LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
Student CAMP: More nores from abroad |
Kristen Minor |
Every week in my French class has a theme. Last week it was, tragically, fashion, wherein we were subjected to hours of discussion about shoes, skirts, and where the most chic stores were to be found in Lyon. It was excruciating, and I remain uncertain as to how my essay on how the fashion industry perpetuates unhealthy and stereotypical female body images will go over with my French prof, who once went on a tangent lamenting how many women simply do not tie their scarves fashionably. (Between that and her love of describing in great detail how regional cheeses are made I remain perpetually ready to throw myself in the Rhone river.) This week the subject is family, which at least does not inspire me to recite feminist slogans through gritted teeth. We have devoted some time to discussing PACS, which is the French equivalent of gay marriage. France is a Catholic country, yes, but it is also a place where a full quarter of the country is in the Socialist party. PACS were enacted at the end of the 1980s after fierce debate in the legislature. It's a civil arrangement; a contract, really. More than 20,000 couples each year are PACed, and they have the 'not as many benefits as straight couples, but mostly there' status that civil unions in Vermont want to be. This brings me to the observation that in France there is a great separation between private and public life. Although Catholic dogma is pretty clear on the acceptability of homosexuality, the general French attitude is that people can do what they want to with their lives. After all, everyone is a taxpayer. This principal is most graphically illustrated by French dogs, actually. Anyone who visits France will notice immediately that nobody cleans up after their little rat terriers, making the streets a hazardous walk at night in more ways than one. To combat this the French government has built what are essentially large vacuum cleaners that resemble Mr. Snuffalupagus on Sesame Street that go around sucking up the leavings. The motocrotts, as they are called, are a result of the public/private life mentality here. It is the business of nobody if a Frenchman owns a dog, therefore it is the business of nobody if the dog chooses to use the sidewalk as a restroom. When confronted with the obvious hole in this logic, French dog owners point to the vacuum and note that the problem is being taken care of, leaving the rest of us scraping off our shoes. In other news, those of you who are my mother and father will be happy to know that I have attained conversational fluency at last. Embarrassing mixups are few (one of my friends, when trying to tell her French mother that she liked her necklace, managed to say 'I like your sodomy.' The aftermath involved a lot of explaining and a dictionary) and I can even give directions in French now as long as they do not involve more than a simple 'the thing that you want is over there.' The culture wars also continue. The other day I went to a cooking lesson at the culinary school of Paul Bocuse, considered one of the best chefs in the word. We were taught how to make things involving fish and a lot of sauce by a chef whose perpetual expression signified "My God. What am I doing here with these heathens who wouldn't know a good hollandaise sauce if it was gnawing on their shin?" He was horrified when I told him that I know how to make tacos for 50 people, whereupon he imparted to us his opinion that there was no real American cuisine. On that note the barrage of McDonald's jokes continue. The counterattacks also exist. In France one of the most popular cartoons is called Asterix and Obelixthey're basically two guys who run around ancient France and have adventures. A live action movie of this cartoon just came out here starring Gerard Depardieu, among others, and it's quite popular. About the level and targeting of a Disney film, if you want a comparison. The film makes the obligatory American jokes and is entirely a children's movie. The one thing that gave me great pause in the entire movie was the song that went with the closing credits. By Snoop Dog. Which begins with one of the leads saying "What's my mother f-ing name?" and only goes downhill from there. The music editor either doesn't speak English or speaks it very well. My time here is drawing to an end; as I write I have two more weeks. I have had a wonderful time but I am quite ready to go back to Delaware. I miss the smell of the Atlantic at night. Kristen Minor is a member of the class of 2004 at Dartmouth College, where there is currently a pinkeye outbreak, while in Lyon she remains healthy. Ha. Email her at kristen@youth-guard.org and she will get back to you sometime after Saint Patrick's Day. Seriously. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 12, No. 02, March 8, 2002. |