  pas du tout (not at all).   Because in France, equivocating and unnecessary smiling are considered signs of weakness.  That shopkeeper may have lost a sale, but she has saved her honor, and what’s more, she has defended La Gloire, that is, the glory of France.

The general rule here is when in doubt, say no.  It may be clothed in other words, however, like “maybe.”  It took me years to figure out that when my sister-in-law responded to a question with pourquoi pas? (“why not?”) she in fact meant “no, anything but that.”  Being direct is also frowned upon (unless you are a shopkeeper or the Communist Party), so “maybe” or “why not” sometimes have to do the job of “no.”  If all this sounds complicated, it is, at least for a foreigner.   

Fortunately for me, the elections aren't an issue, since I don’t have the right to vote.  Because after 14 years country I still don’t have the nerve to face the red tape involved in getting dual citizenship. And perhaps this is where I must admit I’m turning a little bit French: when I think of going to the Préfecture and facing that bureaucratic madness, my instinctive response is: non, non, and pas du tout.

April Showers

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After an interminable winter, people are wandering outside this week to get a taste of sunshine, an element that now feels as priceless as caviar.  Like goldfish bobbing to the surface of their aquarium to gobble down food, we turn our heads up and gulp down the few rays of sunlight that pierce through the clouds. 

This was one of those record-breaking winters, not just in terms of quantity of snow and cold, but length.  No one has ever seen anything like it, not the vegetable guy at the market, not the old lady downstairs, not even the weather service. It’s been so cold that it is mid-April and most of the trees still have no leaves.  Plants whose buds usually start to open in late February are only daring to flower now.  Who knows what kind of havoc this is going to wreak on food prices in the coming months, not to mention hay fever season.

Not only has the cold and grey had a serious impact on health and happiness on an individual level, but it seems to have also eaten a hole in the country’s psychic ozone layer.  The number of scandals and predictions of doom has skyrocketed in the French media, which is not known for its sunny outlook even under the best circumstances.  First there was the dreadful revelation that the budget minister, Jérôme Cahuzac, the guy in charge of cracking down on tax evasion—has been hiding money in a Swiss bank account and not paying his taxes.  Apparently, he has been sleeping in his car to avoid the press.  It is still unclear which is his worst sin:  hiding the money or admitting that he lied about it.  An elected official being linked to financial scandal is not an unusual occurrence in France, in fact it is so common that no one seems to think it’s a problem for a president to be under suspicion of fraud, or for a jailed politician to be elected again once he gets out of the clink.  But what is unforgivable in this case is that the guy not only lied, but then he admitted that he lied.  That is simply not done.  What usually happens is that an official investigation drags on for so many years that by the time it goes to court, everyone has forgotten what the original fuss was about.  What was he thinking?  Must have been the weather that got to him.

But if that wasn’t bad enough, today's revelation is that the Grand Rabbi of France is not only a plagiarist, but also he lied about his academic credentials.    I can only imagine the Talmudic discussions that are going to come out of that one.  If you can’t trust the Grand Rabbi, who can you trust?  Really, what I’d like to know is who is this guy in the first place and why is he so grand?  What makes him any grander than any other rabbi?  Why is this night different from any other night?  If not now, when?  All I can say is—feh. 

You’ve probably noticed that I’m casually sauntering away from any discussion of the overall atmosphere of gloom and dismay that has settled over the current president, François Hollande, and his cabinet.  (On top of everything else, the president's camel got eaten in Mali).  I don’t feel qualified to even begin to sort that one out.  Though he seems pretty OK to me, I hesitate to say that out loud or I could get punched out in my conservative suburb where half the population turned out for a march against the legalization of gay marriage.  Don’t get me started…

Instead I think I’ll just sit on my balcony and soak up those rays and think about what plants I’m going to pot this weekend.  That is, if it doesn’t rain.

The Ties That Bind

Imagine the scene:  A televised presidential debate between six male and female candidates from the same party.  But here’s the hitch—two of the candidates lived together for 25 years and had four children!  Sounds like a doofy plot for a situation comedy, right?  Well, no, that actually happened last night on French TV (read this article in The Guardian for more).  

