Partir, c'est mourir un peu

Partir, c'est mourir un peu,

C'est mourir à ce qu'on aime :

On laisse un peu de soi-même

En toute heure et dans tout lieu.

C'est toujours le deuil d'un vœu,

Le dernier vers d'un poème ;

Partir, c'est mourir un peu.

Et l'on part, et c'est un jeu,

Et jusqu'à l'adieu suprême

C'est son âme que l'on sème,

Que l'on sème à chaque adieu...

Partir, c'est mourir un peu

Edmond Haraucourt, 1890

As I prepare for my annual pilgrimage to the US, these words of the great French poet, Haraucourt, from the nineteenth century come to mind. Leaving, is somewhat like dying. The telephone which remained silent for weeks starts to ring. Every friend and acquaintance absolutely needs to see me, have a drink with me, talk to me, have lunch or dinner. Frenchmen consider departures even for as little as a few weeks as a loss. As the poet states, it's a mourning for what could have been and never will be. The scent of the person lingers in the air long after he has left. For France and me our summer 2012 has come to an end. Good-byes are excruciating for the French. The moment when people part lasts forever as people take your hand, look in your eyes and profess their regrets for the hours you will not spend together. They wish you all the best for the journey and your life. Breaking away is hard. They kiss you over and over. You continue to wave until someone has turned the corner. And that is the supposed moment of death.

Americans don't generally get this lump in their throats when someone goes away. It seems so normal to leave unless you are hopelessly in love and won't see your lover anymore. Welcoming someone home however is more emotional in the States. Strangely enough, that is lacking in France. When I return no one will be there to greet me and life will resume quickly as if I had never left. "Et ben. Te voilà". There you are again

The morose atmosphere always ends up getting to me. Knowing the French I try to hide my day of departure but they always sense it. Buying a baguette, cheese and some Marseilles lavender soap my favorite grocer let out a "Awwww. It's tomorrow, isn't it? Oh what a pity!" Walking through the square I looked up at the Gothic cathedral. The clock chimed two o'clock. The sun came out for once. A group of passer-bys chanted "j'aurais voulu" (I would have wanted). The word tomorrow resonated in my brain over and over. There are always so many things to do before I leave it's overwhelming. It never gets easier. No matter how much I try, I leave in the middle of something. There is too much to do. Doing my laundry, packing the suitcase and sorting through my mail is tedious work. What have I forgotten? I planned three days to do it. Not! I stop at a sidewalk café for a Monaco (beer, lemon and grenadine cocktail), sat down to make my list and feel the sun on my face. The waiter informs me tomorrow will be a beautiful day. My cell rings. It's friends calling to say bye! yet again. I sigh.

Now I'm writing this post to capture the day-before-tomorrow spirit. Oh, forget the damn suitcase. Leaving is a little bit like dying. As Monsieur Haraucourt puts it so romantically, our soul is lost and spread far and wide with each adieu. Today is the last line of a poem. Phew!

Copyright 2012 Merquiades

Internal logic

One of the toughest aspects of life in a foreign country is "Internal Logic". It won't be addressed in any guide book, language, culture or history class. It's intangible but definitely present. Even after years of living in France I ask myself seemingly rhetorical questions... why? why? why?... all in vain. I am left to fret.

Last week in Paris I helped out a desperate American tourist running around the metro looking frantically for a way back to the airport. He asked one Parisian after another and got blank stares. A few shrugged their shoulders and suggested he take the subway line towards the Champs-Élysées. He sighed. Fortunately his instincts knew that was wrong. Then he met an attendant who urged him to get out of the underground and walk. Say what? That, of course, was certainly impossible! So what was wrong?... Frenchmen do not refer to the airport in Paris as Charles de Gaule. That was a former president, maybe stretching it a traffic circle around Arc de Triomphe, but definitely not Roissy airport. Yes, of course, it's named for the city it's in, just like any other airport in the world, right? Who doesn't know the name of that Parisian suburb where it is located? By the way, you take a train there. Subways are for Paris only!

