Tuesday, November 04, 2003

The ghost of France past 

In doing my blog roll and links, I realised that my reads have a rather Gallic tint. Actually, right at this moment I am reading some English assistants' pages. Why am I so interested in this country, this language, these people? It's not that I'm exactly a Francophile. Sure, I admire the elegance and beauty of the language, but Italian is just as musical, if not more so. Paris is stunning, but so is London. I can appreciate the cuisine's delicacy, but I'd prefer a hearty Italian pasta any day. As for the people, they are hardly the warmest and friendliest.

And yet there is something compelling about the country. My experiences with France have been mixed. Before I even set foot there, I already had a romantic image of it, a myth built on films and books. Before going to Europe, I stuffed myself with fiction and literature and movies that fed this dream. So for me, Paris became more than a city. It evoked bohemian artists, starving writers, lovers, luxury, revolution. Civilization.

Then there was the reality of it. The first time I went to France, it was for a couple of days, on a whistle-stop tour. Paris was our last stop, so the anticipation was really at a height. But first impressions were disappointing. Dull grey autoroutes broken by the occasional graffiti'd tunnel, bland suburbs. Embarassment at being snubbed by a salewoman, dirty looks for daring to be so badly dressed in a posh café. Dog caca. But then, there was the arrestingly beautiful Nike de Milo in the Louvre. Walking the avenues in the rain. Xylophones in the metro. The unexpected generosity of the man who led us the whole kilometer or so to Sacré Coeur- ignorant of the fact that we were plotting ways to maim him in case he were a rapist! What a bundle of contradictions.

The second time, my experience was more intimate. For around seven weeks, I stayed with a family who lived in an HLM appartment just outside the Peripherique. A truly unforgettable time: literally, I can recall precisely the events of my first and last days, and many snapshots in between. Again, there were moments of embarassment at incessant faux pas, boredom, utter loneliness, frustration, alienation. And then again, there were moments where I felt so privileged to be taken in as part of someone else's family: "fou rires" with my host sisters, cooking with the mother. I was touched by some of the kids' attempts to make contact even though I was a pathetic interlocutor (eg. Laura: "comment tu t'appelles?" Me: *nod nod, smile* Laura: "t...o...n n..o...m?" Me: *nod nod smile smile*). I was surprised and flattered at attracting some flirting; even if it was by a boy a couple of years my junior.

It's a love-hate relationship. Sometimes the hate wins out, for example, just before my French oral exam last last week when I had the sudden and crushing realisation that no, I could not speak French. Then love: when, once inside the exam room, all these beautiful noises came out of their own volition. For the most part, France and French have been good to me. Hey, the Alliance Française has given me a nice free trip to a former penal colony as well as a number of *cough* riveting books.
So I suppose I should say, so long and thanks for the...doorstops.

Good god, this post is long. Let it compensate for my future silence, because I MUST NOT go online tomorrow: EXAM EXAM EXAM SOON

# posted at 2:54 am

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