La politesse oblige by Jane Tolbert

The notes with clip art posted on the communal bulletin board (under lock and key) at the Juan-les-Pins apartment were anything but polite! Dogs are tolerated as long as they do not bark, etc. But parking vehicles along the drives is prohibited. No acknowledgment was made of the flooded underground parking lots. I was appalled by the lack of civility. Quelle audace! Didn’t these members of the governing board (le syndic) realize that France had changed in the last 20 years?! POINT D’ INTERROGATION et D’EXCLAMATION. The French now days are very polite and openly helpful. The syndic’s discourteous was outdated. My first reaction was to scribble something in lipstick on the locked, glass case. But that would have appeared . . rude.

In the post-war years, France gained a terrible reputation—at least among the non-Francophone travelers—for its discourteous behavior. Rumors even circulated about a pervasive grumpy attitude at Euro Disney and major hotels catering to foreigners. Those things have changed. In an earlier post, I wrote about the new bureaucratic mindset (le nouveau esprit fonctionnaire). Although I didn’t know the reason for change, I did notice the unwavering courteous behavior of the clerks and case workers in the immigration section of the Prefecture, and the absence of pushing and shoving in lines at the post office. But I also noticed something else—posted warnings of the fines and risk of imprisonment that could occur if clients harassed these government workers. Overall, pets and people seemed quite considerate of others.



With the rudeness rampant on television (such as the sitcoms about dysfunctional families and judges of today’s dance or singing competitions) and in classrooms, you could assume that civility and politeness were things of the past. But France has made a national attempt to bring back la politesse. The more pleasant daily interactions with all levels of officials may have stemmed from educational and information campaigns that stressed the need to show respect for others. Civic duty is now part of the academic curriculum in public schools. Campaigns also have been led by hospitals to request that patients be less abusive of staff, in public transit as well as at sporting events. Primary school children have always been taught the magic words (les mots magiques)--please, thank you and you are welcome. Now, reminders have been issued to adults (les grandes personnes) as well.

Tradition attributes the development of a society of civility and courtesy to the model provided by the Royal Court. Letters exchanged by 17th-century correspondents are replete with expressions of civility and courtesy. “Excuse me for inconveniencing you. . . . I assure you that I was infinitely pleased to learn of the favorable reception you received. . . . . I congratulate you with all my heart.” In fact, much ink is expended. This style of courteous writing must have required a tremendous display of fortitude by both writer and reader. Not only was the main body of text prefaced by these expressions but the letter also concluded with similar expressions.

And anyone who has studied French in high school or college remembers those lengthy archaic hangovers used in formal correspondence. Veuillez-agréer, Monsieur ou Madame, l’expression de mes sentiments distingués. Nous vous remercions. . . . J’ai l’honneur de vous informer. . . . Under the guise of politeness, these expressions implied a tone of slight disdain, maintained a distance between sender and recipient and often prefaced unpleasant news (e.g., you did not meet our credentials for hiring; your residency visa has expired). Although these expressions continue to be used, most correspondence today used a more personal and direct approach.

Numerous booklets published between the 17th and 20th centuries have provided instruction on civility and polite behavior—oral and written communication, tact and wit as well as the purity of language. The syndic could benefit from perusing some of these manuals of courtesy, all of which are available online at www.gallica.fr, the website of the Bibliothèque Nationale, or asking any French school child about the magic words. . . Please, thank you and you are welcome.

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It's All About Details by Jane Tolbert

In his Major Thompson lives in France, writer Pierre Danois identified defining characteristics of the French and English provided by a surgeon who operated on them both. While an Englishman contains “a waterproof. . . a cup of tea. . . the Calais-Mediterranean time-table. . . a cricket ball, some fog,” a Frenchman “eats bread, knows no geography and wears the Legion of Honor in his buttonhole [and is an] . . . abyss of contradictions.” (pp. 16-17).

Mais oui! Danois pointed to that confusion that greets the first-time visitor to France. The French may criticize their government but expect the government to provide excellent health care, retirement and education. They may not attend church, but they want to retain their religious holidays. For an American, especially during a recession, a government healthcare system and a basically free education (through the university) sound like a terrestrial paradise. But the French insist, “Non, ça va très mal en France.” And when all else fails to convince the visitor, the older French would refer to the ailments of the liver--le mal au foie.

European neighbors assume the French have it too easy. The 35-hour work week, five weeks of paid vacation and strikes in public schools and universities, and mass transit give the impression that no one works. That the country is unproductive.

Economist and writer Michel Volle defines the French not by the headlines and superficial impressions but by what he terms the “animateurs” or the “vértèbras” who work tirelessly behind the scenes, receive little recognition . . . but assure that organizations and the country continue to “function.” (See his article, “Le coeur secret de la France,” 24 Oct 2006, http://www.volle.com/opinion/coeurimp.htm).

France can be different things for different people—a country of monuments, works of art and a long history; a people of contradictions; or country that consists of behind-the-scenes workers.



Most likely, all of us remember a foreign country by the details, les petits soupçons, or hints. For me, the South of France is a kaleidoscope of impressions and memories. Turkish coffee with friends at La Boutique (Opio). The ribald humor of the workers at the PMU. The intense buzz of those scooters that swarm around motorists or pedestrians. The citrus and palms that seem to grow everywhere. Flowers in every nook and corner. A wonderful chef salad with chicken and slivers of parmesan at the Café de la Plage. The shop window at the boutique Cité des Anges that changes daily. The long wait at the national employment agency or the prefecture. The paperwork and official documents still required by many government agencies.




France has changed since Danois wrote his book. If we were to operate on a French person today, we would probably find L’Equipe, the sports newspaper, crumbs from a baguette of bread, an espresso and some wine, a combination of gourmet, McDo hamburgers and pizza as well as the more familiar “tu” instead of the formal “vous” and probably a collection of unused conjugaisons in subjunctive and passé simple.

Now, what would an American contain?