How to Quit a French Job

David and I have this favorite movie called Haiku Tunnel.  It's kind of like an Indie Office Space.  In one scene, the primary character quits his job with a brief, six word letter to his boss:

Dear Bob,

I quit.

Sincerely, Josh

Of course, Haiku Tunnel is an American film.  Anyone employed in France would never have the luxury of such an easy exit.

You know how in the States, we're required to give two weeks' notice before leaving a job?  In France, it's three months.  Months!   This can be negotiated, of course, depending on how quickly one's employer can find a replacement.  For example, when David gave his notice in mid-October, he requested to be released on the 10th of December and his employer begrudgingly agreed. 

I, however, was not so lucky.  Or else I'm just a bad negotiator.  I'm required to finish the whole three months, which means that I have to come back to France after the holidays to work two more weeks.  I don't know what irritates me more - having to leave David behind while he starts his new job and our new life in Pittsburgh, or paying for another flight and making lodging arrangements in France for two weeks.  I guess it could always be worse - I could have to stay longer. 

Aside from haggling over the last day of work, one must follow formal procedures to quite a French job.  We each had to write official letters to our respective human resources departments (thank you, Google!), and have them posted by certified mail. 

Then, after our letters had been received, our employers sent back formal letters to inform us that they have received our resignations.  These were also sent with certified mail, which meant that the letters couldn't be dropped in our post box but had to be delivered with a signature of receipt.  And because we're at work when the postman drops by, we got in our box a little slip of paper that said "Come pick up your letters!" and I had to leave work early one day, rush to the post, queue for half an hour, and sign for them. 

We've since learned that quitting anything in France requires a formal letter.  None quite so serious as a resignation letter, but a proper Monsieur, Madame form nonetheless.  David has written letters to quit our apartment insurance, bank, cable, even the stupid gym. 

Earlier this week I walked to the town hall and asked permission to park a moving truck in front of our building.  Even though I was standing in front of the woman who needed only to open a file and press "PRINT", she requested a letter.  I grabbed a nearby piece of paper and a pen, scrawled a formal letter - block return address, Monsier, Madame, "sincerely", the whole nine yards - in bad French, too - and she accepted it with a smile. 

And this is how to get what you want in France:  no matter how illogical, just do the paperwork. 

World Cup, French Style

The World Cup is finally here, and while I can't claim to be a big football (soccer) fan, I love the World Cup for the same reasons why I love the Olympics: national pride, teasing colleagues around the world, and of course - television I can understand.

We support the US first, and England second, which is a bit awkward this year because they're both in the same group and are immediate adversaries. But as long as one of them makes it to the next round, we'll be happy.

I won't pretend to be a fan of the French team, for one because I hate gloating co-workers (I still haven't forgiven my French colleagues in the Auburn Hills office from the last World Cup when France made it to the final...thank goodness they lost, or else I might have resigned) and for two because they cheat.

And I mean "cheat" in two senses. In a World Cup qualifying match against Ireland, a French player tapped a ball in bounds with his hand, leading to a game-winning goal. Everyone saw it except for the referee, unfortunately.

And then a few months ago it was revealed that a handful of French players shared a minor prostitute. And you know, I'm trying not to be an uptight prude about this - because adultery is hardly shocking these days - but I am not giving these guys a break for keeping an under-aged anorexic who clearly has difficulty forming complete sentences (I know this. I've seen videos on YouTube).

Anyway, drama aside, the French had high hopes for their team. After all, they nearly won The Cup in 2006. Although I am reminded of the drama in that game as well - remember the Zidane head butt?

This year the conflict was off the field and within the team. During the France vs. Mexico match, one of the players slung a bunch of insults at their coach (who, by the way, is universally hated. He must live abroad or in disguise). The Football Federation promptly kicked the player out of the tournament, which of course the rest of the team didn't appreciate. So they did the only French thing to do - they went on strike.

