1.
Having recently returned from France--I enjoyed my stay very much--I found myself trying to maintain a French ambience by reading books in French. (I certainly couldn't recapture my joie de vivre by eating à la américaine.) Having finished La Petite Fadette by Georges Sand and Variations Sauvages, by that wonderful wolf-loving French pianist, Hélène Grimaud, I turned to a classic, Madame Bovary. Toward the end of chapter seven of the first part of the book I came across the following:
Les adieux de la belle-mère et de la bru furent secs. Pendant les trois semaines qu'elles étaient restées ensemble, elles n'avaient pas échangé quatre paroles, à part les informations et compliments quand elles se recontraient à table, et le soir avant de se mettre au lit.
My translation:
Mother-in-law and daughter-in-law took leave from each other without any sign of affection. During the three weeks they were together, they hardly spoke a word to one another, except for formalities before meals and before going to bed.
There it is, I said, smiling to myself. In two sentences, a striking difference between French and American cultures becomes apparent. French etiquette demands a modicum of politeness--at least in speech--even if you can't stand the person you're talking to. (Yes, I translated "informations et compliments" freely. I feel justified in translating them the way I did, since they obviously refer to words demanded by French etiquette. You can be sure that this included saying the inevitable bonjour to each other when they met in the morning, and the equally inevitable bonne nuit to each other before bed. The very French Emma Bovary might well have asked her mother-in-law such things as whether she had slept well the night before, even though she couldn't have cared less.
We Americans emphasize sincerity; we like to mean what we say. (This essay will do its best not to take sides.) I would like to illustrate this formality vs. sincerity difference with an American example. Some time ago, my wife and I spent a few days with friends. My friend's mother-in-law, much like Madame Bovary senior, was in the midst of a three-week visit. She was basically a nice person, but was also frequently difficult and demanding. It was obvious that the daughter-in-law hated her. The house was small resulting in frequent encounters between them both. During our entire stay, however, the daughter-in-law, otherwise gregarious, refused to say a single word to her husband's mother. In fact, she completely ignored her presence. No good day, no good night, no excuse me while passing her on the narrow stairs. My wife and I felt embarrassed; we did our best to communicate with both.
I do think a few equivalents of bonjour and au revoir would have helped lower the tension.
In France, one says bonjour to everyone--the bus driver, the salesperson, the mechanic, the law professor, the doctor. It is a way of acknowledging people; it's a way of saying you're a person just like me and vice versa. Obviously, having to say bonjour so many times a day can weaken the meaning of this obligatory salutation. But it does have meaning. I know I feel better when I smile and exchange greetings with say, a baker, grocery clerk or with anyone else I encounter. It is especially important in our over-individualistic society to formally acknowledge another person's existence with a salutation and a smile That's the French way, vive la France!
2,
Americans have the reputation of being less formal and more friendly. It is said that's it's harder to get to know a Frenchman or a German. There might be some truth to this. I must say, for the most part, I like the down-home friendliness of many Americans. It's usually not a facade; when Americans act friendly they are not usually acting. Some might have a supercilious reaction to what I call American howdyness--I don't agree, however, with a prevalent European view which asserts that American demonstrations of friendliness are too frequently superficial, although, admittedly, they sometimes are. (The problem is that not everyone is friendly; the custom of saying bonjour is especially important for grumps.)
I will give you a great example of American friendliness, a little poem written by one of America's greatest poets, Walt Whitman:
Stranger! if you, passing, meet me,
and desire to speak to me,
why should you not speak to me?
And why should I not speak to you?
American openness at its very best! I cannot imagine a European ever writing something like this. Walt Whitman practiced what he wrote--he was genuinely interested in people, whether one was a great writer or a driver of a street car. He was gracious to all and made friends with people of all classes--something which is unfortunately rare these days. Inspired by Whitman, I have tried to put this poem into action. I have had delightful encounters with people in parking lots, grocery stores, theatres, etc. I remember most of them very well, proving that the experiences were quite pleasurable. I must say, I've had less luck with this strategy in France. (Some of this is undoubtedly due to the fact that my English is much better than my French.)
The ideal, of course, is to be like Walt Whitman. One would then not only love personal encounters, but would also show one's joy to the other person. If we were all Walt Whitmans, we perhaps could dispense with the obligatory bonjour and other such formalities, since our whole being would be conveying bonjour, as it were, without having to say a word. The problem, of course, is that we're not all Walt Whitmans.
