The Raccourci to becoming (à peu près) quintessentially French. . . . by Jane Tolbert

Antibes

Years and years of working on the French “Rrrrr” has been to no avail. I am always pegged as an American. Whenever I am in France—Paris, in particular--my American accent surfaces, obtrusive and grating. Language tapes then DVDs and patient friends have all tried. During my early travels, I hesitated to ask directions of passersby. Gendarmes made me repeat my address -- Rue St. Honoré. “Roo?” they questioned with a smile. It could have been worse for an “R-challenged” Francophile. I could have lived near the métro Barbès-Rochechouart.

When I moved to the South of France (and fortunately to the Chemin des Ames du Purgatoire in Antibes) , two things occurred. First, I found myself in an area with an infiltration of Italians and international residents that created a nice mixture of accents. The Rrrrrs no longer took on importance. Next, the languid lifestyle and relaxed conversation got me interested in popular culture. But it took years of café sitting for me to discover an effective way of becoming French (or at least, French à la provençale).


Juan-les-Pins

Developing a proficiency at pétanque would certainly be more productive that additional years working on the Rrrrr.

Pétanque, which takes place in most town squares or on dirt parking lots, seems to be a passion in Provence that affects all ages, both males and females. Just in Juan-les-Pins alone, several pétanque groups met around the Pinède and in the Square Frank Jay Gould, overlooking the Mediterranean. But other sites also existed (such as along the Place Villmorin). In Antibes, groups of pétanque players have gathered for years near the Plage de la Salis at the end of the Boulevard Albert Ier.

Juan-les-Pins

Teams of players take turns tossing a metal ball (that weighs approximately 1 pound 10 ounces) as close as possible to a small wooden ball, the cochonnet (piglet). With feet planted and knees slightly bent, the players focus, concentrate then, with their palms turned down, lob the ball.

Now that I have had this epiphany, the next issue becomes where to purchase a pétanque set in the States? And where with our paved drives and green lawns will I find a nice dirt terrain de jeu where I can practice without injuring passersby or pets? Ideally, it would be with proximity to a café . . . .


Chez moi

I made a quick call to Sports Authority to learn whether the store had pétanque sets in stock. “No, I haven’t heard of that really,” said the clerk. Amazon carries nearly everything and offers a beginner set that includes six or eight chrome balls for around $30 (plus a hefty shipping charge for the 13-pound package). Competition sets sell for much more.

Given that the pétanque set would not be forthcoming, I called ABC about the pastis. “Can you spell that for me?” The store keeper seemed skeptical but checked. He carries both Ricard and Pernod. Mais quel dommage! I do not like pastis, but at least it’s a start to introducing the “sport” of pétanque to Gainesville.

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?