A Few Thoughts from France

“Excusez-moi, s’il vous plait” 

Such a simple, though powerful phrase. This moment of humble deference, spoken to someone who may already be looking straight at you, is the cultural game changer when traveling in France. If you forget to say it when asking for a table in a restaurant, or directions on the street, or the location of the bathroom, you will get ignored or worse. It’s like forgetting to say “Bonjour” when walking into a shop. You are crossing the threshold into someone’s home and there is an expectation of immediate relation-building upon arrival.  

We found the French, and even the Parisian French to be friendly, kind, and accommodating when cultural norms and a rudimentary effort was made to use their language. Yes, Parisians are sometimes abrupt, but hey, it's a big city in a big hurry. Ever met a New York cab driver? 

This convivialité had been our experience in the past but given our nation’s recent bull-in-a-china-shop foreign policy, we were wary about the greeting that we would receive on this sojourn.  Hayden even bought Canadian flag pins for us to wear, an act of deception or solidarity depending on the situation.  

We found the French to be as confused as we are about the behavior of our president, and largely sympathetic to our plight. 

Our entre to these conversations was through the good fortune of being introduced to a young Parisian hotel manager by mutual friends and through her to several other young professionals. In addition, we spent a delightful day of conversation with Gilles Conchy, a middle-aged renaissance man from Marseille who invited us into his home for cooking lessons. Three other native paid guides completed our education. The discussions were lively, interesting, and informative. 

First, a country that is up to its fifth republic has seen its share of good and bad leadership. And with eight current represented political parties and numerous other national and regional parties and factions, the game of French politics is complicated to say the least. French president Charles de Gaulle famously said, “how can you govern a country which has 246 varieties of cheese?” 

The number is closer to 1,000, but the point is that the diversity and regional loyalties and traditions of France makes leadership a unique challenge.  

And the French still talk about revolution.  A lot.  

One of our guides openly challenged us to think about revolution in the context of the environment, the vote, the rights of citizens. He held his phone aloft and said, “stop scrolling and start writing. You have in your hand the most powerful tool since the printing press, and you are not using it.” 

So, in summary, they are thinking a lot about politics; theirs, not ours. 

Second, they meet enough Americans to know that we’re all not bat-shit crazy. All you need to say to start the conversation is “not our guy” or make some pejorative remark about Trump or Musk and they feel licensed to open up. When they do, they are curious as to what we think happened to re-employ a failed leader for a second term. They want to know whether the anxiety about the world economy is the same in the States as it is in the rest of the world. But even the most politically engaged readily admit that in a socialist country, fear of economic impact on the public is small or non-existent. 

Their health care, childcare, public transportation, education, and general welfare will be taken care of by the government. A progressive income tax system, where the rich DO pay more (up to 55%), and an across the board 20% VAT tax on retail expenditures (with some exceptions and discounts), funds these programs. 

However, when we arrived in Bordeaux and began an immersion into the French wine business, uncertainty, anxiety, and anger was a more pervasive climate. Everyone was in a state of flux on pricing, tariff, and shipping costs. And one large retail wine merchant in St. Emilion, said “Every morning, your guy, golden boy, wakes up and changes his mind about this or that and sends this region into a frenzy. It’s unfair. It’s cruel. It’s crazy.” 

Wine growers have enough to worry about. Will it rain enough? Will it rain too much? Will a late frost catch us? What will the Mistral winds do this month? Now add to that: will the manchild in the White House make another decision proving complete ignorance of world economics and the interdependence of the family of nations? They have every right to be mad and see themselves as kindred spirits with every farmer or rancher in the world. 

While they did not blame us for Donald Trump, they were exasperated that some Americans:  

• Have never heard of the late French singer Dalida (sold 140 million records, Taylor Swift currently at 114 million). 

• Sometimes pronounce the p in merci beaucoup which changes the meaning from "thank you very much" to “nice ass”. 

• Ask for a doggie bag at the end of the meal (Mon Dieu!) 

• Don’t know that the OK hand sign in France means, “You’re a big zero.” 

• Get impatient when the check doesn’t come after the meal. (Go to the bar and pay, Yank). 

My travelling party only violated the “Excusez-moi, s’il vous plait” once during our stay in France. As Churchill once said, while we are always willing to learn, sometimes it is uncomfortable to be taught. 

The manager at the Regent Cafe at Place de la Comédie in Bordeaux became our instructor on this occasion. 

We had originally seated ourselves outside for lunch, but upon realizing the cold wind was going to be difficult to take, we arose and headed inside. As I came through the door, I raised four fingers to the manager and simply said, “Quatre.” 

The manager was a large but well-proportioned gentleman in his late 50’s with salt and pepper hair. In response to my abrupt request, he rose to his six-foot three height, stuck four fingers in my face, and said, “Quatre? Quatre? Four? Four?” with a rising crescendo.  

“Pardon, monsieur. Oui, s’il vous plait”. 

We were seated and icily handed menus.  

Hayden, the best native speaker in our group, made a full-throated French apology for my abrupt request upon entry and asked for forgiveness. 

A sparkle appeared in our host’s eye and the hint of a smile crossed his face. His demeanor changed immediately, and we were no longer the neanderthal thugs that had originally appeared at his door. 

He uncovered his rudimentary English, joked while taking our orders, and gave us a local wine recommendation. When we chose a different wine, he served us our choice but came back later with glasses of his favorite for us to try.  

All was well again in Franco-American relations. For now at least.