The search for French Santa

For the past few weeks, I've been on a Santa hunt.  I was curious: Would the French version of Santa - Père Noël - be in possession of the proverbial 'bowl full of jelly' stomach? Or would French Santa, represented in a culture that does not struggle with obesity, be trim and fit?

In the weeks approaching Christmas, I came across various shop window displays including Santa, however these only added to my curiosity over Kris Kringle's physique, as he was often depicted in contradicting styles.  One store window would show his characteristic rosy cheeks and bulging tummy, the next would show a tall, lean man in red.  Unable to find a uniform characterization of Santa, I decided that to have my answer, I would have to seek out the real Santa - or at least the one who makes appearances at Christmas markets.

One evening while walking around, Matt and I stumbled upon the Champs Elysees Christmas Market, littered with various tents of vendors selling chocolates, beverages, hats, french fries and Christmas ornaments, and complete with a Carousel and Ferris Wheel.  Noticing a strong cable lining the tree tops, we followed it to see where it would lead.  Finally reaching the end of the cable, we came upon a sign claiming that Santa and his sleigh would fly through the sky every half an hour until 8pm.  Unfortunately, we read the sign at 8:45pm.  French Santa had eluded me.

The next week, we decided to attend the Christmas market in the 6th arrondissement, near the famous Saint-Germain-des-Prés neighborhood, a place that Hemingway once called home.  Besides being in one of my favorite parts of the city, this particular Christmas market was rumored to be the residing place of Parisian Santa, so of course, we had to go.  Meandering down the cobblestone streets, we saw boutiques filled with Christmas trees, ornaments, and winter clothing alongside cafes with coffee, tea and hot chocolate.  As always, we also saw the ever-present Starbucks. The streets were filled with tourists and Parisians alike, many of them doing some Christmas shopping, or just going for a stroll along the decorated streets.  After taking in the beauty of the market for an hour, I couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment that French Santa had evaded me once again.  Père Noël was turning out to be a wily old man.


Day after Santa-less day, I had all but lost hope.  I decided that I should stop focusing on Santa and move on. After all, it's only Santa, and I am an adult.  As a result, Matt and I decided to spend a day in the Medieval town of Provins, about an hour and a half train ride to the south-east of Paris.  

Well known during the Middle ages as a fair town - a designated fortified city where merchants from around Europe would gather to sell their wares - Provins is home to a 12th century castle, and many surviving examples of Medieval architecture in the form of churches, houses, shops and taverns.  After spending an hour in the Castle, and then walking the ancient streets and having a Medieval lunch, I had all but forgotten my Santa quest as we entered the Christmas market of the medieval town.  While glancing around at the various cakes and candles for sale, suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him. There he was! French Santa!  He was sitting in a booth, having his photo taken with a small child on his lap.  As the child's mother thanked Santa, and the child got up, I gaped at the red man: he was decidedly not fat.  French Santa was thin!  Finally, I had my answer.

Apparently, I must have stared too long. Suddenly, French Santa spoke:
"You can come sit over here," he said, patting his thigh.
"Oh, no thank you," I laughed awkwardly.
"No, it's okay, women can have their photo taken with Santa, too," he said with a smile.
I laughed, politely declined, and walked away.

It was confirmed.  I had, without a doubt, met the real French Santa Claus.

Cultural Refinement

In my on-going adjustment to French culture, my interactions with children have been the most positive. I'm a little surprised at this, because I'm the first person in the world to admit that children can be insufferable. They are, among other things, selfish, belligerent, and rude.  

I'd like to pause and discuss the meaning of the word "rude".  In saying that children are rude, I was, of course, referring the the fact that children say hurtful, disrespectful things at least once a day.  But it's the secondary meaning of "rude" that I've come to appreciate here in France: without culture, learning or refinement.  With this meaning in mind, it is the rudeness of children that make them open to learning, and to interacting with me without judgement.  

We often think of refinement as the ability to judge a good wine or a superb taste in fine leather goods.  This is not refinement.  Refinement is what makes us socially adept within our culture.  Refinement gives us the ability to navigate the social world, obtaining what we want, making connections with those we need.  At birth, all humans are the same.  People are people in every corner of the world.  What makes us different as we grow is how our culture affects us.  Culture teaches us which traits are valued, and which are undesirable.  Additionally, culture gives us social tools to mask our less-than-optimal characteristics.  Unfortunately for those of us trying to acclimate to a new environment, not only do all of the different cultures of the world have different social customs for masking bad qualities; they have different opinions on which qualities are bad.  It is through the process of refinement that we are able to internalize our society's ideals of good and bad traits, as well as learn to optimize ourselves.  Here in France, without my language, culture, profession, friends and family, I am not refined.  As it turns out, I have a lot in common with all of those selfish, belligerent and rude children. 

