A Mad Dog in Bretagne

		Part X Finis by Mad Dog
There’s a government board here, The Institute to Make Our Life More Miserable Than It Already Is, that sits around and invents French words to take the place of offensive English ones.		It’s getting time to shut things down here in St-Malo and head back to the states. Not just because it’s a quiet, sleepy town and I’m an adrenaline junkie—though that certainly enters into the equation—but because I’m on the cusp of being accepted as a St-Malouin and, well, that’s a scary thought. The other night Vincent and I went to the Teddy Bear, a restaurant we’d been to twice before. The first time I didn’t want to go there. After all, I didn’t travel 5,500 miles (or beaucoup kilomètres) to eat in a restaurant named after an Elvis Presley song. The least they could do is Frenchisize it like they do everything else. You see, the French abhor the idea of anything English working its way into the language. Right, like the idea of anything or anybody English working is reasonable. Just the same, there’s a government board here, The Institute to Make Our Life More Miserable Than It Already Is, that sits around and invents French words to take the place of offensive English ones. Of course the French, who hate to be told what to do, ignore them. But the MOLMMTIAI persists, though sometimes a little half-heartedly, which is why week-end is the French word for weekend and pique-nique is picnic, the cute spelling and hyphens being just enough (un petit peu) to make them purely French. Another thing they do is add Le or La in front of something, which instantly makes it French. There’s a bar in St-Malo called Le Nashville Saloon. Seriously. And I saw one in Paris named Le Waikiki. Both, by the way, are as French as the Teddy Bear, which if it would comply with the MOLMMTIAI’s ruling would show a little nationalistic pride (after all, Chauvin was French you know) and rename itself Le Teddy Bear. At least then I’d feel better when I ate my steak tartare there.
An older man offers me a sample of some cake, and in respectable English says, "Welcome! We like the English here in Brittany." I was going to tell him I was American but why ruin the Kodak moment?		Anyway, as Vincent and I were leaving the other night several waitresses went out of their way to tell us "Bon soirée" when we left. Here in the Land of Structured Formalities bon soirée is a much friendlier farewell than the common bon soir, though not nearly as friendly as "Vous êtes mignon. Vous devez nous visite à la maison." (You’re cute. Why don’t you come home with us.). The very next morning I went to the Saturday marché by the church and ran into my landlady who offered me a ride home. Then the guy who sells escargots (which I bought the last time I was there) smiles, waves, and asks how I'm doing. A few minutes later I stop at a booth and buy some chèvre, where an older man who just bought some cheese offers me a sample of some cake, and in respectable English says, "Welcome! We like the English here in Brittany." I was going to tell him I was American but why ruin the Kodak moment? It’s amazing how easy it is to get acclimated to another culture. It’s become perfectly natural to see signs and posters and newspapers and cereal boxes in a language I don’t understand. The sound of people speaking French all around me somehow sounds very normal. I hear a familiar song on the radio and stop to listen, for a moment not sure if they’re singing in English or French, since many rock songs are re-recorded in French, or at least partly. The truth is, most of the time it doesn’t matter which version I’m listening to since I usually can’t understand the English lyrics any better than the French.
So I’m thinking, "Maybe they’re being unfriendly because I don’t have a dog, which makes me an obvious outsider. Not to mention morally suspect."		This isn’t to say that the average person on the street is being any friendlier. Even an act of Parliament couldn’t take care of that (though I suspect gene manipulation could). People aren’t walking up to me and kissing the air next to my cheeks four times, which as far as I can tell is dangerously close to a marriage proposal. And they still won’t look me in the eye for fear that I’ll see a spark of a smile and report them to the gendarme. But I have had something of an epiphany. All this time I’ve been convinced that the French are cold, rude, and unfriendly, but as I’m walking down the digue the other day it dawned on me that this isn’t true. It’s the dogs. Yes, the dogs. They all have them, mostly small furry, yappy little creatures that look more like Tribbles than dogs. (NOTE TO SELF: Check the dictionary to see if perhaps chien actually means "annoying mop" and not "dog.") They walk them, cuddle them, talk to them, and take them into restaurants, feeding them while they're perched on the seat next to them. I don’t want to know about the rest. So I’m thinking, "Maybe they’re being unfriendly because I don’t have a dog, which makes me an obvious outsider. Not to mention morally suspect." But that can’t be it, because not quite everyone has a dog here. It’s true! I’ve actually seen one or two French people without dogs and others not only spoke to them, but in a weak moment almost cracked a smile. I said, almost. No, it turns out the answer does have to do with the dogs, but it’s not an ownership question. You see, dogs here shit anywhere they want. I swear I’ve seen people stop and applaud when a dog craps smack in the middle of the sidewalk instead of over to one side or—mon dieu!—in the street. "Voilà!" "Encore!" "Bon chien!" "Merde," I mumble, then suddenly realize that the people aren’t being unfriendly when they don’t look me in the eye or they ignore me completely. They have to look down all the time so they won’t step in the dog shit! I bet one time they forgot, looked up, saw an American, smiled at him or her, and stepped right in the middle of a big fresh pile of dog doo, which not only explains why they won’t make that mistake again, but why it is they don’t like anything American. Well, besides McDonald’s, of course. [ Previous ] [ A Mad Dog in Bretagne - Part XI ] [Index] Read more Mad Dog on the Road ©1999 Mad Dog Productions, Inc. All Rights Reserved. These columns appear in better newspapers across the country. Read them instead of going to class.

©1999 Mad Dog Productions, Inc. All Rights Reserved. These columns appear in better newspapers across the country. Read them instead of going to class.

©1999 Mad Dog Productions, Inc. All Rights Reserved.
These columns appear in better newspapers across the country. Read them instead of going to class.