Football players on strike! During the World Cup! This beats all. The players refused to practice before their match, and television cameras caught a heated argument between a trainer and the team captain. Quel drama!

So the players didn't practice, and the coach took his own revenge by changing five or six players out of the day's match. Needless to say, the French team lost. 1-2 against South Africa, whom I am told they have no business losing to.

I might not like the French football team, but I do like my French friends, so I couldn't help but feel a little gloomy for them when it was quite obvious with this loss that they were not going to proceed to the next round. Last night's news showed extensive coverage of the team trudging to their plane with their tails between their legs.

I'll feel bad for the French for a little while longer, at least until the US team advances to the next round. I promise I won't gloat.

Update: I wrote the above two or three weeks ago, don't know why I didn't post it, but there have been developments.

1. President Sarkozy delayed a meeting with French labor unions to give his full attention to this atrocity of a football team.

2. The wildly unpopular coach finally quit. Or he was ousted, I don't know.

3. The French football team's World Cup bonus was retracted and given to disaster relief victims in the south of France and children's soccer programs. Wow, well played, France.

The Winter Olympics - French Style

David and I honestly don't watch a lot of television, for the obvious reason that most of it is in French. So when the Olympics come around, it's a great way for us to enjoy different sports without having to understand what the commentators are saying.

I had a suspicion, though, so I called my mom last week to verify: which Olympics sports were they seeing on tv?

"Oh, bobsled. Figure skating, skiing. And short track, of course."

There is little doubt that each country shows the events where their favorite athletes are. Hence, the Americans follow Apollo Ohno, Bode Miller, and that new figure skating darling, I'd imagine. But aside from the favorites, I do remember watching a fair variety of winter sports during the Olympics when we lived in the States.

Here, we see biathlon. Lots and lots of biathlon.

If NBC hasn't been boring you with the same in the States, I remind you that the biathlon is the cross country skiing + rifle shooting event. Apparently the French are really good at it.

It was interesting for the first few days. Now we're asking each other daily if this event is ever going to end.

Since the French love skiing, we also see all of the skiing events. Cross country, nordic combined (we had to look that one up), downhill, super combined, and loads of ski jumping. I don't understand ski jumping, and I do wish it to be over with the biathlon.

We've seen about two minutes of short track. About 10 minutes of a few random hockey games. We saw one French guy doing six really boring speed skating laps by himself. The French and American curling teams scoring zero points against each other. A little bit of snowboarding (until the French were eliminated), a few minutes of figure skating, and forget bobsled, luge, or skeleton, the French have never heard of them and therefore they don't exist.

Even the Bread is Sexy

Oh my.

50 cm of pleasure!

La Poste Thinks I Should be a Man

I went to the La Poste webpage today to change our address. Which, of course, is free in the US, but in France this service costs 22 euros for 6 months. While I'm at it, I'll also take this opportunity to complain that domestic stamps for a country roughly the size of Texas are much more expensive than US stamps.

Anyway. I put in all of our old and new address information, then received this screen:

And what this translates to is:

The first name of the individual is considered a masculine name in the dictionary of first names. Are you certain that you would like to validate this individual without modification?

Which brought to mind the following:

1. They think the name "Chi" is masculine. What business do they have assigning a gender to an Asian name?
   
2. This in the country where names like "Valery" and "Vivian" belong to men
3. What do they care, anyway? If I said "Madame", that's my choice.
4. Maybe if they didn't invest in a "Dictionnaire des Prénoms", the La Poste could afford to lower stamp prices.
   

Ok, I sound bitter right now but I'm not. Bemused, maybe.

French Santa

In France, Santa Claus brings what every French person dreams of: cheese.
And wine and vegetables.
And he drinks beer!
Mmm...I would have thought that a more likely behavior of German Santa Claus.

Beaujolais Nouveau Day

Yesterday was Beaujolais Nouveau Day, and I don't know how I have lived in this country for nearly two years before learning about it.