Being rude, selfish and belligerent are part of human nature. These characteristics do not vanish in adulthood, they simply become hidden away in a person's undisclosed self.  Qualities such as these, which are tucked away from the world, can not be openly addressed. Thus, while children can be so insufferable, it is through their very outward opinionated declarations that they are able to be challenged and thus have the opportunity to become better people. 

And so it is that I enjoy the children of France so much more than the adults: when they have an assumption about me, they state it matter-of-factly. I rebut it, and they are able to draw their own conclusions. Whatever their decision, I appreciate being given the opportunity to candidly discuss my perspective. It's quite rare that an adult, in any part of the world, will give you that opportunity.

Comfort Ye

Tonight we had our church choir's Christmas concert at the Cathedral of Saint-Eustache (Yes, not only did Lionel accept my ridiculous audition, he even gave me a few solos!).  Among other things, we sang part one of Handel's Messiah. 

After the orchestra prelude, the tenor soloist begins the sung portion of the Messiah with "Comfort Ye".  I've always liked this piece, and I was excited to hear Stephane, the church's cantor, sing it. As soon as he began to sing, I felt like I was hearing the words "Comfort Ye" for the first time in my entire life, which was strange because, as Stephane sang it, they were more like "Confahrt Yeae".  Suddenly, as his voice filled the massive cathedral, my eyes started to well up. 

Life in another country can be difficult.  Separated from people by a language barrier, it is simply impossible to speak as much as is desired, or is necessary, to function socially.  Increasingly, you withdraw into yourself because it is too difficult to attempt to communicate with others.  In addition, there is an enormous amount of confusing paperwork at every turn, and the future is frustratingly uncertain.  Without knowing how to do practically everything in a new environment, and being without the ability to ask anyone, you start to doubt your own abilities, and wonder if everyone you meet views you as incompetent. After all, how is it that you don't know how to write a check or take the bus?  You're not from Mars, after all, and these things do exist in your home country. To top it off, it's easy to become insecure about every facet of yourself as people scrutinize you, your language, and your culture.  Even the most kind and well-meaning people can make you feel bad without intending to, simply by making assumptions about you or your values based on shows like the Simpsons, or political decisions made by US government officials who were elected before your birth. 

As I sat in the choir stall and let Stephane's beautiful voice wash over me, I finally understood the words "Comfort Ye."  Seek solace where you can find it, because it's little things that make the big things possible. Through my participation in the choir, I am able to remind myself weekly that I am, in fact, not incompetent.  Although I often have no idea what people are saying, as soon as we begin to sing, I am absolutely sure of myself.  Sitting there, I knew that whether it be in France, the USA, Cambodia or Costa Rica, what I've learned about singing in my home country will not be ridiculed or torn apart, because it is solid.  I can take my musical training with me anywhere, and it will translate perfectly.  In the moments of that tenor solo, I was comforted by the knowledge that my musicianship - my American musicianship - is equally appreciated in France as at home, and I am not so different from my French neighbors after all. 

Learning French

When I auditioned for the Church choir that I sing with (The Choir of the Cathedral of Saint-Eustache), I had been in France for three weeks, and my French was atrocious.  It's not great now, but back then I was unable to ascertain most of what people were saying, and I had no way to respond appropriately to what little I could understand.  As a result, my default response was always "Okay" or "I don't know".  Despite this, I really wanted to be part of a choir, so I braved the francophone sea and auditioned.  For whatever reason, I brought a recorder with me, and just listened to it today.  It's a wonder I was accepted into the choir at all, as this is what happened:

Lionel (The choir director): Ok, we'll do some vocalizes, then you can sing a song that you've prepared, then we'll do a little sight reading, ok?
Me: Ok.
L: First, just a few questions.  Do you know your voice part?
Me: Soprano.
L: Can you sight-read?
Me:  I don't know.
L: Ok, you're not sure.  Can you read music?
Me: Umm, I don't know.
L: Ok, well... have you ever been in a choir before?
Me: Ummm....I don't know? (If I were Lionel,  I would have laughed here.  Then again, maybe he truly believed that it was possible for me to have been in a choir and not known about it?)
L: Ok.  (Looking at me doubtfully, thinking I do NOT need a person in my choir who has never sung before and doesn't speak French) So what song do you have? Did you bring a song?
Me: I don't know.
L (Looks at me quizzically, then at the book of French Art Song that I brought with me): Is it in there?
Me: Oh, yes.  It's Beau Soir by Debussy, is that ok?
L: Yes, of course.  I don't have the music, can I look at yours? Do you know it by heart?
Me: No.
L: Ok, well can I read out of the book?  You can stand behind me.
Me: Oh, it's ok, I can sing it from over here, I memorized it.
L: Oh, Ok...
Me: So, should we start with the song then?
L: No, we'll do some vocalizes first.
.....................Vocalizes and Song...................
During my singing he looked confused.  Probably because I obviously have a lot of musical experience but told him that I didn't know if I had ever been in a choir.
L: Well, that was good, so you do sing; you've obviously studied voice.
Me (This was probably the first thing that he said that I really understood): Oh yes, I have a Masters in voice.
L (I wish I could describe his face.  It was a mix of surprise, exasperation and bemusement): Okay, well that's good.  But you're not sure if you can sight-read?
Me: I don't know.
L: Ok. (Sigh) Well, we'll just try.
..............sight reading............
L: Ok, well you can sight read, since you just read through that piece perfectly.
Me: Yes, I'm decent at sight-reading.  (I was able to say this because I realized that the word he kept saying - dechiffrer - meant sight-reading, so I just repeated it.  Meanwhile he was probably thinking Why did she say she didn't know if she could sightread and then tell me she's pretty good at it?
After giving me a strange look that conveyed the thought What is this person doing here? I hope this is a good idea, he smiled and told me that he would love to have me in the choir.

