(Editor’s note: This is the first of three articles on Martin Jones Westlin’s summer vacation in France, during which he’s discovering some of the culture’s lesser-publicized traits through participation in a volunteer work program. This time, he looks at one instance that, thanks to some ingenious French hospitality, may have averted rethinking part of the trip. Westlin is editor of La Jolla Village News.) BROSSAC, France — “Desole, mademoiselle,” I pleaded with the girl behind the train info window at Charles De Gaulle International Airport, “mais mon francais est tres, tres mauvais.” That translates roughly to “Sorry, sis, but my French bears a striking resemblance to almost anything else.” Her hot little face lit up into one of those Christmas-tree smiles, the kind that bespeaks the dogged benevolence of the season. With her help (in perfect, lilting English), I was on my way out of Paris to join a group of fellow volunteers at Brossac, in France’s Southwest. We’re recasting a 16th-century farmhouse into an educational and cultural community, fueled by the best traditions of French commerce and exhaustive decency.
It’s the “exhaustive decency” part I want to talk about today. The French have been refining it for centuries, often in a world whose snap judgments sell the culture totally short. Arrogant? Rude? Self-centered? That’s part of the popular assessment of the French, the world’s way of describing what it doesn’t understand — and while I’m far from an authority on the French psyche, I can testify to a clutch of real-life experiences that contradict the public mind and may have even saved part of this already exhausting trip.
Truth be told, I was confronted with a couple challenges that centered on my mobility (read: I’m old). The sweetie at the airport was the first to notice, patiently suggesting a few remedies that included wheelchair assistance – and while that wasn’t my first choice (read: I’m a diva), I gave in, since I didn’t know the airport (let alone the language). My humility not only solved my navigation dilemma; it revealed an entire assistive network as much a part of France as French itself.
My five-hour train ride consisted of two stops – at the end of which someone was there to greet me with a wheelchair each time. The remarkable thing is that I hadn’t requested any extra help outside de Gaulle! Somehow, some way, my hosts figured it’s better to be safe than sorry and had arranged to meet me by default! No calling ahead on my part, no extra fee, no executive subcommittee. They knew to look for me simply because I’d bought a ticket, and they took everything from there.
Absolutely unbelievable.
They explained that they do that for everybody in a similar pickle – and history knows they’ve refined their ingenuity over lifetimes, from leading the way in special education to pioneering instruction for the deaf and the blind. The country embraces friendship in matters great and small, and it understandably reacts with a vague dismay in the face of the world’s underwhelm. If I’d been the center of the universe 230 years ago (as France was), and if my gifts to humanity had been taken for granted (as perhaps France’s has), I suppose I’d be a little persnickety too.
Maybe that’s what’s behind the appearance of arrogance and rudeness, when nothing more than wishes for commensurate world order are at play. I submit that the latter makes more sense, especially amid the litany of ground-level instances that reveal it.
The sweet kid who genuinely worried for my welfare when my connection to Brossac was late to the train station.
The affable guy and his wife who gave me their place in line at the supermarket when they sensed my sucky French was doing me more harm than good.
The grizzled old Brossac icon who playfully dismissed me when he learned I’m an American (he now yells “San Diego!” when he sees me, fairly leaving his feet amid talks about the likes of Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters and B. B. King).
The total babe behind that dowdy information window, whose simple encouragement fueled an excursion into one of the most complex and colossal sanctuaries the world over.
My God, kids. France is incredibly beautiful this time of year.