Rasmenia

“Americans should never come to Europe,’ she said, and tried to laugh and began to cry, ‘it means they never can be happy again. What’s the good of an American who isn’t happy?” — James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room

*

“I think that something’s happened to me,” I said.  Olivier looked over at me & creased his eyebrows.

“Like what?  Are you sick?  Did you eat too much fiber again?”

“No… I’m not feeling shitsy.  It’s more permanent than that, I think… & it seems to be getting worse.  I think I must be developing some sort of misanthropic expat syndrome.”

“I think you’ve had that for a while.”

“It’s getting worse,” I said.

“Yeah. I’ve noticed.  It’s probably not so bad,” he said. “Eating too much fiber feels worse, I bet.”

He’s right.  That does feel pretty bad.  Unfortunately, my misanthropic expat syndrome seems to be permanent & intensifying.

Something happens after a few years of living outside of the U.S.  Things begin to look different.  Priorities shift.  The change of perspective, the conversations that are had with a new set of people with a different, un-American set of experiences adds new colors to the big picture.

In the last general election, American young people couldn’t even be bothered to get off their asses & vote.  That is nothing short of a fucking embarrassment.  Sitting here, thousands of miles away from American shores, I see & hear countless people ranting & bitching about Tea Partiers or whatever asinine thing Sarah Palin said last week, but I rarely hear anyone freaking out about the horrifying increase in apathy.

When I mention this to my French friends, they’re shocked.  Of course they are… how could anyone have the right to vote & not use it?  Why would anyone give up the right to a voice in regard to who controls their lives?

One thing I found refreshing shortly after moving to France was the fact that people know what is happening around them & actually give a shit about it.  I have yet to have an in-depth conversation with someone here who is not aware of things that are happening in the world around them.  Paying attention to global events – both near & far – are important, not to be ignored & are worth discussing.

That isn’t to say that French people only talk about politics.  I’ve exchanged many a dick joke with these people.  Their sense of humor is definitely intact & lucky for me, my sarcasm has been most welcome here.

What I haven’t heard from a French person is the phrase, “I don’t pay attention to any of that.  It doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

I wish I could say the same about Americans.

As much as it is an inconvenience each time the French practice their national pastime of going on strike & protesting, a part of me is glad to see them taking to the streets & making a lot of noise when they feel like they’re getting the shaft.  You’ve probably heard some of the noise that the French made recently when they were protesting the retirement age changing from 60 to 62.  Many of those protesters were young people – the very demographic that the U.S. can’t get in to a freaking voting booth.  Sure, to Americans, this didn’t seem like something that was worth taking to the streets for & to that I have to say, SUCK IT.

Whether Americans agree or disagree with the reason, I will say that at least these people got off of their asses & did something.  To be honest, I didn’t see what the big deal was with a 2-year difference either, but that isn’t the point – the point is that young people got up & took to the streets instead of watching fucking Jersey Shore.

When my misanthropic expat syndrome really kicks in is when I listen to Americans bitching just as loud as a French protester about trivial things.  Lady Gaga.  Lindsay Lohan.  Hipsters.  It’s nigh impossible to even log onto the Internet without seeing someone pissing & moaning about this stuff.  If they’re 14 years old, then sure… I understand.  But, 30 & 40 year olds actually caring & knowing in-depth about celebrity train wrecks & what trendy, directionless kids are doing isn’t something I can have a conversation about.  Sorry.  Not unless I’m taking the piss out of it & the truth is, the only thing more annoying than hipsters & celebrity train wrecks is the people who whine about them or want to discuss them at length as though these topics mattered.

Pictured: Nothing worth getting worked up about.

What I see looking in from the outside is the threat of Internet censorship.  Alienating homosexuals.  Treating people with brown skin like a criminals.  Islamaphobia.  Insanity prevailing & a horrible lack of cooler heads.  The things that Americans believe to be true is astounding.  People dying due to lack of healthcare.  I see our 4th Amendment rights going down the shitter as American citizens are being groped & scoped at the airport.  I could keep going, but is it even necessary?

If I were an evil mastermind trying to take down America, I would love this shit.  The divide & conquer tactic is working beautifully all over the country.  Its citizens are getting fat & going broke.  They’d be too busy fighting each other & Tweeting about Justin Bieber to even see it coming.