The Louvre

*Spoiler Alert!*

The Mona Lisa is small.
The Winged Victory appears to be at the helm of a stone ship (which is a poor boat design, if you ask me).
The Venus de Milo has no arms! (Ok, no big surprise there).

Taken together, these three iconic pieces of art - the three pieces which, in my opinion, cause the Louvre to have an estimated 65,000 visitors per day - are underwhelming.  I'm not an art historian; this could be part of the problem.  But for me, seeing a tiny painting behind bullet proof glass and fifty people swarming around it with their iPhones and digital cameras is not a thrill.

In my opinion, the best part of the Louvre is often overlooked: It's a royal palace!  The museum of the Louvre is located inside the Palace of the Louvre, which was built during the Medieval era and has had a series of renovations and additions since the 1600s.   Until 1682, the Palais du Louvre was the home of the Monarchs of France, including several Louis', Catherine de' Medici, and Charles V.  What does all of this mean to museum goers?  It means that when you walk around the art galleries, don't just look at the paintings and sculptures: Look at the room you're in!.  Many of the ceilings are gold plated and feature beautiful fresco and portraits.  The floors are all marble tile, and many of the doorways, support columns and fireplaces are beautifully engraved.  Walking through this magnificent palace, one can just imagine the rage that 18th century French Revolutionaries must have felt seeing the splendor of the palace, yet having no food to eat!

The most fabulous of all of the palace are the apartments of Napoleon III, who has the distinct place in French history of being the first elected President while simultaneously being the last sovereign monarch.  I'm still trying to figure out how that worked, exactly.  Napoleon III's apartments include the royal throne room, bedchamber, several halls and salons for entertaining, and a grand dining room.  Let me just say, Napoleon III's dining room table is bigger than my entire apartment.  In all of the rooms, there are beautifully carved pieces of furniture, ornately crafted tapestries and carpets, beautifully made drapes and bed linens, and, oh yeah, a solid gold ceiling.

This trip to the Louvre was actually my third, but I had never seen these apartments. On my other trips to the museum, I was too drained after my visit to the Mona Lisa wing to do anything but go outside and ride one of the billions of merry-go-rounds the city spontaneously sets up for no reason (True).  My advice to visitors: Know what you'd like to see before you get there.  If you're reading this, you've already somewhat mastered the internet, so you can look up which pieces are held at the Louvre, and what their galleries contain.  There are three museum wings: Denon, Sully, and Richelieu.  Denon has the Mona Lisa, Sully has Napoleon III"s apartment, and Richelieu has the remnants of the Louvre as a medieval castle - you can go into the basement and walk the length of the 13th century moat and see some ruins of the old dungeon.  The museum is enormous, and it would be impossible to view everything, even if you went there every day for a month.  Know what you want to see before you go, that way you don't miss out on anything!  Also, if you have the opportunity, the museum is free the first Sunday of every month, so, obviously, that's when we decided to make our appearance.

Politically Incorrect France

The French are the opposite of politically correct.  Basically, they call 'em like they see 'em.  As an American, it can be shocking and uncomfortable.  Even writing this blog post makes me feel a little uneasy.  In France, people of African heritage are just "Black" (incidentally, they use the English word black - to use the french word 'noir' is a faux pas).  Arabic people are "Arab" - something that makes me uncomfortable, and a British girl told me that to call someone an "Arab" in England would land you in jail, or force you to pay a hefty fine.  Jewish People are "Jews";  Asian people are "Oriental".  It doesn't just extend to the color of someone's skin, either.  Senior Citizen translates to "old people"; if a student in school is acting silly or inappropriate, the teacher will say, "Stop being stupid" or "Stop all of this stupidity!" rather than something like, "Ok, let's settle down!". Native American or First Peoples becomes "Indians", and so on.  At first, all of this can be jarring.  In America, we distance ourselves from such social constructs as race and economic standing.  We don't talk about it, and when we do, it is behind the veil of terms that have been deemed appropriate.  If possible, we avoid mentioning race at all costs.  This not being the case in France, it can seem a bit strange to someone new to France.  For example, a few weeks ago I went to choir rehearsal early to work on a duet that I am singing for Christmas eve.  

