Being French

My yellow "Replay" souvenir sandals from Croatia! Purchased in the town of Pula. I am not good with names, neither with people or places (I am a bit like Dory in the movie "Finding Nemo"). But the name of this Croatian town sticks like glue, as the name is written and pronounced the same way as the Norwegian work for f***ed. I guess this says a thing or two about my unintentionally selective memory.

These yellow shoes are a typical "holiday romance". You totally fall for them after walking around in the sun for three weeks in a brightly colored sun dress (messes up your brain big time). You even fall so hard that you go ahead and buy TWO PAIRS, because you simply cannot decide on red or yellow. Then you come back home, and your yellow patent leather platform sandals (hellooooo!) just do not work in "real life". At least not for me, as pole dancing is not part of my job description (I think). Still, it makes me happy to look at those yellow shoes sitting there at the bottom of my closet.

I love France. I really do. Perhaps to the extent that - in theory - I could live there permanently. Still, it is quite a strange country. In some areas they are way ahead of other countries - especially when it comes to gastronomy and fashion. But then they have other things that are just plain backwards. France is for instance one of those countries with a banking system still relying heavily on check books. Then there is the traffic. People are so much in a hurry. For being such a "sophisticated" or "civilized" country, people are pretty rude! Also, parking is allowed anywhere, just as long as you turn on the hazard warning lights on your car. Works every time. When it comes to gender politics, France is also a country where women are still women, and men are men. Or rather - cheating bastards, as you also may also refer to it. You see, having a mistress - or - as they call it - "a second wife" is perfectly normal. Even the presidents do it, so then it must be ok….

Come to think of it, I do not think I will ever really blend in in France, if that is even an objective. Being blonde (chemically at least), rather "big boned", and not being a smoker, I do not have much going for me. That last point is "tres important". All French women do smoke. That is in fact the way they avoid getting anywhere near being defined as "big boned", even in spite of their serious croissant-and-latte habits. Another problem is that I tend to smile a lot. Perhaps even more so when I am actually in France. In France, smiling is for children and tourists (people who does not know how to act cool). So, even though I sometimes take up the morning habit of carrying baguettes forced up my sweaty armpits, my silly grin while doing so will always give me away. Merde….