Many Americans are so consumed with fear of terrorists that they’ve blinded themselves to the fact that they are more likely to die from poor eating habits than from a terrorist attack.

All of the paranoia, craziness & Americans fighting amongst themselves really makes me grateful to be living in Europe.  I’m not saying that France doesn’t have its flaws.  I’ve written plenty of blog posts rambling on about my pet peeves in regard to living here & will continue to do so.  However, those are pet peeves & in no way compare to the feelings of disappointment that I have in watching the place that I love more than anywhere else on Earth collapsing in on itself.

"America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves." -Abraham Lincoln

So, I’m not saying that France – or any other European country – is perfect.  What I am saying is that they are the grown-up version of a nation, as opposed to the fat, bickering, spoiled brat of a nation.

Maybe you’re thinking something like, “Oh, you’re just a cynical piece of Colorado Eurotrash.  What do you care?  You don’t even live here anymore.”

Well… for one, I most likely don’t give a shit what you think.  For two, I’m still an American & I still vote, which is more than I can say for many of the people who are living there.

Yep… I still vote.  I still pay attention to what’s going on at home.  But, I prefer to watch it from here, among the baffled Europeans because I’m just as baffled as they are.  Every day, there is something else to leave me disgusted, disappointed or disenchanted with the U.S.  Not that I don’t miss it every day – because I do, but I’m thankful that I’m not there.

"We have become a Nazi monster in the eyes of the whole world, a nation of bullies and bastards who would rather kill than live peacefully. We are not just whores for power and oil, but killer whores with hate and fear in our hearts. We are human scum, and that is how history will judge us. -Dr. Hunter S. Thompson

“So,” Olivier said.  “Does this mean that you don’t ever want to move back?  Will we stay here in France forever?”

“It’s looking that way,” I said.  “I feel safer here.  There’s less crime.  Affordable education & healthcare.  People here live longer.  They live more & work less.  No one here is causing hysteria about the French president’s religion or birthplace.”

“Indeed,” he agreed.  “It’s a bit more calm over here.”

“And sane.  But the American insanity seemed more tolerable when I was living there.”

“I think the U.S. just seems so bad to you now because you’ve seen what else there is – you’ve felt what it’s like to live another way.”

“Yeah,” I said.  “I’m suffering from expatriate-induced misanthropy.”

“Whatever,” he laughed.  “You were already well on your way before you ever got here.”

“Right.  Maybe it’s just me.”

France, I love you, I really, do & I will always defend your honor in a bar fight, but please… leave Halloween alone.

Before I moved to France, Olivier explained to me that Halloween doesn’t really exist here; that a few people will dress up, or do something Halloween-like, but that it is largely an American holiday & that French people don’t really give a shit about it.  Ok… that’s understandable.  Especially since French people have their own ‘Day of the Dead’, as it were.

Many French people do observe the traditions that are at the origins of our Halloween.  On November 1st, la Toussaint, or All Saint’s Day, French people all over the country are visiting their loved ones in the cemeteries, leaving chrysanthemums on their graves.  Many people have the day off from work.  It is an actual holiday in France.

All the more reason to leave Halloween alone.

My first Halloween in France, Olivier & I were living in Paris.  We decided to go out to dinner & a movie.  I had almost forgotten that it was actually October 31st.  There wasn’t a sign of Halloween anywhere.  After the movie, we ran across the street to a “Tex-Mex” restaurant called Indiana.

Our waitress came to take our order.  Her face was covered in garish makeup, a piratey sort of do-rag sat on her head.   I looked around & noticed that the staff were all in costume.  Sort of.  It was hard to tell what anyone was supposed to be, but there were some Halloween decorations up on the walls & hanging from the ceiling. All of the customers were normal.

After she walked away, I asked Olivier, “What is she?  A pirate?  A vampire?  What?”

“I don’t know,” he said, squinting at the waitress.  “A vampire pirate?  We never even heard of Halloween until recently.  Most people here don’t know what’s going on, or what to do.”

He’s right.  Most people around here simply have no idea what in the hell Halloween is all about, why people are dressed up or what Trick-or-Treating is.  And the fact of the matter is, most of them don’t care.  It’s still fairly new & hasn’t been catching on very well.

