The Politeness of Patou

HE DAY OFFICIALLY BEGAN when we opened the French doors and stepped outside.  There was no need to wear robes.  Our only neighbors were the white doves sipping from the pool, the brown squirrels scurrying up the parasol pine trees and, on occasion, a family of wild boar that had been busy digging up the lawn.  Our sudden appearance would spook the piglets and they would trot off with dad.  But mom stood her ground until her family was a safe distance away, holding us hostage with loud grunts, sharp teeth, and her best eat merde and die look. 

Our morning ritual was to throw on shorts and shirts, and take breakfast by the pool.  But first I drove down the hill to pick up USA Today and any groceries we needed, while Barbara brewed the coffee, chose the music, and set the table.

My initial stop was Le Petit Casino, a small, well-stocked grocery store on the coast road.  The first time I shopped there I was pleasantly surprised by the familiarity of the products.  I was pleasantly surprised because I didn’t want to stand in an aisle with a pocket dictionary in one hand, a strangely-wrapped package in the other, trying to determine if I were buying poisson or poison.  Instead I zipped right along, filling my cart with Florida orange juice, American cereals, espresso coffee, wine, croissants, fresh fruits, and vegetables.

I was also surprised to see a variety of low-fat and nonfat foods.  There was lean hamburger meat, skinless chicken and even reduced-fat cheeses.  What happened to the French paradox, I wondered?  What happened to the promise of a healthy life as long as fat-laden meals were washed down with copious amounts of red wine?  Here was a paradox within a paradox, but I was too busy discovering exquisitely sinful ingredients to worry about it.

Only a few French products were noticeably different: Fresh eggs were brown in color, the yogurt lacked sweeteners, and the milk wasn’t refrigerated.  This last discovery surprised me until I remembered that Pasteur was a great French scientist who knew what he was doing.  In any event, the milk was delicious, even at room temperature, and even in the écrèmé, or skim, variety.

On that very first shopping trip, my cart was overflowing with groceries, cleaning materials, and all the other items we needed to set up housekeeping.  In order to avoid another fruit faux pas, I carefully studied the checkout process.  But shopping at Le Petit Casino was simpler than at Auchan: all I had to do was bag the groceries after they were weighed and scanned by the clerk. 

Unfortunately, I encountered an unexpected problem.  Due to the region’s dry climate, there was a great deal of static electricity in the air, and the thin plastic grocery bags that the clerk handed me simply would not open.  I tried to separate the edges with my fingernails without success.  I wet my fingertips and the bag still refused to open.  I vigorously rubbed the two sides together and le sac flew up and stuck to my face. 

Meanwhile, the pile on the counter grew higher and the line behind me grew longer.  To make matters worse, while I seemed to be purchasing supplies for a small army, the other customers were merely buying baguettes.

I had no choice but to continue rubbing like a madman.  The clerk, looking amused, began handing me items that no longer fit on the counter.  With both arms full and no way to open a plastic bag, I had a sudden flash of Le PetitCasinobrilliance: I could simply place the scanned items back into the cart, pay the clerk, grab some plastic bags on the way out, and leisurely pack my purchases in the privacy of the Peugeot. 

The next stop was usually Le Tabac, the town’s news and smoke shop.  However, buying USA Today turned into a hit or miss proposition because only one copy was allocated to the store.  So I made an arrangement with the shopkeeper to hide the paper under the counter for me.  French proprietors have a propensity for remembering and favoring repeat customers, so special arrangements are readily effected.  It was gratifying to walk into Le Tabac, be instantly recognized, and have the counter person reach down and hand me the newspaper as I walked up.

But this special treatment came with a price—I was expected to chat.  Pleasantries such as “Bonjour,” “Ça va?” and “Bonne journée,” which worked well everywhere else, were not sufficient under the rules of engagement at Le Tabac, rules that required a conversation about the weather, my plans for the day, and a discussion about life in California—all in cheerful and rapid-fire French, and all before my first cup of Barbara’s coffee. 

I tried to comply and even practiced in front of the mirror.  Although my year of college French was helpful, there were times when I was stymied because the Provençaux speak in a drawl, running words together like American Southerners, so that even familiar French expressions were sometimes incomprehensible.

The person with whom I most frequently performed the Tabac ritual was Patou, the twenty-something daughter of the owners.  One morning, still half asleep, I trudged over to the counter and greeted her with my usual “Good day, Patou, how’s it going?”  But it was only after the words left my mouth that I realized I wasn’t speaking French.

“I am fine, Ira,” Patou replied with a lilting accent.  “And how is it going for you?”

I was stunned.  “You speak English?”

“Yes.  We are taught in school.”

“Then why did you let me stumble through my awful French?”

“Because you were trying so hard, and to answer you in English would have been impolite.”

I appreciated Patou’s consideration for my feelings.  This starkly contrasted with the waiters at bustling Parisian cafés who routinely answered my French in English.  But here in polite Provence, there apparently was a rule that a conversation initiated in French required a response in French. 

I now wondered if this rule extended to English.  “Patou,” I asked, “what if I walked into another store in town and began with ‘Hello, how are you?’  If the proprietor responded in English, we’d get on with life.  Otherwise, I’d simply lapse back into fractured French.”

Patou admonished me with a wave of her forefinger.  “Ira, when you are in France, you should speak French.”  She went on to explain that although many shopkeepers knew some English, their opportunity to hear and speak it was limited to the summer season.  Therefore, if I tried to force people to speak English when they weren’t comfortable, it would also be impolite.

Patou knew I wasn’t going to become fluent in French overnight, so she suggested that after the French greetings, I simply ask the shopkeeper, “Do you speak English?”  She added that I might not be successful at the businesses that serve residents, such as Le Petit Casino and the farmer’s market, but switching to English should work at places frequented by tourists, such as the hotels, restaurants and cafés.

I was learning a lot from Patou.  Over time, as our friendship evolved, Patou introduced me to her brother, Daniel, and later to their parents.  The family owned other businesses—a gift shop and a fine Provençal restaurant—and Barbara and I were warmly welcomed whenever we stopped by.  And if they saw us driving our lime-green Peugeot in town, Patou and her family would always wave and smile.

Our world had been enriched.  We were no longer only in the company of doves, squirrels and wild boar.  We were no longer isolated from the community in which we lived.  We had developed a warm and enduring friendship with a local family, and it changed the way we viewed La Chandelle and the South of France: the villa was no longer just a charming and peaceful vacation spot; it began to feel like our second home.