Recently, Olivier gave Nick this book about the difference between French people and American people, and Nick hasn’t been able to put it down. I know the idea may sound a bit trite (“They eat more bread!”), but this one’s written by a psychologist who looks very hard at the internal and cultural trends that we tend to take for granted.
For one thing (and this is the main thing that we’ve been talking about lately, other than Jolie’s bodily functions), the author tells us that America, having been formed out of so many immigrants who spoke different languages and had different cultural norms, quickly became a country of explicit communication. Value is placed on getting your point across quickly, on plain speech, on clarity. Directions are clear and thorough.
The French don’t think that way.
I’m told that I am now in the middle of a country of implicit norms: if you don’t already know what to do, no one is going to go out of their way to make it easier. Why should they? If you don’t already know, then you’re obviously not French.
It’s a touch sadistic. At the very least, it’s seriously anti-melting-pot.
I suspect that this is why it is so common for people to correct my speech. They generally seem incapable of just doing what I obviously have asked; they need me to ask correctly in order to respond. They see potential in me and Nick to fit in, so they don’t just shrug and turn us away, but they will not accept anything less than perfect Frenchness.
In addition, this way of thinking makes for some difficulty in getting a straight answer, since clarity is not especially prized here. People tend to figure that if you’re asking a question, you want a discussion, not a definite response. It took me ten minutes to get the vet to tell me whether it was safe yet for Jolie to play with other dogs (yes and no, apparently). When he asked what we fed her and I couldn’t remember the brand, he said that that was fine. “There are three or four main brands,” he said (yes, we got an English-speaking vet), “and they’re all quite good for what she needs. They’re all about the same. Unless you get a really awful one or something, they’re okay.”
Excuse me?
In the meantime, neither of us sleeps well anymore. Aside from Jolie’s habitual 3am run outside (apparently she can only sleep through the night if the “night” is five hours long because she wouldn’t settle down for ages), we’ve been having nightmares. They started with me (of course) dreaming that Nick had taken her out of her crate in the middle of the night. When I would start awake and see him sleeping, I would panic, believing that the dog was loose in the apartment.
I’ve woken poor Nick up about five times since we got her, demanding to know where she is, when she’s been asleep in her crate the whole time. He was not pleased…but then he started having the same dream.
Last night, though, we apparently got more creative.
“I can’t believe you tried to make me kill Jolie!” I fumed.
“I can’t believe you slept with Dracula and said it was ‘no big deal’!” he shouted back.
I think we’ll be okay.
I do have one concern, though. And since this one is a little twisted, I would like to ask any parents, grandparents, or minors reading this to just go back up to the last paragraph, and consider that the end of this post. Please do not keep reading.
For the rest of you sickos: last night, Nick was sitting at the computer and suddenly burst out laughing. “They make blow-up dolls for dogs!” he crowed.
What the hell is he looking for on the Internet?
Now, I’m not suggesting that you check it out, or anything, but I am including a link to the hysterical photo below. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
