Patriotism.

The night before we left, everyone got together for a final group dinner. Before long, as always happens at such functions, conversation wound around to our thoughts about leaving France. Some of us avions hâte (“had haste”) to return to the States; others were more saddened that it had come to an end. At one point, someone asked, “What will you miss most about France?” Although I said nothing at the time, my answer was definitely “the people”. As I have said before, I believe that learning a foreign language is all about learning to listen—decoding others’ ways of speaking, if you will. This trip only confirmed my beliefs, as I listened to some incredibly interesting people during my time in the country. Their stories amaze me and made me grateful for the professors over the years that have taught me how to listen to French.

One such story came from Madame D, whom we met at the Museum of Resistance and Deportation. Mme D was not even a teenager when World War II broke out, but she became a Resistance fighter in Lyon. She was raised speaking both French and German because her father believed that World War I wasn’t over, and if the Germans came back, he wanted his family to be prepared. Whenever they complained that other families didn’t have to learn other languages, he replied, “Il faut parler la langue de l’ennemi” (“It’s imperative to speak the language of the enemy”). But it wasn’t just at home that she learned how to fight the Germans: at school she was taught that France was the most beautiful, most intelligent, most strategic country on the planet. If she and her classmates stayed in school and then used their knowledge as employees of the State, they would make France a formidable opponent for Germany.

With such patriotic and idealistic talk swirling constantly around her head, it’s no surprise that Mme D began believing it. When Hitler and Pétain signed the armistice on 22 June 1940, 12-year-old Mme D (at that time, Mademoiselle D) was already looking for a way to fight the Germans. She didn’t have to look long before she was given a task: Libération-Sud, a Resistance group in Lyon, gave her clandestine newspapers to distribute every evening. Each morning, Mlle D went to school like every other 12-year-old girl in her country, innocent as a butterfly. When school let out, she rode her bike to the secret headquarters of Libération-Sud to collect an armfulof newspapers, which she distributed swiftly to other members of the Resistance group, a vital cog in the greater communication machine. This 12-year-old girl was willing to put herself in risk of death every afternoon because she loved her country and believed in its potential for victory.

We U.Va. students were floored as we listened to Mme D’s tales of bravery. She didn’t tell them in a proud way; she didn’t even seem emotionally affected by the words coming out of her mouth. I found myself wondering, Would I have been willing to do what she did? Would my students be willing to go to such great lengths for freedom and country? Is this woman extraordinary for answering the call of duty, or would most of us do the same in her shoes? I have to admit, I don’t really know the answers to any of those questions. But I do know that people her age often have much more patriotism, regardless their native land, than those my age and younger. Why is that? Have we become spoiled in our less war-torn era? Are we only willing to do that which increases our own social or economic statuses? Have we simply become too angry about the decline of the global economy? Is the crevasse between the political parties eroding our love of country? Why don’t we put our hands over our hearts when we hear the anthem? Why do we only think about our country during national elections, heated political discussions, or while watching Harrison Ford action thrillers?

Not that the situation in France is any better. On Bastille Day, as I was enjoying a fireworks show at one of the grad students’ apartments, someone asked my theatre professor whether she was feeling especially patriotic. She said, “Absolutely not. Today everyone gets drunk, lights fireworks, and sings ‘La Marseillaise’ [the French national anthem]. That’s all. And that’s such a violent, xenophobic song. None of these things inspire patriotism in me. Besides, the fireworks aren’t even good tonight.” N, one of the grad students, said that he had heard several other French people answer his question similarly. Somewhere between the Mme D generation and the Professor B generation (the two women are about 40 years different in age), the patriotism evaporated.

Of course, the fierce nationalism that brought on World War II is to be avoided at all costs. No country is inherently better or more valuable than another, and that’s important to remember lest we start feeling too sure of ourselves. And a more peaceful world is certainly a goal worth working toward. However, what country can withstand national trials and hardships without a basic love of homeland? Can we survive without patriotism?

Stupid Boys.

Nope, I’m not going to rail on the male species. I rather like them, especially my husband and dad. Believe it or not, what follows is a story of Franco-American relations in an Anglophone pub where E and I went to watch the U.S.-Ghana quarterfinals. After the Internet troubles we’d had earlier in the day, we really just wanted to sit somewhere fun and watch the game. Since we were going to be cheering (in English) for an English-speaking country, we felt it only fitting to choose an English-speaking pub. We made our way out to Vieux-Lyon, the old part of the city, and ambled into an Irish pub called the James Joyce. We’d heard it had a good atmosphere, and besides, on an English-language schedule of the day’s games, it said, “Welcome, Americans!” underneath the U.S.A.-Ghana game info. Perfect choice.

