Since I moved to my hometown of Norwich in July after 2½ years in rural Burgundy, France, the one aspect of French life that has me feeling home-away-from-homesick is the rules. No, not France’s famous administrative laws and paperwork. I miss the cultural rules.
This is an unsettling realization because, as a general rule, my rule of thumb is that I hate rules. Rules deny the id, which, for men, is a big problem. And rules rarely make complete sense: Even society’s easy rules (“i before e except after c”) are weird. One could conclude that Americans — who have a particularly vehement distaste for rules — can trace our national spirit back to a simple reality: the Founding Fathers and the assembled rebels were sick and tired of a set of lousy rules.
Many people think that France’s spirit can be summed up by the national motto: liberté, égalité, fraternité. When I lived there, however, I learned that this is a grave misconception. In truth, France is governed by two brief statements: On n’a pas le droit (one does not have the right) and Ça ne se fait pas (that is not done.) Want to picnic on the grass or open your business on Sunday afternoon? On n’a pas le droit. Feel the urge to use the bathroom at someone’s house or discuss your political beliefs? Ça ne se fait pas.
Now, French people will take these expressions and turn them to their advantage whenever possible, resulting in a lot of rules-within-a-rule and many, many exceptions. But they are good jumping off points for understanding all the regulations in French life: rules about grammar (great minds have cracked trying to decode vous versus tu), swimwear (to Burkini or not to Burkini), clubs (if you want to start a barbershop quartet, you’ll need to register it with the state), and digestion (staying upright makes gravity your ally).
Happily, the country also excels at not having rules in exactly the right places. Vendors at markets offer samples of ham, cheese and goose liver without using plastic gloves or refrigeration. One can walk the county fair with a glass of wine in one’s hand; no Frenchman would support being penned up in a dedicated “21 and over” area with his Chardonnay. And if you feel like going au naturel at the beach, feel free. It is just the right amount of laissez-faire to keep one sane.
Over our time in Burgundy, my wife and I internalized French rules until they became automatic. When you walk into a cafe, the post office or the shoe store, your first word is unfailingly Bonjour. And when you depart, you say, Au revoir. When seeing a woman, you give her a little kiss on each cheek, les bises. Men shake each other’s hands. These customs are about as negotiable as the sunrise.
Here in the Upper Valley, it’s “What’s happening, man?” at Ramunto’s and “See you later alligator” at Dan & Whit’s. Fist bumps, high fives, peace signs and hugs are all acceptable ways of saying hello or goodbye. (Try those in France and you will understand total ostracization.) The variety is charming, but I came to love and lean on the safety and comfort in the uniformity of France’s greetings.
If Thomas Jefferson had written a Declaration of Independence for the French, it would read: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all foods in Life are not created equal, that one does not have the Liberty to eat between meals, that one luncheons at noon, and that, in the pursuit of Happiness, one simply never dines before 7 p.m. Furthermore, when one eats, one is seated at a table. Always.” This system, so civilized it would set Miss Manners atwitter, knows no class boundaries. It is deeply national, and is respected by plumbers, opticians, teachers, presidents and hairdressers.
In my native culture, life is an uninterrupted eating extravaganza. In contrast to France, where every 3-year-old eats everything but bread with utensils, grown-ups and kids alike consume bagels, burritos and BLTs while window shopping on Main Street. My oldest son eats three times during the seven-hour kindergarten day; his French counterparts eat once. Apples, oatmeal and breakfast sandwiches are the norm at public computer terminals in Baker Library. Septuagenarians happily lick their way through a soft-serve ice cream cone while driving a stick-shift car. You want eggs benedict or a barbecue chicken sandwich at 2:30 in the morning on Tuesday? The Upper Valley can do that. It is nutritional anarchy … and I love it. Nevertheless, after thousands of French meals, part of me will be forever flabbergasted by how, where and when Americans eat.
Overall, I am happy to be home. Americans laugh. They are curious. They are genuinely nice. My wife and I yearned for those traits during our time abroad. But I confess that part of me is still wired à la française, giving me dueling points of view. Sometimes, it feels like I see the world in color out of one eye and in black and white through the other. I hope it doesn’t change anytime soon; it makes life very rich.
As I was driving in Hanover the other day, a woman rode the wrong way down the street on her bicycle, steering with only her right hand. In her left, she clutched a cup of hot coffee. Shaking my head, but smiling – I muttered, “For Chrissake … Ça ne se fait pas.”
Mark Lilienthal lives in Norwich. He can be reached at mlilient@gmail.com.