How do they do it?  How do François Hollande and Ségolène Royale manage to remain civil to each other during a presidential debate when their very public split up a few years ago is still in the minds of one and all?  And here I thought French politics couldn’t get any weirder after the president divorced his wife and married a pop star one year into his mandate.  Of course, this is all private stuff and nowhere near as pertinent to the country’s future as the current campaign financing scandals or the state of the French economy.  Still, you can’t help but wonder what is going through their minds during the taping…

FRANÇOIS:  Oh God, there she goes again, always getting on her high horse.  Reminds me of the time I left the roast out overnight.  You’d think I’d betrayed the Republic.  Ha, she’s one to talk about betrayals…whose that creep she’s with now, anyway? Damn, she looks good in that suit.  OK, focus now, gotta focus…

SÉGOLÈNE:  OK, keep a straight face…did he just say the word ”fidelity?”  My ass!  Hey, Fifi, it looks like we’ve gone off our diet—isn’t that collar just a little bit tight?  You never could keep away from the camembert.  Time to run back to Dr. Dukan, chubby….Woah there girl, breathe—just breathe and flash that devastating smile….

And then there’s the kids—

THOMAS:  So are you going to watch mom and dad debate tonight?

CLÉMENCE:  Hell no, I had to listen to that all my life.

It boggles the imagination…

Speaking Frankly

I like to listen to the radio station France Inter as I attempt to wake up in the morning, and this morning there were two items that actually got me to stop and think (no small feat for me before 10am). The first was a short segment on a new tendency amongst politicians to “parler cash.” I had to ask my husband (who is French), what that could possibly mean. Were they speaking about money? No, apparently this is the new slang for straight talk, plain speaking. This tendency will be welcomed with open arms by most ex-pat North Americans, who for years have had to cope with the French way of verbally attacking even the simplest of matters, that is, sideways. Though I love the French language and am in a state of continual awe at how French people use it with such elegance and style, their abhorrence of just saying what’s on their mind can really complicate your life. Direct speaking is generally frowned upon here, and those who choose that path are considered borderline barbarians. For example, in the early years of my marriage, when I would foolishly ask for the butter dish by saying: “pass me the butter dish,” my usually kind and mellow husband would go ballistic because I had not used the conditional tense.

So I was fascinated to hear that politicians like president Nicolas Sarkozy and Ségolène Royal would go so far as to “parler cash.” As the commentator pointed out, French politicians traditionally speak in a language so florid that even French people have a hard time figuring out what they are talking about, using unbearable tenses like the imperfect of the subjunctive. But he then went on to make the case that in fact, “parler cash” wasn’t as great as all that. That there was something vaguely sinister about it, and that while these politicians were daring to tell reporters how they felt about an issue, they were using this new way of talking to avoid saying what they might actually do about an issue. As if this new trend, which admittedly has an American tang, goes so against the cultural grain that it could only be a political subterfuge meant to confuse your average citoyen.

The other item was a hilarious riff by France Inter’s resident humorist Stéphane Guillon (photo above). At least, I thought it was pretty funny, I can’t imagine what a devout Catholic would think of it. Guillon, to put it mildly, took the Pope to task. In case you are not aware, Pope Benedict has been on a tear lately, not only re-instating four excommunicated bishops (including one that denies that the Holocaust happened), not only excommunicating a mother who obtained an abortion for her 9-year-old daughter who had been raped, but also declaring during his visit to Africa, a continent ravaged by AIDS, that condoms were not beneficial and even made the problem worse. I can’t recall all the highlights of Guillon’s rant, but neither he nor the radio station censored his detailed descriptions of condom use, nor his suggestion that the real problem was that the Pope, being chaste, was in need of sex ed, specifically on how a condom works, and even more specifically that the use of a certain type of vibrating ring is guaranteed to make lovers believe in the existence of God. Keep in mind that France Inter is basically government owned. Whatever prudishness French people may have about the use of the conditional, they are clearly way ahead of us when it comes to being direct and frank about sexual matters. Can anyone even begin to imagine NPR serving up a similar dish?

Rama Yade: the movie

It’s beginning to sound like a scenario for a screenplay: a brilliant young woman of African descent is chosen to become France’s first minister of human rights. Full of energy and enthusiasm, she does her job as best she can, in light of the fact that the president who hired her invites Muammar Gaddafi to set up a tent in the backyard of the Elysée Palace, and refuses to meet with the Dali Lama before the Olympics take place in China. Her immediate superior, Bernard Kouchner, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, seems like the ideal boss, being the co-founder of Doctors Without Borders and widely recognized as a leader in humanitarian causes.