Beaujolais is a region of France which - like most regions in France - produces its own special wine. Traditionally, on the third Thursday of November, the first batch of wine - that is, the grapes pressed from September's harvest - is available for sale. Of course, being that it is such a young wine, most French people regard it as crap. But it's tradition to drink the Beaujolais Nouveau on this day, and purists use the opportunity to wage if this year's vintage will be good or not.

Three separate people who told me about Beaujolais Nouveau Day used the expression "excellent marketing technique". Every bar and restaurant has a sign advertising the arrival of the Beaujolais Nouveau, every grocery store has bottles for sale, and many villages have entire festivals dedicated to the wine.

According to Wikipedia, the Beaujolais Nouveau is also wildly popular in Japan (I've heard that jumbo jets full of wine are flown to Japan the night before the big day) and the US, where it is typically marketed for Thanksgiving.

All this fuss for bad wine.

I happened to be out for lunch with my group at a local pizza restaurant when my colleague Hervé spotted the sign advertising the Beaujolais Nouveau. He ordered a glass and asked if I was interested. Well of course I was interested, this is cultural education.

I know nothing about wine, so the only thing I can tell you is that it was light. Unfortunately, not light enough, because halfway through my meal I was hit by a wall of dizzy, followed by a fit of giggles. My colleagues were baffled, open a window near my head, fetched a bottle of water, and fought over my camera phone to take pictures of me.

By the end of the meal I was thinking straight again, but I could tell that my face still glowed pink. Back at my desk I kept my head low and popped mints and gum to banish the smell of drunk from my breath. This is one of my personal greatest mysteries: how can I drink one small glass of wine and smell like a wino?

After an hour I was given the thumbs-up by the guys who sit closest to me and was free to roam from my desk without fear of anyone seeing me. There's a mistake I won't be making again.

At David's work, his boss bought a bottle of the Beaujolais Nouveau at the company cantine (his company still has liquor for sale in their cafeteria - mine stopped over a year ago) and poured a healthy glass for everyone. Dave's colleagues asked if he liked it (he did not), and if he could taste the banana in it (he could not).

Wikipedia also told me that the Beaujolais Nouveau can have the flavors of banana and pear. This is not due to additives, but a result of the way the fruit breaks down.

Dave and I discussed it on the way home. I told him what I head read on Wiki, and he exploded in irritation.

"There's nothing snobbier than a group of people who claim to perceive something that doesn't exist!"

This morning I called to check up on a friend who I knew had been out with a buddy and a bottle of Beaujolais Nouveau last night.

"Ah.." he said, fondly recalling the previous night's events "...the Beaujolais tasted like banana."

Training in the Countryside

I spent all day in a training session today. When I received the meeting invitation in my inbox yesterday afternoon (that's right, at the last minute), I noticed that the training location was in a place called "Saint Sulpice". That didn't sound like one of our regular meeting rooms.

After some asking around I learned that Saint Sulpice is the name of a village about 25 minutes from Méru. Nowhere close to our regular meeting rooms. I later learned that HR had tried to book a training room too late and couldn't find one available all day. Off to Saint Sulpice.

So this morning I punched "Saint Sulpice" into the TomTom and was met with at least 20 different choices. Shoot. Which one is it? I decided to stop by the office to print off written directions and try to guess my way there. As luck would have it, as I was pulling out of the parking lot I spotted a plant manager whom I knew was on his way to the same training. I waved for him to jump in, and he graciously accepted.

"Thanks for the ride" he said with a relieved smile.

"Well, to be honest," I answered, "I need you to tell me how to get there."

He guffawed. "What?! You need directions? You didn't just pick me up for my sex appeal?"

Heh. French men.

Twenty minutes later, we were cruising down narrow country roads, my co-pilot pointing left and right. There was absolutely no way I would have found the place without his help.

Saint Sulpice is a very quiet country village comprised of moss-covered brick houses and horse pastures. My colleague directed me to park along the side of a muddy lane between two ancient brick buildings and jumped out of the car. There was not another soul in sight, and I was starting to worry that he led me to a deserted location to try his sex appeal joke a little more seriously. Then we passed through an iron gate and spotted the trainer waving hello.

