Je ne suis pas desolee!

I had heard, from a couple of different (and equally reliable, in my opinion) sources that the French are not big on apologies. And when I say "not big on" what I really mean is that they do not issue them. Like ever.

So, if you are planning a visit to France and are trying to prepare by learning a few key phrases, I would now invite you to free up some valuable brain space by eliminating "Je suis desolee" and replacing it with something more important like: "Ou sont les toiletettes?" or something really crucial such as: "Je voudrais une tarte au chocolat."

It is not that the French are rude. Although I will not stand on this soapbox and argue that stance to the death if pressed. But, moreover, it is just that they view apologizing of any kind to be a sign of weakness.

The whole situation is sort of like a game, and whomever apologizes first loses serious hand in the interpersonal exchange. Even if you are the one in the "right," and any jury would unequivocably deem your innocence, if you apologize then you have hung yourself. Moreover, with the apology you have just offered a carte blanche to your conversational partner, inviting him or her to treat you like dirt. After all, you have just shown you are weak, and weak in France is pas bon. Intercultural discoveries are a plenty overhere!

By contrast, in America, we love to apologize almost as much as we love to wear brand new sneakers when visiting foreign countries. Even if the other person is the one to have committed the gaff, or made an obvious error, in America it is de rigeur for both parties to apologize profusely.

In the U.S., when people bump me in the streets and practically have me eating pavement, I am still the first one to exclaim: "Oh, I am so sorry."

This aspect of my personality has bothered me in recent years. Like what am I anyway, a human doormat? But now, with a source of juxtaposition, I see it is more a cultural tendency than a subconsious or latent belief that I ought to be stepped on by the world at large.

Phew, because it was starting to seem like my rock-solid self-esteem had some characteristics that were unexplicable outliers.

But back to the French. So they have a really amazing ability to blatantly commit an error and then to promptly look around in outrage at the world in general in order to suggest that they were just wronged in a major way that had zero to do with them.

For example, my dear freind Ashleigh acted out a little scene for me. She placed a wine glass about 5 inches from the edge of a table, a reasonable distance that said to me: "This wine glass is securely in the 'not too close to the edge of the table' region." She then pretended to swish by the table, with a bag in her hand, and knock the glass on off the table, ostensibly spilling wine everywhere.

She asked what I would do if I had just knocked the glass off the table, and I told her that I would (obviously) profusely apologize, and run off to find the host or hostess. I would also probably cry if the incident had actually taken place--particularly if it had been red wine. I mean ugh. How embarassing.

So she then tells me that a French person would glare around the room, find the person closest to the glass, assert that he or she left the glass too close to the edge of the table, shrug emphatically as if to say, "Not my problem that the world is chalk full of morons," and walk off, leaving the red bordeaux to soak deeply and irreversibly in to the host's lovely carpet.

Honestly, if someone tried such a stunt at a dinner party in the U.S., it would go over like a sack of lead filled balloons.

While I appreciated Ashleigh's demonstration (by the way, she did not actually tip a full wine glass off the table when she pantomimed the scene--it would have been utterly unneccessary), I sort of thought she might be exaggerating a touch.

Well no, she actually wasn't. Unlike me, Ashleigh is not a huge exaggerator.

So the other day, I was walking in the rain in Paris. I was approaching a man with an umbrella and, as I also had an umbrella, I was a little apprehensive that the upcoming "you dodge to the left and I dodge to the right" game would not go smoothly. This is a game I frequently mess up and an umbrella spoke to the head is not the best feeling, let me tell you that much.

I needn't have worried, the man suddenly slipped on the slick surface of the road (I mentioned it was raining) and slid a good foot before regaining his balance.

It was a rather impressive feat, actually, as yours truly certainly would have ended up with a nice serving of concrete as that evening's aperatif.

When he regained his blance, he was practically nose to nose with me and had jabbed me slightly with his umbrella. I was about to ask him, in muddled French, if he was all right. (Notice my progress that I was not about to profusely apologize for nothing whatsoever--a leopard can change!) He glared at me, glared OUTRAGED at the pavement and said to me, "Ugh! That street is too slippery!"

A second glare of potent irritation at his new enemy, the street itself, and off he went. It was as though the street rose up and bit him ferociously on the bottom. And did he apologize for jabbing me with his umbrella: "Mais, non!"

So there you have it: in France, je ne suis pas desolee!