Another classic example. Americans are often amazed when they get a cereal bowl full of milk with a small expresso on the side when they so innocently asked for a café au lait. It's so exasperating when everyone around them seems to have that big mug of French coffee they so desired. Why so? Because they asked for coffee with their milk and that's definitely what they got. They should have gone for café-crème (creamy coffee) or café noisette (strong coffee with a touch of milk). How to know that if you haven't lived in France?

Mores are even tougher. It takes time, energy, and interest to learn that in France salad is eaten after the main course never before. Coffee follows the desert and they are not drunk together. Forget that and eyebrows will be raised. You must kiss your friend's girlfriend 2 or 3 times cheek after cheek otherwise he will be offended. What else? You should take a present, chocolate or flowers, but definitely never wine when invited to someone's house for dinner. By the way, don't even think of helping them clear the table or do the dishes. Faux pas! More importantly it also means now they consider you a true friend so you need to reciprocate in some way in the near future. Finally, let's not forget those businessmen who suggest a business lunch to French colleagues. Working and relaxing do not go together, and you need to enjoy your food too!

Sometimes you just have to accept the logic without question. It is repeated over and over ad nauseum: No swimming for an hour after eating. No using a knife to cut salads. Parking on the sidewalk is preferable to going into a garage when you won't be staying overnight. Driving a stick shift is inherently better than driving an automatic. You can have three glasses of wine and still drive, but not four. You can mix champagne with black currant juice and it's sublime, but mix it with orange juice and it's the worst sin ever. Ketchup is supposed to be sweet. Mayonnaise should contain mustard. You take elevators up, not down.

If I have written this post with ease until now, it's largely due to my experience. I have learned it all-- sometimes the easy way, sometimes the hard way. Yet, it is only the tip of the iceberg. I still make blunders without knowing it and often have the terrible feeling of not knowing what is really happening around me. Why again? No one ever tells you any of this stuff, you have to stumble every day like that man looking for Charles de Gaule.

From the minute you are born you start picking up the invisible truths of a culture. I heard recently it begins when French moms pull their kids over to them, tell them to sit still and Americans tell them to go off and have fun in the playground. It all means something. Yes, there are faux pas! for children too. When they fall down and scrape their knee, Gallic mom says "See. I told you not to do that. You didn't obey me, did you?" and her yankee counterpart utters "Ah. That's okay, sweety. Now you know what happens when you run too fast" it moulds them. Likewise, every year spent in school adds layer upon layer to the labyrinth of French savoir-faire . There are the cultural icons, the games, the socialization, the formal and informal learning, the values, the take on life, and the morality lessons. Moving to a country as an adult puts you at a clear disadvantage. There is an ocean of invisible evidence to assimilate.

America is probably more lenient and open due to the universal immigrant experience but -- perhaps an immigrant might see things differently. I've heard Frenchmen complain about American waiters who are so bothersome and won't leave them alone to eat in peace. The French obviously have to be explained what a tip is-- not just when to leave it or how much to put down. Further, they ask -- who is your friend in America? Why doesn't friendly mean friend? Everyone's got their work cut out for them, I guess.

France, on the other hand, is not nearly so indulgent. Recently I've been confronted with trying to understand how the education system really works here. How do teachers give class in France? What is a good course supposed to be like? How does one write an essay? How does one make a presentation? Should students work alone, in pairs, in groups? What is the role of the teacher and the student? How do they interact? What are the expectations? Why do those so-called bad things like imagination seem inherently good to me and the good things like analyzing image after image seem like a waste of energy? How will I know what is right and what is wrong? Those questions race through my head. An expat has no Gallic instinct. When you don't know... the sanction is unexpected and harsh. You have to fit in and react according to role.

In many senses, I still feel like that teenager who was hit with a broom by a pastry chef in Tours many years ago for sitting down at the wrong table. How was I supposed to know that was soooo bad? What to do? Why...... My ruminations continue.

Copyright 2012 Merquiades