I am often accused of writing about stereotypes. Sometimes I get really nasty letters from grumpy readers who call me things they can’t spell like bigoted and offensive. But the fact is that people from different parts of the world are DIFFERENT. However much of a stereotype you might think it is, the French do like their lunch and millions of Englishmen drink warm beer.
During my recent trip to Paris the difference between the two nations was polarised by two events. The thing about major cities is that there are lots of roads to cross. And in Paris there are lights denoting when it’s a good time to walk and when its not. A little green man is the signal that it’s safe to cross. (Actually, it’s not, it’s just a Parisian trick, the cars keep coming anyway.)
My step-daughter Julia is being raised and educated in England. She ignored the red man and whenever she saw an opportunity to cross the street, went for it. Bea on the other hand stood resolutely on the kerb, even if there wasn’t a car for miles around, and waited for the green man. When Julia tried to negotiate and suggest that a little flexibility might be a good idea she just said; “You’re not supposed to cross when it’s red. I’m right.” Of course as a mother I am keener on Bea’s road safety ethos than Julia’s, but you get my point. This attitude, instilled in the French from an early age, has resulted in 300,000 French people who like to take risks and cross roads without permission moving to England.
On the train back down south there was a fat middle-aged man sitting next to me (why is it never a thirty-something former male model turned professional tennis player?). As soon as the train began to move, said fatty fell asleep. Then a most extraordinary noise began. It even drowned out Bridget Jones’s Diary which the girls and I were watching. I have never heard a grizzly bear snore but I imagine it must sound something like this man did.
Being English-educated and therefore obsessively polite I, of course, did nothing apart from lean closer to my laptop in an effort to hear the film. A rather young and beautiful Frenchwoman sitting opposite me though decided after half an hour than enough was enough. She began by gently tapping his knee, then tapping it harder, then shouting “Monsieur” in his ear, then kicking his shinbone under the table. When none of this worked, she took my water bottle (without asking I might add) and started to spray water at him. Finally she resorted to pulling the hairs on his forearm with one hand while slapping his knee with the other. This did the trick. I sat there cringing throughout; half-willing her to succeed so I could hear what Mark Darcy was saying and half terrified of the consequences of her terribly rude actions.
I am now on a plane bound for London and an appearance on The Sunday Edition tomorrow to discuss yet another British obsession; class. The French definitely have the upper hand here; they just accept it and get on with it. And they’re not polite enough to pretend it doesn’t exist or that they’re appalled by it.
Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007
Helena
Came across a live chat you did while goggling french women dressing…
am enjoying this immensely! keep writing!
Thank you Leonie, keep reading!
I would have loved to have seen the episode – you have to admire her for her sheer determination; I remember you writing in the Telegraph (or Times?) about meeting a very nice man on a train – you were off to Paris to interview and write an article about the fact tha all frenchwomen were wonderful matching underwear and he sent some to you at your hotel?! Or was that just wishful thinking on my part? I enjoyed the story anyway.
Only once did I meet a nice man on a train, and I was so thrilled that I missed my stop and ended up in Brighton rather than Gatwick…..
Hi Jane
I did indeed meet a very nice man on a train…it was while I was researching Two Lipsticks and a Lover and he does feature in the book, as does the matching underwear, I think you must have read an extract. I hope you didn’t miss your flight!
My paternal grandmother, who lived and died in the same walk up flat in Edinburgh for pretty much all her life, would firmly tells us visiting grandchildren, “wait for the wee green man!”, when we North American traffic dodgers would bound into the street after spying the smallest of gaps in traffic. We were used to crossing Toronto’s busiest streets one lane at a time, eventually getting over all four to six lanes, with cars whizzing behind and in front, inches away, but politely staying in their lanes. We just thought Nanna was “old world”, and we were “new”, but now I have to reconsider.
Perhaps in street crossing habits, size matters. Where Leanne and I live now, in a smallish city (the size of Montpellier) but on Canada’s east coast, four lanes of traffic still stop completely to allow a single pedestrian to cross the road: not at the corner, not at our equivalent of a zebra crossing, but just at the spot they choose. This happened in Calgary when we visited there, too, another smallish metropolis. This is definitely not the way things were in the city of 3 million I grew up in, nor in our nation’s capital where Leanne grew up. Maybe size matters?
But, here, when the American cruise ships are in during the summer, the poor pedestrians don’t know what to make of it. They stop to take a picture, or to check their watch, or switch their cane to the other hand, or to count their funny looking money, and suddenly all traffic stops and drivers look intently at them, waiting for them to make their move. I think many probably then do cross the street when they don’t want to, just because all these nice people have stopped for them.
So, Julia would be very safe here. She would just have to stand for a moment and stare across the street intently, apparently causing by will power alone all vehicles to stop in both directions. It would be like parting the Red Sea, but she doesn’t have to raise her arms or anything. Bea, on the other hand, might ask you why everyone has stopped their cars and are staring. “Is it because you look so fabulous today, mommy?” Just tell her, “yes dear”, and cross.