These are a Few of Their Favorite Things

Bienvenue en France. Les français font les grèves. Welcome to France. The French go on strike.

Outside my window, large crowds of high school students are huddled in black, gray, and brown jackets. They caused quite a ruckus this morning – woke me up, the rascals! – blocking the school entrance with big, green, plastic trash cans. Someone even threw some toilet paper over the metal gates (cherry on the tarte). All day they’ve been out there, protesting, doing their patriotic duty. Some are shouting and shooting off bottle rockets. Many are standing idly and smoking. Most are sitting and chatting – the noble work of young revolutionaries!

The reason for the strike, just one among many taking place all over the city and country, is a reform pending in the French Parliament: the current age for retirement is 60, and the reform will increase it to 62. People are living longer, and there are too many retired people with pensions! says the pro-reform side. But there aren’t enough jobs as it is! says the anti-reform side. And so the French go on strike. High school students become forward-thinking, proactive, and concerned about the future! Or, high school students smell an opportunity to skip class and make some noise?

In two weeks, I’ve met a heap of friendly French people, notably the teachers at Lycée (high school) Albert Thomas, where I’m an English teaching assistant. And so right here, right now, I can affirm that not all French are snobs. Luckily I don’t weigh 300 pounds, so they in turn see that Americans don’t collectively resemble the girl who turns into a blueberry in “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.” But I digress. This morning, when I asked the teachers what is the deal-io with the French affinity for strikes and protests, many of them rolled their eyes and said, Bah oui. Les français, ils aiment faire de la grève.

So the French love going on strike. Here are some other things they love:

1) “Desperate Housewives.” Except that on this side of the pond, it’s “des-pah-rate ‘ouse wive.” Never having seen the show, I don’t understand it. Having seen a commercial, I really don’t understand it.

2) McDonalds. That’s right, they wag their cigarettes and poo-poo us while standing in line for a Croque McDo, fries (frites), and a Coke (un Coca). I will say, the McDonalds where I’ve been guiltlessly slurping up Wifi (“wee-fee”) is super swank, with soft swivel chairs and green, Mondrian-esque art on the walls. Still smells like fries, though.

3) Dark clothing. Oy vey, I’m a lonely purple begonia in a patch of black tulips. The older people do wear more color – one of the secretaries wears orange glasses, for instance. I like her.

4) Small things. Their cars and roads make ours look like dinosaur cars and dinosaur roads. Coffee is another one. After lunch, nine out of ten French adults (no, I won’t cite that) have un petit café with un petit dessert. A shot of espresso and a small pastry that I won’t describe here, as certain French desserts can lead to (appetite) arousal. Small, satisfying, and delicious. Bada-bing, bada-boom.

5) Saying “bah.” It sounds ridiculous, but surely I have heard this sound over one thousand times, give or take, in the past two weeks. “Bah” is French for “um” or “uh.” Frequently elongated, it sounds like our soft animal friend the sheep: Baaaaah, oui. Baaaaah, non. Baaaaah, qu’est-ce qu’elle a dit? J’ai rien compris, moi. (Uhhhh, yes. Uhhhhh, no. Uhhhhh, what did she say? I didn’t understand anything.)

So for now, I can only conclude that some things here are similar, and some things are different. But we all love dessert.