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Awhile back a friend who was planning a trip to
Europe with his wife asked me for advice on where to
go and what to see. When I recommended several of my
favorite places he nodded and asked if I’d write
them down, but when I penciled in several stops in
France he balked.
“Uh-uh, I don’t want to go to France,” he said
over my shoulder. “The French hate us.”
“Wow, all 68 million of them!” I said, surprised
by the news. “How’d I miss that vote?”
“Huh?”
“So, did you see it on CNN? 60 Minutes? Was that
little clock ticking behind Mike Wallace’s oversized
head when he said the vote in Paris was unanimous?”
“What vote? What are you talking about?”
“I guess I’m just trying to figure out where you
heard that the French really hate all of ‘us’ or
say, just you in particular?”
“Me?”
“I mean, that I can understand. Your wife is
pretty so she’d be popular in France. You, on the
other hand are ugly as a stump and the French have a
law against that, part of the Napoleonic Code, as I
recall. So I can see why you don’t want to go there
or have to believe that they hate all of us.
Self-preservation, right?”
“You know what I mean, smartass,” he replied.
“Naw, I don’t,” I said, getting back to the point
on why France is a good place to visit and why
stereotypes tend to suck the nutrients out of food
for thought. “The French don’t hate us, they just
hate the way we mangle their language at times…”
“Yeah, well I don’t speak French.”
“Ah, but you know what?”
“What?”
“They really don’t hate that either.”
“They don’t, huh?”
“No,” I said. “They’re just happy when we at least
try.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“No, I’m not,” I said, trying to find the right
parallel. “It’s like dancing...”
“Yeah, well I’m not a good dancer.”
“You don’t have to be. Women love it when we’re
great at it but they like us anyway when we’re
willing to get up and do it without stepping on
their toes one too many times.”
“Is that right?”
I shrugged. “A poor analogy maybe but you get the
general idea.”
“So, when did you become a big fan of the
French?”
I thought about it for a moment and smiled
recalling a wild car ride I had back in the 70s with
a chain-smoking old French woman in the Vosges
Mountains in the Northeastern part of France.
I was hitchhiking my way to Strasbourg and the
German border. It was about ten in the morning, I
was tired, a little grubby, and still had a long
journey. The woman owned a small blue tin can like
Citroen 2CV, stopped, offered me a lift, and once I
was seated roared off like a maniac.
She laughed a lot and took some dangerous curves
at ridiculous speeds. In her broken English and my
broken French we passed the time talking about
traveling—where I was from, where I was going, and
how I was enjoying Europe so far.
We talked politics, food, and everything under the
proverbial Alsatian sun. She dropped me off close to
Colmar, thrust some francs in my hand for lunch and
told me to enjoy life as much as I could because
life goes by much too quickly. She continued to
laugh as she sped off. I grinned and waved goodbye.
Because of those experiences I became a fan of the
country.
“I like France and for the most part I’ve had nice
times there, which tells me that maybe they don’t
all hate us. Besides, I also know you can’t go on a
trip to Europe without at least including Paris.
You’ll kick yourself if you don’t. There are great
things to see…”
“Like what, the long lines of tourists at the
Eiffel Tower?”
“Yeah, there are lines of tourists,” I admitted,
“But not when you’re looking at it from across the
river at night. It’s not crowded and there’s no
admission fee for the amazing view. Wander through
the D’Orsay, the Louvre and the Les Invalides Army
museums—they have stuff there that’ll wow you!”
“I’m not thrilled with crowds.”
“Not a problem. If you don’t like big cities then
you can always head out to the countryside and find
a small town or wine vineyard where you can pick up
a great bottle of wine at a price so low that it
will make your local grocery store manager cry! Not
to mention, you can usually find tasty food in small
local restaurants anywhere you go because, well,
they celebrate tasty food. In fact, there was a
Frenchman who went by the name of Curnowsky who made
fine dining a national art form.”
“I don’t like fancy food,” he said.
“Okay, so what about good food? And I’m not
talking about stuff that is super-sized or comes
with a crappy toy.”
“I like good food.”
“Good because not every plate in every French
restaurant is going to look like a Monet painting
but my impression is that you’ll like what you get
anyway...”
“Whad’ya know, Monet and impression in the same
sentence?”
“Drawing conclusions, are you?”
“Have you no shame?”
“None,” I said. “And there’s always the Riviera
which ain’t a bad place to see as well, romantic
views for your wife and with views of bikini clad or
half-bikini clad women for you.”
“Bikini’s, huh?” he said suddenly figuring that
maybe France might not be such a bad place to visit
after all.
“Yeah, that’s where they were invented and
partially discarded,” I added and then hit him with
the best argument I could think of. “Besides, if you
don’t kick yourself for not going to Paris then your
wife just might kick you instead. I’m betting she
probably wants to see it, right?”
“She does,” he conceded.
“Of course, she does! All women do. It’s on their
‘places to see’ punch card.”
“They have punch cards?”
“Probably that they keep with their
‘shirts-of-my-husband’s-I-won’t-ever-let-him-wear-again’
list. So keep her happy and you might find you like
Paris too. I’m reasonably certain you’ll find at
least one or two tolerable French people there while
you’re at it.”
“One or two, huh?”
“At least that many,” I said, smug in my
mathematical assurance.
Stereotypes are hard to get over at times, even
harder when some politicians or public figures react
or even overreact to isolated events or comments,
trying to force us into antagonistic corners with
loud, bogus or foolish arguments.
Take ‘The Ugly American,’ moniker for example. Not
all Americans traveling abroad are ugly. However,
there are always a few folks who fit the bill and
don’t know how to travel. It’s the law of averages.
For those people I always wished that the
Immigration and Customs people the world over would
have a special stamp reading: TOO DUMB TO TRAVEL and
thump it on their passports to keep them from
crossing borders and going abroad.
Unfortunately world travel is open to those with
the money and time which means the rest of us have
to put up with pinheads, yahoos and occasional SOBs
who somehow seem to transcend nationalities and time
and who have that unique knack of momentarily
souring an otherwise nice occasion.
If you’re thinking of traveling to Europe,
include a visit to France. Don’t believe what you’ve
heard about the French until you see and meet them
for yourself. Be your own best judge and don’t carry
a pocket gavel.
When my friend and his wife came back
from their trip to Europe they said they had a great
time in France and the French people they came
across didn’t hate them.
“In fact, most were actually very nice,” said his
wife smiling.
“Really? The French people were nice to you,” I
said, “And they didn’t stamp your husband’s passport
with a special stamp or anything?”
“What special stamp?” she asked while her husband
chuckled and shook his head.
“He thinks there ought to be a stamp that says:
‘TOO DUMB TO TRAVEL’ for passports for pinheads and
rude SOBS when they travel.”
“Just a thought,” I said in my defense. “It’s not
like I suggested branding their foreheads.”
“And to think that people like Mother Teresa get
all the good press,” mused my friend.
“Yeah, go figure,” I said.
“I’m surprised they let you travel anywhere,” he
added.
“They have to,” I replied. “They don’t have the
special stamp yet!”
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