3.
Just as French politeness may on occasion be insincere, American friendliness may be everything but. I will give but one example. I often get telephone calls from people who want to sell me something. When I pick up the receiver, there is often a pause--presumably until my name comes up on the caller's computer screen. Then the caller says, in an overly friendly voice, "Hello, Tom, how are you doing today!" This from a total stranger! My reaction to this is very French; before hanging up, I feel like saying a good deal more than bonjour.
4.
I wrote this little essay on July 4th, the American national holiday. It has been a beautiful day; clear blue skies--almost the deep blue of Provence--accompanied by gentle breezes and low humidity--a perfect day! While halfway through writing this, my wife took my hand and asked me to turn off the computer. Today it is just too lovely to stay indoors, she said; let's go for a walk. I agreed wholeheartedly.
We are lucky to live in a city with many cultural attractions, yet only a few minutes drive from forest trails. Since it was the Fourth of July and most people were enjoying barbecues, we expected that our favorite trail wouldn't be crowded, which proved to be correct. Still, I knew there would be some passers-by, and I was ready. (I tell people that we all can't be C.E.O.s--some of us, like me, wouldn't even want to be one--but we can all be C.P.E.s--that is, Creators of Pleasanter Encounters.) As we crossed a little wooden bridge that leads up to a path flanked by maples and oaks in full summer splendor, I noticed a woman with a dog on a leash approaching us. I gave her a full smile and said, with gusto, Hello! She looked at me and passed by as if I hadn't been there. Maybe she's having a bad day, I thought to myself. Fifteen or so minutes later, I had my next encounter, this time with a man about my age. Again I smiled and said hello. The man smiled and greeted me back. The third encounter was even better. The woman we passed replied to my greeting with such a beautiful smile that it remains vividly in my mind's eye even now. Two out of three, not bad!
Dear reader, I trust that you know by now what I'm getting at. No matter where one comes from, acknowledging people and meaning it is a very winsome combination. How can one doubt that combining French politesse with American howdyness would help create a better, more civilized world? After reading this essay, I hope you resolve to be the best C.P.E. ever.
Have a great day! Au revoir!
Having recently returned from France--I enjoyed my stay very much--I found myself trying to maintain a French ambience by reading books in French. (I certainly couldn't recapture my joie de vivre by eating à la américaine.) Having finished La Petite Fadette by Georges Sand and Variations Sauvages, by that wonderful wolf-loving French pianist, Hélène Grimaud, I turned to a classic, Madame Bovary. Toward the end of chapter seven of the first part of the book I came across the following:
Les adieux de la belle-mère et de la bru furent secs. Pendant les trois semaines qu'elles étaient restées ensemble, elles n'avaient pas échangé quatre paroles, à part les informations et compliments quand elles se recontraient à table, et le soir avant de se mettre au lit.
My translation:
Mother-in-law and daughter-in-law took leave from each other without any sign of affection. During the three weeks they were together, they hardly spoke a word to one another, except for formalities before meals and before going to bed.
There it is, I said, smiling to myself. In two sentences, a striking difference between French and American cultures becomes apparent. French etiquette demands a modicum of politeness--at least in speech--even if you can't stand the person you're talking to. (Yes, I translated "informations et compliments" freely. I feel justified in translating them the way I did, since they obviously refer to words demanded by French etiquette. You can be sure that this included saying the inevitable bonjour to each other when they met in the morning, and the equally inevitable bonne nuit to each other before bed. The very French Emma Bovary might well have asked her mother-in-law such things as whether she had slept well the night before, even though she couldn't have cared less.
We Americans emphasize sincerity; we like to mean what we say. (This essay will do its best not to take sides.) I would like to illustrate this formality vs. sincerity difference with an American example. Some time ago, my wife and I spent a few days with friends. My friend's mother-in-law, much like Madame Bovary senior, was in the midst of a three-week visit. She was basically a nice person, but was also frequently difficult and demanding. It was obvious that the daughter-in-law hated her. The house was small resulting in frequent encounters between them both. During our entire stay, however, the daughter-in-law, otherwise gregarious, refused to say a single word to her husband's mother. In fact, she completely ignored her presence. No good day, no good night, no excuse me while passing her on the narrow stairs. My wife and I felt embarrassed; we did our best to communicate with both.
