The Strike: A French Tradition

The University re-opened this morning. You had to present a student card to be admitted through the police barricade at the front gate, but due to the chairs and tables that had been replaced in front of the buildings, no classes could be held despite the re-opening. Sirens blared during the day and protesting High School students flooded the streets with banners to remind France they would soon be discontent university students too. New groups of grade-conscious students are petitioning the administration to have Finals moved to January to give ample studying time in light of the three and counting weeks of lost class. By early afternoon the campus had been relocked indefinitely. In Paris riots have started injuring over 80 police officers in one night. An elementary school and a library were burned several nights ago. Two children were killed in a motorcycle accident with a Police car. SNCF, the national trains, are still on strike. The local public transport has been intermittently on strike here in Montpellier. And all the French have to say is: Mais c'est la saison des grèves... [But it's the season of strikes...] I say: France, you are ridiculous.

It is interesting to experience, well live, deep cultural differences on such an obvious level, but I feel that I am just beginning to truly notice the more subtle differences between American and French culture. You never really give your culture credit for just how much influence it has over your actions and personality until you're painfully aware of it. Suddenly I've started noticing the things I do that scream: American! I smile, I introduce myself in social situations, I have a personal space bubble, I expect customer service and efficiency. Americans smile to say Hello, to share a joke with a stranger, to lighten the mood, to make someone more comfortable. Smile at a Frenchwoman on the street and you might as well be asking her to dinner. It is totally unacceptable to smile at strangers, rude sometimes, or even dangerous to smile at the guy sitting across from you on the tram. Unless you've bumped into them or caused an accident; then one might smile to express apologizes. I smile when I make eye contact with someone, I smile when I walk into a store and usually when I leave, I smile when I'm introduced to someone, I probably smile while I'm walking down the street. The French don't even smile at a new acquaintance until you feel you've developed a relationship on some level. My Civilization professor asked us incredulously on Monday night, Your mother actually told you to smile at strangers when you were little? In fact chances are the first time you meet someone they won't even ask you your name. They will, however, greet you with a curt Bonjour, kiss you three times (I live in the South) on the cheek and then promptly go back to whoever they were originally talking. Actually, I've found that if a man asks you your name first thing you are not in for an enjoyable evening, unless you're actually interested. Chances are, you aren't.

This brings me to my #1 pet peeve in France. Amy finally proposed a plausible explanation today as to why I even notice this, but it bothers every American to whom I've mentioned it. You're walking down the sidewalk, which is very narrow, and there are two people walking side by side in front of you. They, inevitably, are not moving very fast and you're late for class, which translates into you hurrying, also very American. You are now walking about two feet behind them and you can't pass, they don't move either. You edge up, and now you're about 6 inches behind them. They glance at you and keep walking, side by side, totally blocking the sidewalk. Finally you say Pardon a little too loudly and push past them. They don't seem to notice. You head into the grocery store and you want to pull your hair out just walking down the first aisle. No one will move their shopping cart to let you by. You basically have to body slam the couple arguing over jam to get past even though they saw you coming. The guy with shopping basket walks straight into you because he's still staring at forty brands of plain yogurt and he doesn't seem to notice. The lady on the tram on the way home seems to be fondling your leg, but she's staring absently mindedly out the window. EUROPEANS HAVE NO CONCEPT OF PERSONAL SPACE. There is nothing wrong with this, but it's strange to realize how much it bothers me. They expect you to push past them on the street, or in the grocery store. I look at the cart in the aisle and think: I can't squeeze through there without touching someone. They think: There's plenty of room for you to walk by. I'm the contactophobe. I don't want to be touched by strangers, I assume that people will move over on the sidewalk if I walk up behind them, because they don't want to be touched either. But they don't care. No wonder we overuse antibiotics and bactericides. It's not a question of who's right and who's wrong or who's better, it just is. People are different, cultures are different. Just the same, I'm gonna keep smiling. Just don't touch me when you walk by in the grocery store please.