In my travels to France over the years, I have seen a lot of change. American expressions have entered the vocabulary, and more American products are available—not only diet soft drinks, but Skippy peanut butter and Doritos. McDonald’s and fast foods are firmly entrenched, but the French waistlines also have expanded.
Driving no longer presents the white-knuckle experience. Many right of ways have been replaced by stop signs or traffic circles. Drivers seem more courteous, but the motorcycles and scooters swerve and weave like stuntmen from an action film. Among the worst offenders are the delivery boys for Mister Pizza. Both tiny cars and SUVs are more numerous. The dearth of parking spaces continues to force drivers to use ruse and stealth to snare a space.
Even with the emphasis on environmental protection and climate change, large development projects continue to spring up along the Mediterranean coastline, all but blocking the view, much like the condos on Florida’s beaches. Fields once filled with roses and jasmine for the perfume industries of Grasse have given way to villas and swimming pools. The inland region, with its rolling hills and olive trees, looks a lot like California.
In the post-war years, the French phone system seemed antiquated if it existed at all. But today, the telecommunications systems exceed my wildest dreams. For 30 euros a month, subscribers have a high-speed Internet connection, an excellent phone system with unlimited, free calls in France and to many foreign countries, as well as cable TV service. Healthcare is enviable. The “subscription” is based on an individual’s income rather than the flat rate charged by private health companies in the States.
More stores are open during the lunch hour. However, aside from a few cafés and North African groceries, little is open on Sunday afternoon, a time when I often ran my last-minute errands in Florida. A few rare service stations have mini-markets that carry wine, coffee, sandwiches, toilet paper and cat litter. The things that just can’t wait until Monday.
The post office and banks have maintained the traditional French schedule—mysterious operating hours, the two-hour lunch break and numerous holidays. Strikes, especially among railroad employees and university professors, continue to be prevalent. Shopping carts still do not roll in a straight line, and checkout counters in large supermarkets have the client elbowing their way through lines or diving to bag merchandise at it flies by on conveyor belts.
Singles are still welcomed by groups of friends, a much healthier social scene than the couples-only syndrome in the States. In the post-disco years, more Latin dance places have opened. And Argentine Tango is very popular. Its Tangueros look for any opportunity to dance at a variety of places—from Jack’s Blues jazz club to seaside parks.
In other ways France still maintains its uniqueness. Is it the fresh slivers of parmesan on my salad at the Café de la Plage? The hint of ground pepper in the vanilla ice cream from Fenocchio Glacier ? The tall, thin fluted glasses in which my peach kir is served at the Bamba? The way in which women dress up even for menial chores, and the interest the men show? The rows of fresh pastries that line the glass display cases? The sidewalk café terraces with dogs? The advertising with its humorous, sexual allusions?
I don’t know the answer. But fortunately in this world of change, France still retains an intangible quality of . . . Frenchness.
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