French Letter 2

Speaking the Language
Just as one has difficulty in imagining how a blind man perceives colours, I have no conception of how my carefully articulated French sounds to French ears. This does not prevent me, however, from finding the average Frenchman’s attempts at English excruciatingly hilarious. What is even funnier, is the French idea of what English usage must be – this consists in adding ‘ing’ to every possible noun. Thus we have Le Parking, Le Pressing, Le Shopping, etc. I presume that a Frenchman imagines an English conversation to run as follows.
“Where have you left the car, dear.?”
“Oh, I left it in the local Parking”.
And the English are just as bad. I recall that a now-deceased semi-literate politician thought that he was being most urbane by agreeing that he had been “economical with the actualité” meaning, I suppose he thought, economical with the truth. Except that “les actualités” means “the News” in French – and so a correct translation would not have got him into such hot water. This is reminiscent of what we used to call “faux amis” – false friends – in school: the same word in both languages having subtly – and sometimes not so subtly – different meanings. I remember an interview on UK television with a famous French film director – possibly Renoir –and of course the question came up,” Who is your favourite British or American actor? “ Ah, bien sur, zat Jimmy Stewart; he is the fantastique comedian.” Somewhat nonplussed, the interviewer persisted – “Well, yes, but I would not describe him that way?
Outraged, the Famous Director cried” But of course, he is the Grand Comedian!”
Well, in English I suppose we would refer to, say, Ronnie Barker, as a ‘grand comedian’, meaning a very funny comic; but in French this just means a great actor.
So when you buy your ticket for the “Comédie Francaise”, do not expect to fall off your seat with laughter.

Following the Rules
The French have a written constitution; the English do not. This marks an important difference between the ways both nations view their lives and governance. In England we more or less know what we are expected to do, without having a book of rules thrust at us; while the Frenchman expects a strict codification to govern everything he does. Thus, the Englishman is bemused by the list of priorities for reserved seating in the metro; in descending order, – ‘War wounded, blind civilians, pregnant women’- depending on just how pregnant, this last leading to many unrepeatable jokes. The first French phrase every Englishman must learn is “Vous n’avez pas le droit”. “You do not have the right.” This sentence, innocuous in English, will give any overbearing French functionary pause for thought, as he desperately mentally consults the codes governing the particular path of conduct he is about to embark on. As an impoverished student in Paris in the Sixties, when France was fighting the Algerian uprising, and terrorism was rampant in the streets, I decided one morning to fill a suitcase with my dirty laundry and go to the cleaners. On the way, I passed the American Library, and on a whim went in to consult a book. The sight of a scruffy young man carrying a suitcase into a US building was enough to throw everyone into a panic. A burly French guard approached me and demanded to open my suitcase. Disturbed about airing my dirty linen in public, I used the magic phrase: “Vous n’avez pas le droit!”. After a hurried consultation, I was allowed to proceed unhindered.

The ‘Trottoirs’
While pavements in England are for pedestrians, and in the US for cars, in France they are for both. And certainly they are a bonus for motorcyclists on their ‘motos’, who will leave the highway at any sign of a slow-down, to continue on the footpath, unheedful of any danger to those pedestrians foolhardy enough to assume that they are the sole proprietors of the ‘trottoir’. But the king of the ‘trottoir’ is the dog. The French have no scruples about allowing their canine companions to use the trottoir as a vast linear lavatory. No shamefaced scurrying to the side of the road here; our French poodle will proudly fulfill his ‘devoirs’ in the middle of the footpath as and when the moment arrives. Thus, as one walks along this great city, the beauty of Paris must give way to the more urgent task of carefully scrutinizing the pavement lest one returns home with an unwelcome reminder of ones sightseeing perambulation.

The French and BSE
Nothing illustrates better the difference between the British and the French than their attitude to the BSE crisis. Of course, both peoples are united in not believing a word that passes their respective government’s lips, but the French government’s approach was rather more subtle. In the UK, our masters started off by assuring everyone that all meat was perfectly safe, even force-feeding their protesting daughters with hamburgers on television to ram home the point. Naturally this induced an immediate panic on the part of the British, with nobody wanting to go near a piece of meat, and a resultant crisis in the livestock industry. Having learnt their lesson, the government adopted the cunning stance of actually banning beef on the bone; at which point, of course, everyone went on a meat-eating rampage, with flamboyant beef-on-bone parties hosted by various royals. The beef industry was saved.

At the start of their BSE crisis, the French government, on the other hand, announced that not only was all meat absolutely lethal, but this applied to salmon and poultry too. Thus reassured, the Frenchman continued to consume his biftek and frites as before with a clear conscience, and nobody was the worse off.

A new form of transport..
The eccentric multimillionaire inventor Dean Kamen is reported to be about to reveal a revolutionary new form of individual transport, which is reckoned to be the greatest innovation since Clive Sinclair’s C5 of the eighties.
Well, I reckon I am ahead of him there. In Paris I have discovered a form of transport which is non-polluting, does not depend on the vagaries of the bus or the metro, is not affected by leaves on the rails, and utterly disregards traffic congestion. Furthermore, it is instantly available, and there are no parking problems at the end of the journey, and it is only slightly weather-sensitive. The cost is minimal; shoes have to be repaired or purchased at regular intervals. I refer of course to the oldest means of transport of all, walking.

Paris is a city whose beauty can only be appreciated on foot. The Seine and its bridges, Notre Dame and its gargoyles, the street markets, the parks. The list is endless, and all within walking distance, unlike London, whose periphérique – the M25 – has a circumference which is itself half the distance between London and Paris.

Paris is a city which, like Manhattan, it is still possible to traverse on foot from North to South, or from East to West. Walking, the most reliable form of transport. I’m thinking of taking out a patent.

The French and Health
It is said that a Frenchman travels with two suitcases, one for his clothes and the second for his medicines. Factually the national spend on prescription drugs is very high in France; it remains to be proved that the Frenchman is healthier for it, although he is, to a man, a card-carrying hypochondriac.

The French Health Service regularly invites every French adult to attend a full check-up. As I never turn down anything free, I went along. It turned out to be dramatically exhaustive; ECG, chest x-ray, Blood Pressure, vision, hearing, teeth, a thorough top-to-toe oscultation. And that was only the first day. A further visit is devoted to tests necessitating a period of preparation before various bodily fluids are extracted. Before I turned up, I filled in a questionnaire in which I gave myself 8/10 for fitness - well, I thought 9/10 would sound like boasting. By the end of the first day (teeth bad, eyes bad, ears bad,.....) I felt that 3/10 would have been an over-optimistic appraisal.

The French Medical system has turned me from a happy ignoramus into an unhappy if wiser man. But still no healthier.