Roll up for the Mystery Tour

Throughout most of France it’s only 2, but in Aveyron, the department in which I live, we like to do 3. Hellos, as you can imagine, can be quite long. Upon arriving at a family gathering, there can be as many as 40 people there, and the ‘kisses’ add up quick. Even the men kiss each other on the cheek if it’s been a long time since they’ve seen each other. The Christmas Dinner was especially awkward, kissing 30 people that I had met some years before. That was the beginning of my life with the Guegan/Pradels.

In the States, we shake hands or we hug, in Korea they bow, and in India, they ‘namaste.’ In France, we kiss each other on the cheek. Right, left, right. It was easy for me at first. I mean how hard is it to kiss someone on the cheek, even if they haven’t shaved in a week? As long as I didn’t lay any sloppy ones on them, I reckoned that I was doing fine.

But as I stayed longer in France–first seeing all roses, then all thorns–I came to realize that the kiss wasn’t really a kiss. For the previous 4 months, I happily gave all the ladies respectful pecks on the cheek. Then one day it dawned on me, that nobody was kissing me back.  To the outside observer, it must surely look like a kiss, but in fact it was something less intimate. It was a fake kiss, a touching of cheeks with sound effects. I was horrified. What strange salutation this was. The kiss devolved to a cheek-touching made to look like the smooch it was not. Then, as I settled and observed more, it became even more ridiculous. Many times, there weren’t any sound-effects. It was just a ritualized dance with no feeling in it at all.  I have found this ‘deception’ to be common in France.  For example, when we say  san doubtes (no doubts) in French, we actually mean ‘maybe,’ which implies a significant level of doubt!

A shiver ran up my spine and I finally admitted to myself that it was cold in that part of France. I came here believing that France was going to be nothing but sunshine and bunny rabbits. Much to my surprise, I have found more storm clouds and snapping turtles.  There are many great things about the area in which I live, but there is this cold facade that is difficult to pierce.  There are layers and layers of formalities and now that I think of it, there aren’t very many conversations of substance.  Politics is the one subject where people are willing to open up and state their opinions, which of course aren’t opinions at all, but hard facts.  There are so many words flying around that meaning is lost, but that’s not important.  As long as the facade is maintained, life goes on as normal.

I’ve felt the missing warmth in my heart since I arrived.  The hellos are cold kisses and there is no hugging, except, in intimate couples.  There is a polite distance that exists between all people, a chilly formality that is a fundamental structure in the French Way.  Mrs. International doesn’t hug her family members regularly and it’s not because she doesn’t want to, it’s because she can’t.  There is something preventing her from doing it, a lifetime of conditioning.  Hugging is for long absences and emotional turmoils, but not for day-to-day interaction.  We have each other, and the warmth between us melts the ice of cordial behavior readily.  We’ve both been thinking of Texas recently, and the warmth there, the openness with which my family welcomed my wife, the hugs and the excitement, something we’ve both noticed a lack of here in France.

Back when I only saw thorns, France became this dying old man before my eyes.  He was still strong and capable, still sharp of mind, but everything he did, every thought that passed through his head was accompanied by this isolation, this purposeful shutting off of the world.  He was a treasure trove of culture and knowledge, a museum of beautiful ideas and passionate freedoms, but something stagnated inside of him, some unwillingness to change constipated him and sent him on his path towards death.  Slowly, he is becoming ever more weak, ever more ineffective.

It’s not perfect anywhere.  I know that, but I’m still surprised when I arrive in a country, assimilate, and see how silly people can be.  It’s not a French problem–it’s the nurtured human condition, and one we must overcome if we are to survive our imminent accidental suicide.  France is a beautiful place, filled with beautiful people.  There are roses and there are thorns; it’s not only one or only the other.  Like in most places, it’s a garden that needs constant tending.

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