What is a flâneuse?
According to the Cambridge Dictionary, a flâneuse (or flâneur if a man) is someone who “walks around not doing anything in particular but watching people and society.”
Everyone loves Paris, right? Tourists, especially, are justifiably enchanted by boats on the Seine, lovers kissing on its bridges, cafés where people seem to pass a great deal of time hanging out, and in general the French lifestyle.
I’m on board with that!
However, my perspective is a teeny bit different now that I have lived here for (gasp) half a century. Paris is the backdrop of my daily life, which is not about visiting monuments and museums but about… grocery shopping, making doctors’ appointments, dealing with the kids’ schools (no small task in France), and doing all those things we do in our “real life.” In other words, Paris stopped being a tourist destination for me long ago, as I carved out the life I most probably would have had in the States (marriage, children, work, social life).
All this is to explain (and please forgive me) why I am sometimes irritated by all those starry-eyed visitors. I know this sounds positively obnoxious, so I will take it to its obvious conclusion: I am jealous! I am jealous of these people who have nothing but the pleasure of being here and don’t have to worry about fitting in or even understanding everything.
Lost in Translation
It is wonderful not to understand what is going on around you. Unless their French is perfect, that is the case of visitors and even new residents who are seeing the pageant of French life unfold like a movie without the sound. I am not saying that is bad. After all, we can’t learn every language in the world; however, if you plan to settle permanently, it’s best to hone your language skills.
Like so many, I thought the French were so perfect and romantic – until I had finally mastered the language enough to understand a real conversation. I remember the moment. We were in a hidden-away mountain village in Corsica when I heard two women calling out to each other from their windows. I perked up my ears and proudly caught the gist of the conversation, which was definitely not philosophical. No, they were talking about… social security benefits.
That was a breakthrough. The spell was broken.
At the same time, I was empowered. Now, Harriet the Spy could actually spy! Other than my American accent, nothing (okay, maybe my nice smiling American face) gives away the fact that I can understand everything around me.
To put jealousy aside, let’s be kinder and just say that I am no longer a tourist. Paris is not a once-in-a-lifetime trip or even a frequent trip. It is my home.
Doing it by the Book
I shouldn’t gripe about people being smitten with and fascinated by Paris. In all modesty, I am partly responsible for the multitude of books about fitting into France, falling in love with a Frenchman, buying a country home, etc. Peter Mayle, an Englishman married to an Englishwoman, was one of the first with his bestselling blockbuster, A Year in Provence. They loved France and had a home here.
I don’t know how “integrated” they were, but I do know that when I read the book that amused the entire world, I also laughed. At the same time, I remember thinking that he was treating his French neighbors and workers as little stick people. I wondered if his French adventures would have been so funny had he understood “who people are” and “what they are saying.”
Why? In France, you always need to be aware of whom you are talking to (the pecking order). You need to listen to the way they speak to determine whether they are uneducated, highly educated, or somewhere in between, on the Left or on the Right. It’s all very complicated – so much so that for a long time when Philippe and I attended parties, I would ask him afterwards about the social class of the people we had met. In a country where revolutionaries cut off the head of the king and social class counts, this is important.
Lessons in Love
All the things that gradually revealed French people to me in their complexity and variety came about because of living with a Frenchman and speaking the language. I am definitely not seeing the movie without the sound.
That is the reason I wrote French Toast, a compendium of all my new-found knowledge. It was fresh and sassy, and as I wrote, I realized I had a lot to learn.
To reassure my readers: I am not a perpetual curmudgeon. I may gripe a lot, but that’s because I’ve become like the French, for whom disagreeing and criticizing is seen as positive. Nonetheless, I am enchanted almost daily.
So, I will share with you below a little list of my Likes and Dislikes.
I LIKE:
Walking out the door and heading to my favorite café, whether in my neighborhood or another.
Spending time in that café, writing or phoning or dreaming. It’s hard to do that in the States.
Living in beauty. I do not live in the most beautiful arrondissement but we are privileged to have our own private yard complete with grass, trees, and plants. In any case, beauty is everywhere in this city, including in my neighborhood. Just down the street from us is Saint-Germain de Charonne, a church that dates from the 12th century and is the parish church of many of our neighbors. I am fascinated by the idea of attending religious services as a matter of course in an 800-year-old monument.
I DISLIKE:
Cyclists – I do not mind, and even applaud, the city’s move to get rid of cars in the center (although they clog up and pollute the streets elsewhere). I do mind the total lack of impunity of cyclists as they careen down the street and through red lights. They are a danger for old people, parents with babies, and small children.
Horrid urban furnishing – huge plastic flowerpots, unaesthetic benches, and untended street gardens. Hope is on the horizon: things got so bad under the outgoing Mayor that the new one has appointed an “aesthetics czar” to do away with the worst abuses. City Hall claims the job is done. Proof that it is not is in the picture below.
Dirty streets – let’s face it. Other than the tourist areas, which are basically impeccable, the rest has gone to pot. Even in beautiful Paris, there are areas where empty bottles and trash litter the sidewalks. Parisians often complain about that, as they should.
You may have guessed by now that I do love Paris. I love Paris in the springtime, I love Paris in the fall, I do not love Paris in winter, and, very rarely, I do not love Paris at all!
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