I do think a few equivalents of bonjour and au revoir would have helped lower the tension.
In France, one says bonjour to everyone--the bus driver, the salesperson, the mechanic, the law professor, the doctor. It is a way of acknowledging people; it's a way of saying you're a person just like me and vice versa. Obviously, having to say bonjour so many times a day can weaken the meaning of this obligatory salutation. But it does have meaning. I know I feel better when I smile and exchange greetings with say, a baker, grocery clerk or with anyone else I encounter. It is especially important in our over-individualistic society to formally acknowledge another person's existence with a salutation and a smile That's the French way, vive la France!
2,
Americans have the reputation of being less formal and more friendly. It is said that's it's harder to get to know a Frenchman or a German. There might be some truth to this. I must say, for the most part, I like the down-home friendliness of many Americans. It's usually not a facade; when Americans act friendly they are not usually acting. Some might have a supercilious reaction to what I call American howdyness--I don't agree, however, with a prevalent European view which asserts that American demonstrations of friendliness are too frequently superficial, although, admittedly, they sometimes are. (The problem is that not everyone is friendly; the custom of saying bonjour is especially important for grumps.)
I will give you a great example of American friendliness, a little poem written by one of America's greatest poets, Walt Whitman:
Stranger! if you, passing, meet me,
and desire to speak to me,
why should you not speak to me?
And why should I not speak to you?
American openness at its very best! I cannot imagine a European ever writing something like this. Walt Whitman practiced what he wrote--he was genuinely interested in people, whether one was a great writer or a driver of a street car. He was gracious to all and made friends with people of all classes--something which is unfortunately rare these days. Inspired by Whitman, I have tried to put this poem into action. I have had delightful encounters with people in parking lots, grocery stores, theatres, etc. I remember most of them very well, proving that the experiences were quite pleasurable. I must say, I've had less luck with this strategy in France. (Some of this is undoubtedly due to the fact that my English is much better than my French.)
The ideal, of course, is to be like Walt Whitman. One would then not only love personal encounters, but would also show one's joy to the other person. If we were all Walt Whitmans, we perhaps could dispense with the obligatory bonjour and other such formalities, since our whole being would be conveying bonjour, as it were, without having to say a word. The problem, of course, is that we're not all Walt Whitmans.
3.
Just as French politeness may on occasion be insincere, American friendliness may be everything but. I will give but one example. I often get telephone calls from people who want to sell me something. When I pick up the receiver, there is often a pause--presumably until my name comes up on the caller's computer screen. Then the caller says, in an overly friendly voice, "Hello, Tom, how are you doing today!" This from a total stranger! My reaction to this is very French; before hanging up, I feel like saying a good deal more than bonjour.
4.
I wrote this little essay on July 4th, the American national holiday. It has been a beautiful day; clear blue skies--almost the deep blue of Provence--accompanied by gentle breezes and low humidity--a perfect day! While halfway through writing this, my wife took my hand and asked me to turn off the computer. Today it is just too lovely to stay indoors, she said; let's go for a walk. I agreed wholeheartedly.
We are lucky to live in a city with many cultural attractions, yet only a few minutes drive from forest trails. Since it was the Fourth of July and most people were enjoying barbecues, we expected that our favorite trail wouldn't be crowded, which proved to be correct. Still, I knew there would be some passers-by, and I was ready. (I tell people that we all can't be C.E.O.s--some of us, like me, wouldn't even want to be one--but we can all be C.P.E.s--that is, Creators of Pleasanter Encounters.) As we crossed a little wooden bridge that leads up to a path flanked by maples and oaks in full summer splendor, I noticed a woman with a dog on a leash approaching us. I gave her a full smile and said, with gusto, Hello! She looked at me and passed by as if I hadn't been there. Maybe she's having a bad day, I thought to myself. Fifteen or so minutes later, I had my next encounter, this time with a man about my age. Again I smiled and said hello. The man smiled and greeted me back. The third encounter was even better. The woman we passed replied to my greeting with such a beautiful smile that it remains vividly in my mind's eye even now. Two out of three, not bad!
Dear reader, I trust that you know by now what I'm getting at. No matter where one comes from, acknowledging people and meaning it is a very winsome combination. How can one doubt that combining French politesse with American howdyness would help create a better, more civilized world? After reading this essay, I hope you resolve to be the best C.P.E. ever.
Have a great day! Au revoir!
No comments:
Post a Comment