Olivier & I did the only thing that we could do – we started doing our own thing every October 31st.  We break out the fondue pots & the pants with the elastic waist.  We stock up on bottles of cidre & mead.  We crank up Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds. We clink our glasses & say “cheers” to all the people we know who happen to be dead.  Good enough.

Then we moved into an apartment building infested with these loud little squawky things… kids, I guess you can call them.

It was last year when we saw the announcement hanging in the lobby that warned all the tenants that on Halloween night, the kids would be going door-to-door, so please have plenty of candy.

“Fine,” we said.  Olivier told me, too, that some friends of his at work who had small children had been dressing up for Halloween & having little classroom parties.  So, I began to feel a little hopeful… maybe it really was catching on!  Maybe all of those chrysanthemum-toting Franks had found the spirit of Halloween & weren’t just following along with some American fad.

At the grocery store a few days later, we were tossing bags of gummy candy into our cart, rejoicing in the prospect of having a REAL Halloween.

That Halloween night we waited, as we sat in front of our fondue pot, pouring mead down our gullets.  The sky grew dark.  The bottle became empty.  The gooey fromage goodness in the pot was now gone, nothing more remained aside from the cold, coagulated crust that clung to the sides of the pot.

Those little shits never came.

“What are we going to do with all of this motherfucking gummy candy?” I asked Olivier.

“Well, um… we eat it.”

Halloween.  Two inebriated adults, stuffed full of cheese with two enormous bags of gummy candy.  It was not a pretty sight.

Especially when they start thinking it's funny to eat a gummy cheeseburger like it's a REAL cheeseburger.

This year, there was no warning.  No announcement hanging in the lobby of our building.  But, when we were at the grocery store a few weeks ago, Olivier said that we should get some candy.  “For the kids on Halloween,” he said.  Funny enough, the stores do sell candy packaged in big bags for Halloween.  Of course they do.  They stand to make a few bucks.  “Whatever,” I said, walking away.

Aside from planning our annual fondue feast, I hadn’t given Halloween much thought this year.  So, it was more than a little unexpected when on the afternoon of October 30th, our doorbell rang.

“Who the fuck could that be?”

“Do you think it’s kids?” Olivier asked.

“No.  It’s the middle of the day & Halloween isn’t until tomorrow,” I said.

Olivier went to the door & when he opened it, sure enough… there stood 6 or 7 little kids.  One was a pumpkin.  Another one was a Grim Reaper (I think) & the rest of them were wearing normal, every day clothes.  No costumes.  A couple of moms stood behind them, looking bored.

“Give us some candy,” the happy tiny people said.

Olivier decided to mess with them.  “What will you do if I don’t?” he asked, trying to prompt them into a “Trick or Treat” sentiment.

It didn’t work.  He was answered with blank expressions.  So, he complimented the ones who bothered to wear a costume & gave them some candy.

After he closed the door, I asked, “What the hell was that?  No costumes?  Give us candy?  It’s the middle of the day & isn’t even Halloween yet.”

“I guess those moms decided to do it when they felt like it,” he shrugged.  “They don’t care about when it really is, what it means, or doing it right.”

I think the most horrifying Halloween terror that I have ever seen was the look on my French husband’s face when I exclaimed, “OUTRAGE!  THIS ALL HALLOW’S EVE BLASPHEMY WILL BE BLOGGED!”

That was it.  No more kids… & there we were again, two inebriated adults, stuffed full of cheese with two enormous bags of fucking candy.

And a pair of fierce kitty cat ears. 'Cause it's Halloween.

This day means something to a lot of people… more than Christmas, more than birthdays.  They plan ALL YEAR for this night.  Either have fun with it or, if you’re not into it, then don’t bother.  But, please… please don’t do it half-assed just because it’s trendy.

Now, to be fair… I know there are French people out there who understand Halloween, due to having knowledge &/or appreciation of American culture.  Or maybe because they understand how different places of the world celebrate Halloween-type traditions.  Or, hell… because it’s fucking fun.  I know that they are out there, in costumes, participating in Halloween celebrations, having parties & genuinely enjoying our tradition, rather than treating it like a cheap fad.

Also… if you know where these French people are, point them my way so we can party next Halloween.

Otherwise, I may have to embark on a one-woman campaign to introduce another time-honored Halloween tradition to France.