The training session was held in a gite, or a kind of farm house that has been converted to guest houses. They had cleared out the tiled living room of one of the houses and set up a large table for our group to sit, along with a projector screen and a paperboard easel. Outside of our little house stood a low-slung brick building with wooden doors that couldn't be higher than four feet. I was curious to poke around and find out it was used for, but I was soon ushered into the training room and set to work.

The training itself was nothing worth mentioning, but I couldn't get over the oddity of carrying a standard day-long training session to a remote location in the country. Was this some kind of retreat? If so, why wasn't I relaxed? Like many European farmhouses I've visited, the radiators were new enough but didn't give off heat enough. Of course - dumb me - I wasn't wearing socks, either. I ended up sitting with my coat over my shoulders, but it didn't help my cold feet.

At lunch we were sent to the other half of our living room, where a dining table was set up. Then the house chef and his helpers passed back and forth between our little house and the main house, carrying our meals. And it was truly a French meal.

We started with little salads, topped with a small filet of unknown whitefish and tomato sauce. Then came the main course, another kind of fish unknown to me on a tomato tart and a bed of rice, with a cream sauce. Following this was the cheese course, with another little salad and two kinds of cheese, one goat and one cow (I think).

While we ate I pondered the menu and thought about how often I have no idea what I'm eating. Especially when it comes to fish. The thing is, in France you eat what you're given because often, you don't have a choice. If I'd refused to eat my lunch because I don't like fish, I would have gone hungry. This is also how I came to be a veal and lamb eater. Consequently, there is no such thing as a vegetarian in France.

After the cheese came an impossibly fancy chocolate dessert and coffee. Incidentally, I wasn't asked if I wanted coffee, it was just delivered to me. I leaned back and tried to ask for a bit of milk, but my request went unheard and I didn't want to make an embarrassing racket with my bad accent. So I gave up and dumped a packet of sugar into the cup and drank it. And someday I'll say "...and that's how I came to be a black coffee drinker."

Our session ended late, past 6 p.m., and it was pitch black in Saint Sulpice. Not a street lamp for miles. My colleague piled back into my car and helped get us back to Méru, where I dropped him off.

What a strange work day. This one is definitely going under the "France is Weird" file.

The Olympic Games, French Style

So the Summer Olympics have started, and France is just as excited as the rest of the world, I imagine. David and I missed the opening ceremony, but we were still on holiday for the first day of the games and were excited to see the first events.

After flipping through our catalog of French channels, we finally found the one public channel showing the games. And the sport they were showing was....equestrian dressing? Never have I seen this sport in my life. A stiff man in a tuxedo and top hat rode a horse through a series of fancy steps and maneuvers: cantering, walking diagonally, galloping, eh. I complained that the real athlete was the horse, and did he get a medal?

We got bored with that soon enough, and came back later to see fencing. I can't remember watching fencing during the Olympics in the US, but since the games started here I've learned all about it.

"It's a truly French sport" my colleague and friend Alain told me. "Don't you hear the words at the beginning of the match? Allez! En guarde! You've heard of the Musketeers, right?"

For whatever ignorant reason it never occurred to me that the Musketeers were French. Probably because all of the movies I've seen about them were in English.

"D'Artagnan" he offered.

"Oh, Chris O'Donnell" I replied.

He was not amused.

What I don't miss is the cheesy American coverage. The heartwarming sidenotes about the athlete's mom crying in the stands. Maybe they have the same in French and I don't understand, but so far I've seen no footage of emotional parents. Lots of footage of how great France is, though.

Which means we've seen loads of fencing and judo. But we have been treated some other interesting sports like kayaking, archery, and now, some track and field. Although today they stopped coverage of the track events to cover the entire medal ceremony for the French saber (another form of fencing) team. We saw each of the medal presenters and their names, we saw the athletes file out and fidget in front of the podium, we saw the whole darned thing. Because, of course, France won the gold.

