Struggles with francophilia

Before we even begin this one, I warn you, you’re about to enter a realm of perhaps and maybes. An analysis that begins somewhere in the middle of something and ends not far away. Good luck.

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As much as I would like to deny it, I can’t help but feel an affinity to the French lifestyle.

The slowly enjoyed meals, once, twice, three times a market on a regular basis. A satisfaction with buying locally that comes from a perspective of how-it-has-always-been rather than a ‘new’ idea someone in North America has recently chanced upon. Even grocery stores are likely to carry locally produced goods, although these tend to come from the slightly larger and more commercialized local farmer, rather than the lady who pulled a few carrots out of the garden this week. (On this topic I know there is something to be said about subsidies the agricultural community is provided, but for now I will leave that alone.)

And this ability to buy locally works hand-in-hand with an abundance of personal gardens I see spread out, both in backyards and in larger communal spaces where many families work cheek by jowl. Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité et Rutabagas!

Economically, as I walk the streets of Rodez the stores are varied. There is a jewellery maker displaying his certification from some Parisian school, and a, well I don’t know the appropriate term, but he reupholsters furniture and makes drapes. Fine cloths and quality workmanship no doubt. And now that I think of it, I have been struck before by the number of chair repair technicians I have seen, vending their most recent efforts at the market.

A gajillion little coiffures, boulangeries and boucheries line the streets. The hairdressers in particular seem to spend most of their days relaxed and reading the paper, waiting for a periodic entry on whom they can wield their scissors. One fellow I pass daily I saw sitting for the first time yesterday, up until then he has always been cheerfully working one person’s hair, never anyone waiting, never anyone just having stood up.

I had never even seen the lady who I chose for a trim earlier this week, until I entered after reading the posted price. Suddenly she was upon me, catching me unawares. I later saw where she sat, on a plush chair in a darkened sitting area. Reading the paper of course.

(Strangely, given how quiet these places all seem to be, she had me into the chair, trimmed and out in about 4 minutes. When she drew down the mirror to show me the back I was more than a little shocked to know we were finished, but aside from a little mis-trim with the clippers above one ear the result was satisfactory. Her newspaper must have been dynamite because she couldn’t have been expecting another customer.)

But the point of this; there are many little jobs where no one is becoming super rich but fewer people go wanting. People can put decent, local food on the table, traipse around the market and generally lead a satisfied, French life. I like this outlook and way of being, or at least how I perceive it up to this point.

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Admittedly a brief list, and not sufficient to even consider defining a ‘French way’, but the examples do represent things I appreciate and in some cases have attempted to work into my own life. They are ideas about living for life rather than money.

Why then do I hesitate to embrace Francophilia, starting this piece with ‘as much as I would like to deny it’?

Perhaps the most obvious culprit is language. Without a solid grasp of that I have a hard time accessing all the relaxed meandering and banter that I see around me. One can only meander alone for so long. To have the language is to have the ability to communicate, make friends, deal with the bureaucracy and be generally comfortable within a country, so I will stake a large part of my hesitancy here.

Interestingly, negative concerns also arise from the relaxed mode of life that I presented positively above. This way of living is not just about the people on the streets, also spilling into France’s bureaucracy and technological systems.

As with the storefronts, one finds a plethora of minute jobs within the bureaucratic structures, whether health, school administration or local government, and I can only assume the same is true farther up the ladder. The stamp lady position may keep more people employed, allowing everyone to work fewer hours - more time for meandering - but it also means my life is slowed down.

I am happy moving at a slow pace, but when I do get it inside me to do something I want it to happen smoothly, quickly and with minimal re-requests for copies of my birth certificate. (They have a copy and they have photocopiers but somehow need me to send it again, this time with notes in the margin. Perhaps it’s an elaborate scheme to maintain levels of employment in the postal service but more likely the idea that different nations might have different document formats hasn’t struck them.)

Similarly, sometimes I just want to be able to use the internet. Whether it is my laptop on a wireless network or a desktop in a computer lab I want the connection to be reasonable, and the computer to have all the basic programs one needs to surf in this day and age. As for having a computer that doesn’t explode when I open more than two programs, I can grant some leeway here on the grounds that to update at the rate of technology is to bankrupt both one’s accounts and the environment, but running Windows 98 is a bit obscene.

But internet technology here is behind the times, at least in terms of hyper-wired Canada. Or - knowing as I do the significantly different reality in the North, on reserves, and even in the rural south – at least the parts of Canada I am familiar with. Website design, function and reliability are also problematic, but I won’t speak to that here.

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So after this brief self-reflection where do I find myself? I am undeniably appreciative of a place where people take the time to live and provide themselves with nourishment, whether from the garden or more ephemerally. But I also find myself wishing, every once in a while, things worked more quickly and efficiently. That the trains didn’t strike so often, computers didn’t sound like TB patients, etc.

And what is the answer to this internal division? Language, again, is a huge part. The time and patience to allow for adaptation and the discovery of a new normal are also vital.

Maybe it is also about me wanting to be unique. It’s all well and good to be the relaxed no-getter in a culture where it is the norm, but when everyone is doing it I feel out of place.

I don’t think I have actually solved anything in this spiel and although I have edited a fair amount the whole thing feels a bit confused and rambly. I actually started writing this in an attempt to determine whether I had a right to be peeved at a bunch of young French guys who had just come into the library being very loud. With that in mind this makes even less sense.

I suppose to not post it at all might have been an option.

I will end by saying I am pleased to be trying to sort through some of this muck; in an attempt to decide if I want to stay here longer, surely, but also to better understand myself and another culture’s ways of thinking and being.

And I’m sure I get some smug Canadian, post-modern, former grad student satisfaction from emphasizing the realities of difference between peoples, places and times, rather than a superior-inferior, binary mindset, which would make things a whole hell of a lot easier.

Or maybe nothing can be absolute or perfect, this all just silly navel-gazing, and I should get on with something more productive...BLAH.