But after she speaks out against the Gaddafi visit (see my previous post, Rama Yade Rocks), she is sternly rebuked by the president. She does what she can to assume a more neutral tone, and for a time fades into the background. Slowly, she begins to suspect that what seemed to be an idealistic gesture on the part of the government, is really a marketing ploy. She starts to see that her position was created not so much to promote human rights as to promote the notion that the government is pro-human rights. That her youth (she’s only 32) and beauty serve the president’s image-machine as much as her smarts. And that every time she actually speaks out in favor for human rights she catches more flack than accolades from her colleagues. The final blow comes when the president tries to send her off to Brussels to stand in the European legislative elections. She refuses, because she hopes to be a candidate for the French legislature in 2012. Going to Brussels, she says “would be like a forced marriage to Prince Albert.” The president throws a hissy fit, punishing her by denying her an expected promotion to secretary of state for European Affairs. Then comes the betrayal. The next day, on the 60th anniversary of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, Bernard Kouchner declares that he was wrong to ask for the creation of a ministry of human rights, and that the post serves no purpose.

The end of the film is still being written. Rama Yade, the leading character, is currently trying to fight back, saying that “there will always be those who want to renounce this important battle” and that the “fight (for human rights) is not over, the struggle continues.” As does her own.

Rama Yade Rocks

While Sarkozy was working full-time defending himself and trying to position himself as an open-minded leader who is leading Libya down the rose-strewn path to democracy, a real hero (or heroine) appeared in the person of Rama Yade, the under secretary of human rights and foreign affairs. She most certainly doesn’t fit into the usual government format. For one, she’s young, dynamic and doesn’t suffer fools gladly. While everyone was going purple with rage at the lurid spectacle of Qadaffii trying to go legit, she actually stood up and said what everyone was thinking. “Colonel Qadaffi must understand that our country is not a doormat on which a leader, terrorist or not, can come and wipe off the blood of his crimes. France must not receive this kiss of death.” Though she remained more or less mute during Sarkozy’s other human rights indiscretions (his congratulatory call to Putin, his human rights-less visit to China), Yade certain made up for lost time, and this week has found herself on the cover of Le Point. Read Eloi Laurent’s guest post on Harvard professor Arthur Goldhammer’s blog, a fascinating article about this unusual politician (by the way, Goldhammer’s blog is a great place to go when you get lost in the labyrinth that is French politics).

First Qadaffi, Now Carla

One thing you have to give President Sarkozy—he isn’t boring. After the five-day-long Qadaffi circus, complete with Bedouin tent, this week we are being treated to his very public affair with ex-model pop singer Carla Bruni. Yesterday they were photographed together (with their obvious consent) hand in hand at Euro Disney. What a romantic setting! Is this a ploy to get everyone’s attention off the fiasco that was Qadaffi’s official visit? The visit that saw the Minister of Foreign Affairs gleefully run off to Brussels to avoid having to have dinner with “The Guide”? Or maybe it was to get us to forget the unforgettable interview on France 2, where in a mish-mash of incoherent rambling, Qadaffi explained that he had no actual power and that all decisions in his country were made by the Libyan people? My favorite part was when The Guide announced he wanted to meet with French intellectuals. At the reluctant gathering, Qadaffi informed his listeners that Christ wasn’t actually crucified, it was a look-alike who was nailed to the Cross.

Face Time

I just did something I have no business doing: I got a facial. I haven’t had a facial since sometime in the last century, so it’s not like I indulge frequently in this sort of thing. Still, it feels so naughty. Facials are so unjustifiably expensive. How can anyone justify paying that kind of money to get goo slathered on their face? Then again, it was a special deal wherein you buy 50 euros worth of products and get a free facial. Of course, if you buy beauty products in a salon, 50 euros isn’t going to get you far. As it turns out, I ended up paying 74 euros for a little bottle that is supposed to change my life.

Financial issues aside, if you are going to have a facial, France is the place to have it. This is a place where the female form is a semi-sacred topic, and every tiny village seems to be endowed with an institute de beauté. Also, they do it really well. Every beautician seems to know everything there is to know about every pore of your skin. The act itself is particularly seductive: low lights, massage, soothing unguents, and reassuring words lull you into an absurd dream state where 74 euros seems like a normal price for a pot of face cream. “Why haven’t I done this sooner?” you wonder, “I can actually feel my skin rejuvenating!” The beautician speaks with such assurance, and you feel so soupy, that it’s hard to even think of bringing up minor issues such as whether a “lifting” cream actually does anything, or that you read in a consumer magazine that it doesn’t.

Perhaps what you are really paying for is the experience itself. Having someone fuss over you for an hour. You wonder what life must be like for people who can actually afford to do this on a regular basis. And for a few glorious minutes, you are one of those people. Suddenly, you are no longer Wanda the Working Stiff, but Rachelle the Ravishing Socialite. That is, until you get home and notice that the pink eye shadow that the beautician told you would bring out brown in your eyes actually makes you look like the Easter Bunny. That’s when you realize that you could have bought a set of dishes for the same money, and enjoyed it for a lot longer.