France has been doing ok so far, but has been coming up short of some gold medals. When they won their first, in some kind of wrestling category, my colleagues couldn't stop talking about it. And I couldn't stop teasing them in return.

"It's a very old sport" Caroline said proudly. "It dates back to the original Olympic games."

"Huh. Is it true that we have one athlete who has more gold medals than your entire country?"

Like a true American, Michael Phelps is both despised and admired here. And I love it. The Olympics have brought out a bit of friendly competition between myself and my group at work. When the French won a gold medal in the 100 meter men's freestyle, they were so proud.

I said, "A French guy won? So Michael Phelps must not have been in that race."

Caroline replied quickly, "But the French swimmer beat another American. I'm sure of it."

She quickly looked up the race online. "Well....the guy he beat was....Australian. But his name sounded...American."

It's a good thing that the US is so good at the summer games, it's making my job a lot more fun.

A French Résumé

My boss asked me to tag along on an interview last week, which reminded me of how strange French résumés are.

First of all, the word résumé literally means "summary" in French, but they don't use that word here, they use curriculum vitae, or CV.

All of the CVs I've seen follow a pretty standard (i.e. boring) format, with the addition of some extra stuff we don't use in the politically correct US. For example, the French (actually, it might be all Europeans) put photos on the top of their CVs. I think it's a bit unfair, because first impressions mean a lot, and if the interviewer doesn't like the way your photo looks, maybe you're too ugly or too pretty or too short, judgment is passed before you've even had a chance to prove yourself in an interview.

Equally dangerous, they also list their age. Not only their age, but their precise birthdate. What does it matter if their birthday is April 30? I know it is illegal to ask a candidate's age in the States, so seeing it on a CV always startles me. And then I have to get over the inevitable shock that the candidate is so much younger than me. It's unnerving.

My female colleage tells me that it's important to list ones' age because companies want to know if women are a flight risk, or of baby-bearing age. She told me this with a hint of pride in her voice because she's too young for such prejudices and I, of course, am not.

Anyway, the average CV usually lists the candidate's nationality, as well. To me, this just leaves one wide open for another round of prejudices. And the French seem to embrace any excuse to dislike someone. So maybe this French practice of adding personal information on a CV is a kind of unspoken way of saying "Let us reject you if you're ugly/30/Lebanese/whatever before you even get here and waste our time with an interview ."

Advanced Apologies to Wally

..Who Just Bought an iTouch

Every time I mention that I'm making a trip to the States (or David is going or my parents are coming) and jokingly ask my colleagues if they want anything, their eyes grow big and they give the same answer: an iPod!

I know that iPods are the MP3 player of choice back home, but I don't remember it being such an obsession. It seems that every Frenchman worth his weight in foie gras has an iPod, and lately, an iPod Touch. I have seen at least a dozen at work, usually in the hands of a very proud young man. They're peeking out of shirt pockets and being flashed around the coffee room, to the impressed oohs and ahhs of colleagues.

I have to hand it to Apple for turning this anti-American country into a pack of iPod-crazed nuts. The whole thing kind of amuses me, because personally, I don't get it. Ok, the iTouch is cool and I would definitely like to have one. But seriously, $400?

I see these guys at work who have these things, and wonder what they were thinking. For me, one of my priorities is saving money for a house. I've seen how much properties cost in France, (for example, an apartment 1/2 the size of ours in the middle of nowhere can cost 130,000 euros. I'll leave it to you to convert that to USD and recover from the shock), and I wonder how the average 2-income family can afford a place of their own. Especially considering I also I know how paltry the average French salary can be. And they're all climbing over each other to buy $400 phones. I don't care if it's also an MP3 player and the internet and makes you a cup of coffee at the same time, that's still a huge hunk of cash.

