When in France, Do As The French

Our tour guide leader on this trip is a wonderful 24 year-old East Berliner with a knack for languages. What I like most about Christine is that her English is clearly stronger than her French, and my English is clearly stronger than my French, but she insists we speak French. And I am happy to oblige. After all, the French have long dreamed of French being the linga franca of people of the world. I feel that it is my part to at least give the French some small satisfaction. Small.

Christine is quite awesome. A part of me things she deeply respects the French, while another part of me thinks she may actually be a little bit racist. She is German, and clearly a hard worker. She never misses he opportunity to poke fun at the French laziness. The strikes. he belief that everything is better in France. And apparently the fact that France can pout and whine and get anything they want regarding the European Union. The point is that she is hilarious and never ceases to make me laugh.

One of the things one of my classmates asked her is how to identify a non-European in the crowd. For example, walking down the streets of old Strasbourg, how is it possible that she can spot an American a million miles a way. She looked at me, grinned, then pointed to my bright pink Vineyard Vines skirt and said, "Bright colors. Americans wear colors. Europeans wear things just in case someone drops dead and they have to go to a funeral."

The problem is that no matte rhow cultured I am, or even claim to be for the purpose of the editorial, I can not escape the fact that I am American. My wardrobe consists of absolutely nothing black or gray. I am a happy-go-lucky person, and the colors I wear are my way of showing it.

I am not European. I am not French. Christine does not care. She is, after all, a tour guide that always totes around group of gaggling American tourists laughing at the top of their lungs and looking like they just stepped out of a paint can. And as I walked around La Petite France in the warm weather, surrounded by folks in Black clearly identifying me as a typical idiotic American tourist, I realized something. I am doing as the french do in France. Not giving a shit.

The French may walk around as if they have the high fashion, the good life, and a mouth that has no muscles in order to give it a hint of a smile. The fact is you still step in the same dog poop left behind by a lazy Frenchmen that doesn't curb the dog as someone who is wearing the latest high leather boots as someone who wears run down disgusting old Converse shoes. And first and foremost, even before the tres chic atmosphere, comes the French attitude of not giving a shit about anything.

I may dress like an American. I may look like an American. But when it comes down to waling the streets of France, I am 100% French. I don't give two shots about what people are thinking of me as I carry on in my neon shirt, Canvas sailor bag, and brights red cardigan. In a different way, I am doing as the French in france.