Unfortunately, within moments of choosing a table, we rued the decision. An already-inebriated Frenchman dressed in a bright blue polo and a plaid kilt turned from the bar and started speaking some very loud French in our direction. Nothing offensive, just the noisy, opinionated ramblings of a late-afternoon drunk. “My father, he was Scottish, and my uncle, he was French. But I, I learned how to dance the Riverdance!” Frenchman bellowed. Regrettably, he felt the need to demonstrate his paltry talent. E and I tried our best to ignore him and just keep up our conversation, but he did not take kindly to that. Before long, she and I were practically yelling at one another over the ruckus he was creating. Finally, we simultaneously made unsmiling eye contact with Frenchman, hoping he’d see the general lack of mirth he was causing.

Moments later, he silenced. But it wasn’t because of our scathing nonverbal message; it was because two more men entered the pub, an American and a Brit—looking rather stereotypical, I might add. American was in cargo shorts and a T-shirt and spoke with a Texan accent. He ordered himself a glass of dark ale and settled heavily on a barstool. Brit, in his pressed khakis, followed suit (no pun intended). Frenchman watched all of this with a sparkle in his eye. He hurried back over to his barstool and eavesdropped on the two men for a few minutes, trying, I suspect, to pick up a nugget to start yelling about again.

American and Brit wondered aloud why the word “football” is used to denote both “soccer” and “American football.” American said, “We mostly throw the ball in football. In soccer, you actually kick the thing around, so it would make more sense to call soccer ‘football.’” Brit agreed, of course. He said he was accustomed to using the term “football” for “soccer.” American continued, “I prefer the game of football, though.”

That was all Frenchman needed to hear. He turned around and boomed, “Stupid boys! American football is stupid boys!” He reverted to his slurred, loud French for the rest of the insult. “You throw the ball, you make the scores, you throw the ball, you make the scores. So easy! This is something any person can do! In soccer, you never stop running, kicking.” He held his index fingers and thumbs in the shape of two tiny circles. “This is what stupid American football boys looks like,” he said in thickly accented English. “Little, little.”

As any football fan knows, it is never safe to trash talk another fan’s team. But to trash talk the entire sport? That, citizens, is anathema. Predictably, American seethed. “Oh yeah?” he replied in English. “Where’s your ‘football’ team, huh?” he asked, air quoting the word. “They’re at home, watching the game on their TVs because they lost. Because they’re no good. My team is still in the running, even though it’s soccer. So who looks stupid now?” He looked at Brit, and both rolled their eyes.

But Frenchman wasn’t done. Although he seemed not to have understood much of what American said, he was busy decrying football again. This went on—literally repetitions of the above conversation—for ten minutes. It was frustrating to watch: two adults who couldn’t even understand each other arguing about games. It was as if one had insulted the other’s family; they were fighting with that much vehemence. Stupid boys.

And then it hit me: they had insulted each other’s families. For many of us Americans, football is a major part of our lives, whether we’re fans or not. The vast majority of us watch the Super Bowl (or the ads). From August to February, we see commercials for games regardless of the channel we watch. Our spouses, parents, children, friends, cousins, and siblings talk football. We remember the glory days in high school of marching band, cheerleading, or playing on the gridiron…or being the best friend or significant other of someone who did. Most of us claim allegiance to a college team. Pro football players are in the news, on magazine covers, and referred to by DJs. You have to admit that it’s a big part of our culture—and that much more for someone who is a fan, like American. Football is a part of his identity as much as being a husband or being an international traveler.

Of course, it’s the same for the French with their soccer.

So as the sports insults kept flying—to the point that Frenchman was eventually escorted out for public drunkenness—I started thinking about what (not so much “who”) started it. Clearly, Frenchman was looking for a battle from the beginning, but American did us no favors by insulting Les Bleus, the French soccer team. It reminded me of something another Frenchman said to me eight years ago. His name was Jean, and he was the father in one of our host families. I asked Jean what the most surprising thing was about American culture. He told me, “The movies. In French movies, we solve problems like difficult relationships. We see how families work and how couples work. At the center of every French movie is a relationship.” (By the way, he wasn’t exaggerating.) “In American movies, you’re usually saving the world. Yes, I can go see American romance movies if I want to, but usually you’re saving the world. And you don’t usually let people of other countries help you. Just a team of Americans saving the world.” Jean was right. Perhaps that’s why Frenchman was picking a fight: he’s tired of teams of Americans.