David reminds me that he bought a toy worth 100 iTouches, and I have to admit that he has a good point. It seems that cars aren't as important to the French, so maybe they just prefer to invest in phones/mp3 players/gadgets. Maybe I'm just jealous.

What's This About Mistletoe?

Yesterday at work I received a New Year's kiss (the Frenchie cheek kind. Please.) from one of my colleagues. Then he asked me, what's the word for the plant that you kiss under? Do you have this in America?

"Mistletoe" I replied.

"With the berries?"

"White?"

"Yes. And you kiss under it as well?"

"Yes!"

"And it's cut by druids."

Eh?
Here's where our cultural parallels separated. "Druids?"

"Do you know what a druid is?"

"Yes. The guys who built Stonehenge." Although in my mind I was picturing sand people from Star Wars, with their beady little eyes, marching through the desert with armloads of mistletoe.

"Right. They cut the mistletoe with golden knives."

"What? How does a gold knife cut anything?"

He shrugged and walked away. Yet another charming tradition with a bizarre French twist. Where do they get this stuff?

France Does Christmas Trees

One day, not more than a few weeks ago, a little pine tree was living its happy life in a forest or a tree farm, with fresh air and frequent rain for its healthy roots.

And then some enterprising Frenchman came along, cut it down, sprayed it with something pink, and plopped it onto a sidewalk in Paris for sale for 50 euros.

I can't say I've ever felt as sorry for a tree as I have this year when I've seen what the French do to their Christmas trees. That's just downright degrading.

Ok, mind you, not all Christmas trees are covered with this weird foamy Crayola-colored stuff, and I have to admit I haven't seen anyone buy one. But there has to be a market for it. Obviously our local bakery forked over the cash. That's a real tree under there.

Seriously, who would want a black Christmas tree?

A Bunch of Cowboys

Ok, be honest, what’s the first thing that comes to mind when you think about French people? Berets, black and white striped shirts, cigarettes, and baguettes, right? Admit it, we all have pre-conceived images of other cultures. And these days, the popular image of the French is of whiny, wussy surrender monkeys.

Well I don’t want to get into politics, but I can tell you that berets are pretty much out (although I have seen a couple that apparently weren’t on tourists), the same goes for the striped shirt, but the cigarettes and baguettes hold true. And don’t forget the cheese.

But do you have idea of how the French view us? What they think the typical American is like? Gun-slinging, horse-riding, Bush-voting cowboys. And these days, the popular image of the Americans is a video that was played over and over again on French television a few years ago when France gave a big thumbs-down to the Iraq war: wine-dumping war monkeys.

Apparently, some years back when we all hated the French and coined the term “freedom fries”, there were some particularly passionate people who dumped French wine into the gutter. And video of these wine-dumpers made it to France, and it was all they could talk about for months. And now, whenever I have difficulty with any member of French beauracracy, I can almost see that video replaying in their minds.

How long ago was that? Three or four years? I saw the same video in my hotel room in Valencia on Tuedsay. Thank you CNN Europe, for making sure no one forgets this embarassing scene!

But back to the standard stereotype, the cowboy. It's not just the American "shoot first, ask questions later" mentality. Many French people, especially those who have never been to the States, are genuinely surprised to learn that I didn’t grow up on a ranch.

“I’ve never ridden a horse in my life” I state firmly. (Ponies at the fair don’t count)

"Ok, but you have to be related to a cowboy. Is your dad a cowboy?”

(sarcastically) “I think my grandfather had a horse in the 40’s.”

“Ah hah!”

"Ok, well, I’ve also never held a gun in my life”. (BB guns don’t count)

"But you know people who do have guns”

"Yes, but…”

"Ah hah!”

This image is certainly not helped by the popular American television icon, Walker, Texas Ranger. The French love Chuck Norris. And they're obsessed with his silver sheriff's star.

Stephane, my former colleague from Detroit, has one of these coveted stars. I saw it displayed proudly in his apartment. When I asked him about it, he excitedly told me about his trip to the Grand Canyon with his other French friends. He said that they just had to rent horses, and he had to buy that star and wear it. “Just like a real American”.