“It seems to be that southern Europeans are just more intimate socially, whereas I like a lot of personal space – like, a mile from the nearest person is fine for me.” — Peter Steele

As soon as Olivier & I entered the checkout line, I jumped in front of him, hiding myself from the old lady who was getting in line right behind us.

“What are you doing?” he asked me.

“Creating a safety buffer.  This way, the person behind us in the line can’t dry hump me.”

“Bad plan.  Now I can dry hump you,” he said.

“That’s okay.  We’re married.  That falls under the ‘acceptable’ column on my list of public dry humping requirements,” I said, peering over his shoulder at the geriatric menace lurking behind him.

This is something that has become routine – creating a buffer zone in public whenever possible.  For an American living in France, this is something that is absolutely necessary, unless you just happen to be a fan of close talkers, or strangers rubbing & pushing up against you.

Once you cross the Atlantic Ocean & land on French soil, you can kiss your personal space & your precious little comfort bubble goodbye.

Imagine this with an old French lady instead of an alien. It's like that.

There is a reason for this madness – the French simply do not require as much personal space as Americans do.  They live in somewhat densely populated area – especially Parisians – so their brains are wired a little differently.

Almost every time I am in a store, or at a market, it happens.  I’m standing there, looking at something, trying to make a decision on which jar of mustard to buy, or reading a label (Yes, I am one of those.  Piss off.) & here comes someone, standing RIGHT next to me, or RIGHT in front of me.  So, there I am, standing butt to gut with a stranger, snuggled up against the cans of mushrooms and flageolets.

The most difficult thing is summoning all of my self control in an effort not to bludgeon the offender with a jar of asparagus.  In their mind, they are doing nothing wrong.  While this behavior may seem rude, creepy, or even threatening to an American, it is normal for a French person & isn’t considered to be out of the ordinary at all.

Unfortunately, spending a few years here among the space-invading dry humpers isn’t something that you just get used to.  It’s been almost 5 years & my comfort bubble is still just as big as it ever was.  The only difference is, I now feel an even more savage need to defend my bubble at all costs.

Of course, this happens in all sorts of places when I go out & about – it isn’t limited to shopping.  I’ve discovered that if I am standing in an open space chatting with a friend, a passerby will inevitably make a path right for me, bumping into me rather than walking AROUND me.

In a crowded elevator, when a few people exit, Americans will spread out, taking advantage of the open space.  French people will stay right where they are… even if it means being smashed up against another body.

You may even find that in the métro, someone is getting all up in your grill rather than standing or sitting in an unoccupied area.

I’ve asked Olivier about it countless times because aside from being irritating & unpleasant, I just find it baffling.

“You know what I don’t get,” I said.  “Two objects cannot exist in the same space at the same time, they have to be in their ‘own’ space, or they might occupy the same space, but at different times.  It’s a fact… ’cause it’s mother fucking science.”

“Yep,” he agreed.  “Go science.”

“Seriously,” I said.  “These people are trying to occupy my space at the same time as me.  Why are they trying to fight science?”

“Maybe you should try peeing on more things… to mark your territory.”

“Yeah,” I nodded.  “That’s a good idea.”

Aside from urinating all over France, I have tried various tactics to protect my bubble.  I’ve attempted to make myself bigger to fend off potential violators, a tactic widely known back home in Colorado to ward off mountain lions.

In the short story, “Slumming”, by Chuck Palahniuk, one of the characters carries around a “fist-sized lump of orange roughy” that is 4 days old as repellent, stating that it “beats a bodyguard for keeping people away.”

I thought about this, pondering the line in the book, “Stink for privacy, the new way to protect personal space. Intimidation by odor.” As much as I do like orange roughy, I’m not sure that I can convince my husband that I am still sexy with a lump of rotting fish in my pocket.  Cheese, maybe… but probably not fish.

Then I thought, well… if you can’t beat the Romans when in Rome, then join ‘em.  So, in an effort to fit in, I began practicing my very own dry-hump stealth attack, but I just don’t have the knack for it.

My technique might be a bit too aggressive.

It looks like the only solution is to deal with it & continue elbowing old ladies in the ribs, hiding behind my husband & shopping carts.  The fact is, it’s a cultural difference that isn’t going to change.  I know it’s a fact because, again… mother fucking science.

The science of proxemics.