On the other hand, American is probably tired of being despised just because he’s from America. E told me that the other day she was in a bakery and the woman at the cash register, upon hearing E’s French, asked her where she was from. E told her America. “Oh, well, that’s not that bad,” the woman commiserated with a watery smile. No, it’s not! It’s not bad at all because no nationality is inherently bad or good…or even better.

I lack the words to conclude this post because I’m still thinking about it all.

Fête de la musique.

On travaille moins et on joue plus ! (We work less and we play more!)

That slogan was on ads citywide for Fête de la musique, the national French holiday for music. Fête means “party,” “festival,” or “celebration,” and it is the word used to denote public holidays. I like the sentiment: Fête de la musique translates to “music party/festival/celebration.” The French counterpart of Independence Day is Fête nationale, which would translate as “national party/festival/celebration.” In keeping with the idea of a party, red, white, and blue bulletins were printed out with the above slogan on the front and a schedule of all the registered concerts in and around Lyon on the inside. However, some concerts are little more than a duet or trio with a boom box, and those were not included on the list. Dancers also seem to gain rights to their land for the night by squatting, so you just have to amble around if you want to find them. Anyway, contrary to how it might sound, the French do go to work on Fête de la musique, and most of them work a full day. But at 5:00 p.m. sharp, the party begins. Actually, it began a little before that outside my window on Monday afternoon: by 4:00 p.m., my window and head were pounding a bass rhythm in time with the impromptu discothèque on Quai Claude Bernard.

It has long been known that the French are healthier than Americans—fewer heart attacks, strokes, alcohol-related deaths, and Type II diabetes diagnoses, to name a few. We already know that they walk/bike more, eat less sugar, and enjoy smaller portions of food. But surely there has to be another reason for their robust health. As we walked the streets of Lyon in pursuit of good music and the perfect crêpe au chocolat, I wondered whether Fête de la musique might be the secret to French health…or at least indicative of the mindset that contributes to French health. On 21 June each year, people gather for the simple pleasure of being together. They dance in the streets, sing along with the bands, and eat ice cream and crêpes. They chatter and laugh and walk around with cocktails. They take pictures and breathe deeply and hold hands. It’s the very picture of their expression joie de vivre (“joy of living”). Who can stay sufficiently stressed out to have a heart attack when they’re having such a great time?

The fact is this isn’t just the picture of Fête de la musique. Have dinner at any restaurant in France, and you’ll see the same thing: people in groups, laughing and talking and enjoying each other’s company. Last night we had our “small group dinner” which means that eight of us students went out with one professor for the sole purpose of enjoying ourselves in the city with someone to make sure we spoke French the whole time. L, one of the grad students, asked Professor B why the tables were all set for upwards of four people. After all, in America, most tables are ready for two, three, or four. Professor B replied, “Because that’s how many people have to sit at them!” In France, she informed us, people don’t just go out for dinner. If you’re at a restaurant, it’s because you’re celebrating something—which you would always do with friends. You go to restaurants when friends come to see you, when someone graduates, when a couple gets engaged, when you get a promotion. You don’t go just because you made it to 5:00 at work without keeling over.

Speaking of work, I think the French attitude toward it might also explain the decreased incidence of health problems. While the Fête de la musique bulletins might have especially brought it to the forefront, “On travaille moins et on joue plus!” is the general sentiment in the French mind as it relates to work. Professor B explained that the word “career” is used much less frequently in France than in America: one has a “job,” not a “career.” Work is simply not as meaningful or beneficial for the French as it is for Americans; the French punch in their time card, give their boss the next seven hours of their day, and then go home to enjoy an evening with their families. Professor B said that French people “live for evenings, weekends, and holidays.” Those are the times when living happens. As a result, the French workweek is only 35 hours, and everyone gets six weeks of paid vacation a year. And even more than that in some companies. The “lunch hour” is actually two, so people generally walk home and eat lunch with their families. Work is a means to an end, not an end in itself. That has to help the health statistics.

While I embrace the French culture of joie de vivre, I do believe there should be a balance between responsibility and fun. It seems to me that Americans in general lack the willingness and perhaps the know-how to lead truly sociable lives. I suspect I am just such an American. On the other hand, there is a value in working to better one’s environment, whether in the arena of business, education, medicine, law, parenting, or other such fields. These might be missing some extra punch in France because of the longing for weekends and holidays. Perhaps the French economy could be stronger if there was more interest and ambition on the part of the workforce. Or I might be wrong about both nationalities. What do you think?