This infuriated me. The guy spent almost years in the States, in Michigan no less, and didn’t figure out that we are NOT all cowboys? I mean, how many of us ARE cowboys?

You can be sure that there are fewer American cowboys then there are Frenchmen who smoke cigarettes and walk around with baguettes tucked under their arms.

Ape 50

Our French driving licenses give us permission to drive cars, small motorbikes, and an odd-shaped vehicle that we thought could be a camper.

Mystery solved, yesterday we spotted one of these little buggers on the street.

Don't let its demure size fool you, this mean machine is aptly named "Ape 50".

We HAVE to get one of these!

Hallmark Missed One

Check this out:
It is so difficult, and such an occasion, to obtain a French driving license, that they actually make greeting cards for it.

Too late I thought I should have bought one for David and sent to the apartment.

Here Comes the Strike!

Like the weather or traffic report in any normal country, France has politely informed us that a strike is impending tomorrow.

I bought a newspaper on Sunday, a copy of Le Parisien to read in my French class, and a good excuse to spend more time subtly gloating over the rugby loss that was splashed across the front page.

Of course, I gave up on the paper within a few minutes (although I'm proud to report that I understood a comic), but Dave spent a good amount of time reading it. That's when he found that the paper lists the week's upcoming grèves, or strikes. How nice of them, we thought. Then we promptly ignored the details of the list because we foolishly thought we wouldn't be affected.

Then a few days ago Guillaume warned me that we had to leave for work early on Thursday because of the upcoming train strike ("Don't you Americans read the newspaper?"). All of the metro and RER drivers are going on strike tomorrow. Apparently they're mad because the government wants to change the minimum number of years they have to work before retirement.

Back when the Paris trains first started, driving one was a physically challenging job. So they used to offer retirement to train drivers early. But these days, metro drivers sit on comfy chairs and use joysticks to get from one stop to another. So the government wants to even things out, and they're not happy.

And in a show of support, the Air France pilots will also be on partial strike (I wonder if the psychological tests for flight school hopefuls will be on hold). They all stick together, it seems. Who knows who else will be striking, I guess we'll find out tomorrow.

So how does all of this affect us? Well, Guillaume patiently explained, there will be no trains tomorrow. So everyone will be DRIVING. Oh yeah.

The HR department at David's work sent out an e-mail warning employees of the strike and encouraging them to carpool tomorrow. On the drive home, the highway traffic signs warned that tomorrow, driving will be difficult. France doesn't have hurricanes, so they batten down for strikes.

Guillaume and I both worked late today, so I offered him a ride into Levallois-Perret this evening so he could metro home into Paris. Halfway here he received a phone call from a friend telling him that the strike was starting at 8 p.m. tonight. Suddenly, he was gripping the dashboard and begging Dave to speed up. We finally pulled up to the metro station at about 7:45 and he burst out of the car like a man dashing for a fallout shelter.

For the rest of the 5 minute ride home, we noticed how many people were on foot and on bicycles. It seemed the whole city was on edge, waiting for la grande grève.

David and I are planning on leaving for work 30 minutes early tomorrow. If anything else interesting happens with this whole strike business, I'll be sure to let you know.

How to Become an Air France Pilot

Today I learned how to become an Air France pilot.

Guillaume, who has a friend in the process, tells me:

After you have been an engineer (any kind) for a year, you can apply to be an Air France pilot. You have to undergo a series of difficult psychological tests every day for a week. 15 people apply at once, and at the end of every day, a woman comes out with a list: those who can go home and never come back, those who can try again next year, and those who can come back tomorrow. This lasts until the end of the week, when only a few remain.

They start with 1200 applicants and end with 50. Then they pay to train these 50 for the next two years of flight school. Then fame and glory and beautiful stewardesses for ever and ever.

