the art of being french...

I am back from Marbella!

The trip was fantastic, I met some really amazing people and had a restful, albeit caipirinha infused journey!

The resort was ok, I like the area well, and it drew me to a few more decisions in life which I will expand upon later... unless if you are too curious!

So, if you have been linking up to Xavi's blog, you may have seen a few quotes from a hilarious book called "A Year in the Merde". He loaned me the book, and I am so grateful as it was hysterical!! I had it in tow in Marbella and wrapped it up while there. I had it with me while at dinner one eve, at a very high end restaurant (EURO 100 for one person, yikes!) and I was laughing my ass off. I really connected with the part where Paul (main character) went back to the UK and realised that he finessed the

...art of being french: in how some things (fill in blank here, yet for the book, use "British") all of sudden became disdainful, repulsive and sometimes a true burden to endure

due to his experience in Paris. It is funny how a country shapes us, we never really know how much we have absorbed the local culture and its nuances until we go back to what may be considered "home".

I have the same experiences as well, I could connect with Paul, as after living in Denmark for 3 years, going to the US was a shock itself, to the point where I am not comfortable there. Three days is enough, I feel like I am suffocating a slow death, surrounded by poor quality food, too much noise, too much light, too much movement, stress... you name it. Everything American. Even when I was in the US last fall for 3 weeks (the first time I had been in a homogenous American setting in 4 years for such a length), the group kept me on the outside as they felt I was not American. They even said I dress like a European, even though I still buy my clothes in the US! (much cheaper there)

And I did not realise how Danish I have become and feel until I moved here to Switzerland. To the point that several colleagues though I was Danish for quite sometime until the cat was let out of the bag... damn blue passport!

Jeg er danskere, for helvede! :)

Why are you looking at me in the eyes, we are not supposed to do that unless we are toasting each other! What do you mean you put some jelly based icky pooh on these little sandwiches, have you not heard of the concept of smoerebroed? Why are you confirming an appointment, we already made the verbal agreement several months ago and it still stands! Why on earth are you even striking up a conversation with me on the bus, we do not know each other! Why are we not asking the group, what do you mean consensus is not important? And why do you press the "close doors" button as soon as you enter the elevator?

Yet I am diverging from my original thought and what I want to express, for the book triggered my trip down memory lane.

My ethnicity (different from my nationality) is equally 25% Swedish (can't you tell from my 149.9cm stature?), 25% Ukranian (fiery spirit), 25% Italian (more fiery spirit, great cook, olive skin, and for some reason abhor pasta).... and....

25% French.

The book triggered in me... what makes me French?

Well, for starters, I am for the common everyday person, to the point that from an organisational standpoint I prefer to work things from the bottom up. Plus I love any opportunity to serve on the side of the underdog, the little person. I will go to all lengths! Even fly to the US to serve in politcal campaigns, volunteer to build homes, hold art auctions for the poor, food collections for food pantrys... you name it. If there is a struggle, I am in the middle of it fighting for the have nots. I feel most free, liberated and connected when I do these things.

Yet growing up I do not remember any of the French side.... we did the Italian Christmas, Ukranian Easter (which I like to do to this day), studied the Swedish genes... yet the French?

I wonder if the French side just said "phooey to celebrating the other, we will not join in this nonsense" and allowed its presence to be known by its absence.

Did it manifest in the fact that, while in undergrad, while everyone was drinking wine coolers and beer, I was the only one sipping red wine?

Where are all my French connections?

I did study French Intellectualism in the 19th Century for one year while in undergrad. My prof, Stephen Vincent, was tres sans culottes in his essence. Long hair, always late, and preferred to moving our evening classes to the local brewery for study and local fare. Too bad at the time I was not 21, for I did envy those drinking the beer!

I met my first very-true-blue-white-and-red Frenchman in undergrad. His name is Alain, and at the time he was at least in his late 40's. He came to Raleigh and opened a wine store, our very first dedicated one at that in the early 90's. He was the first to introduce me to the art of wine tasting, as he pridefully put his Beaujolais upbringing in everything he did. Including his comments, which one eve as I was with my then boyfriend (things must have looked strained), he says to the then beau "if you do not tend to your garden, someone else will". He opened my eyes to the wines from his region, and every year would fly in the Nouveau in a private jet directly from Beaujolais to a invitation only dinner. Traditional french food, music and all!

I felt tres cool then, at the tender age of 22.

And from there, I have no idea where it went. Yet it has landed me here in the French part of Switzerland now.

Oops, it did strike me again when the US went through their ridiculous anti-French stage. My friends and I went out of our way to buy Evian, croissants and anything-and-everything French. And to add to the annoyance, whenever someone made a reference to the Statue of Liberty, I would candidly with sublime innocence ask "gee, wonder who gave us that gift in 1888"?

And when I first moved to Denmark, I was told that my Danish had a French accent (have no idea where that came from!).... and interestingly my French has a Danish accent (no surprise).

Ok, I do have a penchant for Hermes scarfs and bracelets, and am diehard Aubade devotee.

And I have added Viktor & Rolf to my consumption.

Yet the interesting thing, as I was flying to Marbella, reading the book and laughing the whole way (prob to the dismay of my neighbours), I am wondering if I need to explore more my French roots to sustain Suisse culture.

Then again, this is Suisse!! :)

So as I headed off the plane to grab a taxi, I was really putting my energies into this... then the cab driver asks me which part of South America I am from.... ...arg, my Cuban- accented Spanish blew my cover!!!

C'est la vie!

question: how do you (re) connect with your roots?