The Bread Man.

Last Sunday E and I woke up early (well, early for jet lagged Americans) to go to the open-air market just minutes by foot from our apartment. We wanted to absorb everything, taking stock of all the available goods, before committing to any one particular vendor’s wares. We noticed right away an especially delicious-looking display of small breakfast bread loaves in various flavors and promised each other we’d return. We kept our word: after purchasing conservative quantities of tomatoes, carrots, zucchini, cherries, and strawberries, we made our way back to the Bread Man. E asked for a pain aux fraises et au chocolat blanc (bread with strawberries and white chocolate), and I chose a pain aux pépites chocolats (bread with chocolate chips).

Upon hearing our French, the Bread Man brightened and asked, “Which nationality?” We replied that we were Americans, and he was delighted. “Americans, yes?” he clarified jovially. “So Lyon is cold for you!”

Wasn’t that the truth! The day E and I arrived in Lyon it was in the low fifties with rain, and the next morning was no warmer—less so, in fact. “Here some years we ski on our national holiday!” he enthused. “Can you ski on your national holiday?” he winked at us. We all laughed. “Impossible!” I said, while E too assured him there were no such opportunities in our native land. Skiing in July! If you’re not in very select locations or you don’t own a snow machine, you are likely unable to celebrate the Fourth of July with snowballs.

Quickly, as happens with many of his line of work, he turned to the quality of his craft. “You have bread like mine in American stores, no?” I replied that while we had bread—even bread meant specifically for breakfast and dessert—we definitely had nothing of the caliber he offered us, at least not in stores. He nodded knowingly. “Yes,” he agreed, “your bread is industrial. Me, I make all my own bread. All of this”—he waved a hand across the whole spread—“all made by my hands. In America, you make things much more quickly than I do, but then you lose the love of your food. I make everything with much care, yes, much care.”

And how true is that. I am not the sort of person who thinks everything in France is better and more interesting and more chic than everything in America or vice versa. Both countries should be appreciated and celebrated for their differences, particularly their strengths. Nonetheless, I think the Bread Man is right on target: we are so separated from our food in America that many of us either hate it, anesthetize ourselves with it, or struggle between the two. It’s a consumable like everything else, something to be mashed into our mouths while working, watching television, or driving hurriedly from one appointment to the next. We don’t love our food because we expect it to fill voids for us or because we are so disillusioned that it hasn’t. We tie it to what it does to us, for better or worse, rather than from its source.

The French are paradoxical as it relates to food. On the one hand, everything they eat is loaded in fat—butter, cream, grease, take your pick, and it’s probably there. Bread and butter are served in large quantities at each meal. Lunch and dinner are both accompanied by wine, and sometimes by a few wines. The French spend—quite literally—hours of their lives à table (at the table), lingering long after the last morsels and drops are gone. Our group had dinner at the high-class Brasserie du Nord on Sunday night. Our reservations were at 7:00 p.m., we were seated immediately, and yet we didn’t leave until after around 10:30. It took that long to eat our three-course meal. Each course was eaten slowly with much laughter and conversation interspersed between bites and courses. Both wine selection and food preparation are sciences at which native French people are expected to be proficient; serving at a restaurant, even a merely decent one, requires the highest levels of such knowledge. Servers, in fact, often have culinary degrees. Yet with such importance placed on food, the French remain one of the healthiest, slimmest, and most robust nationalities on the planet. How is this possible?

For one, the quantities are much smaller. I haven’t left a table hungry yet, but much less is served to me than I would expect at even a Steak ‘n’ Shake in the U.S. Also, the streets are teeming with walkers and bike-riders. Rush hour is nothing to be worried about because if a person lives within four miles or so of his/her office, she/he walks. Everyone is aware of how much they are eating because they eat so very slowly and deliberately. Meals are accompanied by things other than food to look forward to, such as the entertaining and fulfilling company of others.

Of course, not all of these elements of the French meal could be adopted in the U.S. We lead faster-paced lives, we frequently live a longer distance from our jobs, and we enjoy the peace and quiet of our fierce individualism (myself included). But what if we did slow down, eat a little less of the delicious foods we love, and invite friends over often to share a meal with us? What if we did prepare our food on a regular basis—and take pride in it as a craft that sustains life—rather than buying “industrial bread”? I wonder how our health and our entire society would change, with or without the gym.