So you have to start with an engineering degree. I thought for a fleeting moment that I could apply to Air France flight school. And then I remembered that I can’t speak French and my eyesight is like 1/20. Not to mention I’d probably flunk the first round of psychological tests and would be on the Never Come Back list by the end of the first day.

Handshakes and Kisses

This is an old topic that we’ve faced since we’ve been here, but I’ve been thinking about it recently and finally decided to document this piece of French culture.

The French handshake is a morning ritual that everyone must participate in. The first thing you do when you get into the office is go around and shake everyone’s hand. Not literally everyone, but everyone in your group or area. French handshakes are less “shake” than “squeeze”, and you’re bound to give yourself away as an American if you give a hearty pump.

If you don’t shake hands every morning, you’re rude. So, against every instinct we might have to not interrupt people, walk into their cubes while they’re in the middle of a phone conference, or demand their attention when they’re focused on something, we have to march up and offer our hands for the morning squeeze.

If you run into someone you know who is walking with a group of people you don’t know, first you shake the hand of your associate, then go around and shake the hands of his companions. Plus “bonjour” with each. Exhausting.

And then, if you need to talk to someone at their desk, first you drop off your folder/notebook/PDA at their desk, shake hands hello, then run around and shake hands with everyone else in their group before you can return to the quick conversation you intended to have before all this shaking nonsense started.

One of the worst crimes one can commit is to shake hands with the same person twice. Because this implies that you’ve forgotten that you greeted them earlier. Which is likely, considering how many handshakes you’ve gone through that day.

Now if you know someone especially well, this is where the kissing starts. Remember, the French kiss hello is actually a brushing of both cheeks. All the lips do is make the little kissing sound that accompanies. Although for families and really really close friends there is lip-to-cheek action. And Wally says that if you like someone romantically you can make your interest clear by slipping in a little lip, but I haven’t seen that at work yet.

Most people do two kisses, one per cheek, but some do four (left-right-left-right), which I understand is becoming popular in Paris now. I’m not sure about that because I never see young people do it, usually just older ones. When I see people kissing four times it reminds me of chickens, the way they bob their heads back and forth. What an outrageous waste of time.

Crossing the line from handshake to kiss has been really difficult for me. The “handshake or kiss” dilemma is a popular subject for American writers living in France, but none can give me precise rules.

It’s harder for women because the rules of chivalry imply that the woman initiate the kiss. The men don’t want to make the women uncomfortable, so they let them decide when it starts. Unfortunately, I’m worried about making the men uncomfortable, so usually I avoid it. I know in France it’s perfectly normal to kiss platonic friends, but when I’m starting to cross that line with male colleagues, my American subconscious worries that I’m sending out The Wrong Idea.

The woman is essentially defining the relationship with her choice to kiss or not. What pressure! Shortly after I started working here I learned that a former colleague from Detroit was here as well. When I ran into him, I thrust out my hand just as he started to lean forward a bit. He quickly retracted and shook my hand. I could tell this meant to him that I didn’t consider us friends. I felt like a jerk.

I’ve started making my own rules for this problem by only kissing those who I’ve seen socially outside of work. However, some, like Guillaume, I kiss outside of work (gee, that sounds bad) but shake hands with at work. I’m not sure why, but for some reason his body language set the precedent and I went with it.

Personally, I think it’s more professional this way, but again, I don’t want to hurt feelings. I kiss my friend Irantzu’s boyfriend (this also sounds bad), who I barely know, but in this case he initiated it, probably because I thought I was a clueless American who didn’t know better. Right on.

Yesterday I ran into an awkward dilemma when I came upon two former Detroit colleagues (both French) in the hallway. Stephane I usually kiss, Alex is the aforementioned colleague I handshake. What to do? Well, I started by kissing Stephane, and when Alex offered his hand I took it, then said “aw hell” and gave him a kiss while still holding his hand. Cowboy American style, and anything but French grace.

From now on, I’m just going to have to turn and walk in the opposite direction whenever I see Alex. It’s easier.