Celebrate the U.S. But Remember: Oui Love France

In the tradition of Mark Twain, Henry James, Ernest Hemingway and recent Medaille de la Legion d’Honneur recipient Sharon Stone, I’ve been spending my summer vacation in France. And what could be a more appropriate way to celebrate the Glorious Fourth? After all, who helped jump-start our independence back in ‘76? The French, that’s who. (Not to mention that we pulled their chestnuts out of the fire in WWII, which should be worth a merci or two in return, but who’s asking? Certainement not moi.)

It’s in this spirit of hands across the pond that I decided to enumerate all the reasons I love France--no easy task, given that I have as many reasons as France has cheeses. Here, then, is the short list of Reasons I Love France.

1. French Butter. French butter is hard to top, especially when you put it on French bread. And then, when you’re eating it awash in French sunshine on the glamorous French Riviera at a quaint little French outdoor cafe . . . well, all I can say is, the 20 or 30 dollars American you’re paying per slice seems well worth it somehow. Plus, there’s no tipping allowed!

2. French Attitude. A popular expression in France is: “C’est normal, ca,” (Say norm-ahl, sah), roughly translated as “It’s normal, that.” The way it works is that if any event occurs that might seem unusual (such as a tidal wave shattering all the windows of the hotel where you are staying or the bureau de change closing at noon for lunch and then never reopening again even though the sign clearly states it’s supposed to reopen at 1600 hours [4 p.m.] and you don’t have any French money with which to replace all the clothes that were swept away in the tidal wave), you simply give a Gallic shrug and repeat the phrase, “C’est normal, ca.” This gives the impression that not only are you on top of the situation but that you expected it to occur all along, just as it did last year and every year. You will seem tres sophistique even when wrapped in a wet pareo without your wallet, and you might well persuade le patron to extend credit for your bar bill, particularly if he is holding your passport.

3. French Beaches. You might think that California has it all over France when it comes to beaches, but you would be wrong. In France, it’s not so much the beach itself as what happens when you get to the beach. A studly young man brings you a mat, a chaise, a table and a beach umbrella and sets them all up for you, right at the edge of the ocean. Then you order drinks. After a dip in the sea, you can have a gourmet lunch served right on the beach, and you don’t have to change out of your bathing suit if you don’t want to. You don’t even have to wear the top of your bathing suit unless you’re eating beef fondue.

4. French Ice Cream. In France, everyone has a philosophical opinion on every subject, no matter how banal, and is eager to express it. Most Americans never appreciate this because their French doesn’t extend far beyond “How much?” “Is there garlic in that?” and “Where is the Alka-Seltzer?” But given the least suggestion that he will be even vaguely comprehended, the French equivalent of, say, our Good Humor man will do more than simply sell you ice cream; he will explain at great length his philosophy of ice-cream-making. Though this approach tends to slow service down to a crawl, it also results in some of the best ice cream in the world. Ice cream with a philosophy behind it is ice cream with heart and soul.

5. French Conversation. French people have an amazing ability to discuss anything with startling passion, often leading a non-French speaker to believe that the woman standing next to him at the market has just accused the fruit vendor of having been a collaborator during the war, when actually she merely has inquired whether the cherries are fresh (see 4, above, re the philosophy of cherry-picking, etc.). This lends vigor and excitement to the minor transactions of daily life and can turn something as simple as buying a newspaper into an adventure. On the other hand, it can turn something as simple as buying a newspaper into an adventure.

6. French Letters. Only in France could the post office publish its own magazine, complete with letters to the editor (“Do I have the right to write on an envelope comic phrases addressed to the mail carrier, without obscenity, of course?”). A feature story documents the achievements of one postal carrier Ferdinand Cheval, who built an enormous palace entirely out of stones he collected by hand, despite the scorn of his neighbors, who believed he had “a spider web in his attic.” Declared an official monument by Andre Malraux in 1969, the palace is now a tourist attraction with its own spectacle son et lumiere every August. In France, when the local postman goes postal, he creates a memorable work of art.

8. French Diet. The revelation on “60 Minutes” that red wine aids the digestion was greeted in France by enough collective shrugging (see 2, above) to make the Alps fall off into Switzerland. The French are experts on digestive aids, perhaps because they’re in the habit of throwing almost anything--snails, sea urchins, tiny birds with their heads still attached--at their overworked digestive systems. Any local super-marche carries more brands of fancy bottled water than the headwaiter at Spago, and it’s all supposed to do something for or to the liver. Two Frenchwomen discussing their diets is a prayer meeting. Judging from what I see at the beach, their prayers are usually answered. There’s a new diet in the French Elle magazine involving raw pineapple, mushrooms and phases of the moon, and if I stay here much longer and go on eating bread, I might have to try it.

9. French Politeness. Or as they call it, la politesse. The French have gotten a bum rap for being rude, when actually they just stand closer to each other than we do. It’s understandable: After all, their country is smaller, though it would be rude on our part to remind them of that. Actually most French people have exquisite manners, except during sales. I received a demonstration of this in the bank the other day when I rudely pushed up to the counter while another customer was standing there, just as if I were at the market and she was trying to grab the last of the cherries. The teller’s cough served to remind me that I had crossed la limite de discretion, something I do frequently in this very column. Only in the bank there was an actual barricade to remind me, with “limite de discretion” printed on it. So I retreated. Discreetly, of course.

10. It’s the Cheese.