"Je ne sais pas qui va chanter cette morceaux avec toi."  - "I don't know who will sing this piece with you." Lionel the choir director told me. "I think I will ask Joscylene," he continued, "because she has sung it before."
"Which one is Joscylene?" I asked.
"The Black one."  He responded.

I was a little shocked.  In the States, we would have had an exchange like this:

Me: "Who is Joscylene?"
Lionel: "She's the one with dark brown hair and brown eyes, she's about yay high, she wears a red coat."
Me: "Oh, the one with glasses?"
Lionel: "No, she doesn't have glasses.  She usually comes in about five minutes late, she has a iphone, her husband's name is Bill."
Me: (figuring out who Joscylene is) "Oh yes, the one with the iphone.  Ok, I know her now."

It's ridiculous.  Joscylene is the only non white female in choir, yet in the USA we would be reluctant to say it. Which brings me to my second point about the French lack of political correctness.  


In general, the French are much less racist than Americans.  Don't get me wrong, they have plenty of prejudices, it's simply that racism isn't really one of them, and certainly not to the extent that it is a problem in the United States.  For example, anyone who has either been a teacher, teacher's assistant, or just remembers high school knows that when students are given a choice, they ALWAYS sit together in racially segregated groups.  Of course there are exceptions, there always are.  But this is a phenomenon that has been well recorded in the States, so much so that there was a book entitled, "Why Are All The Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria?" by psychologist Beverly Daniel Tatum.  In French schools, this is simply not the case.  The schools that I work at have approximately an equal number of White, Black, and Arabic children, with a few Asian and a few South American kids in each grade.  I have watched them at recess and during their free time in class, and it appears that they are seemingly unaware of race as a determinant in which kids are appropriate for them to befriend.  


The fact that the French language uses what Americans view as offensive language to refer to racial groups might actually be an indication that French society, as a whole, is less racist than American society.  By openly discussing race, the French indicate that they have no reservations about doing so, or about acknowledging race in general.  It's possible that we as Americans distance ourselves from race discussions because we have more privately held beliefs about race than the French do, who seem to hold no taboos whatsoever about having these discussions.


Like a lot of things in my life as a foreigner, I've found that what seemed uncomfortable, scary or offensive at first is actually just a result of different ways of thinking and conceptualizing the world.  I'm certainly not advocating that we start using offensive terms for different groups of people, but maybe if we were able to openly discuss things - why don't we talk about race?  Why aren't different groups of people able to find more common ground? - we wouldn't need to constantly invent new language to distance ourselves from our societal problems.  Maybe instead of making up new words,  we could actually just solve our problems instead. 

I speak American

There are few times that I am truly offended.  Yesterday was one of them.

On Friday evenings, I tutor a 15-year-old girl named Angela in English.  Although Angela has been studying English in school for the past five years, she has not learned the past tense nor the future, and her vocabulary is quite limited.  Despite this, she catches on rather quickly, and has improved significantly in the few weeks that we've been working together.  Because of her rapid progress, I asked her about her English class at school.  After all, if she is smart enough to catch on to new concepts as quickly as I have witnessed, why doesn't she know more grammar and vocabulary from her school course?

"Well," She told me in French, "This week we worked on present tense sentences with verbs that require prepositions, such as 'listen to', 'wake up', 'fall down', etc."
Okay, well those are useful and she already seems to have mastered them, so at least I'm sticking to her curriculum with my lessons, I thought.
"Oh, also, " she continued, "Our teacher gave us this." She handed me a sheet of paper.  Looking it over, I saw that it explained the differences in spelling between UK English and American English - things like theatre vs. theater, organise vs. organize, etc. 
"Yes, this is right," I told her.  I try to teach the kids here English from the UK because the chances are that they might not ever make it to the USA, but most of them will go to the UK at some point.  "We also have a lot of different words," I explained.  "Because I'm American, I might teach you things that are a little different, but it's probably better if you do what you're learning in school if we come across something I teach you that you've already learned differently."
"Okay.  Oh, yeah," She said as she flipped the paper over, revealing two lists she had hand-written.  "Our teacher gave us this list of some different words between English and American English."

As I looked at the list, I was excited to see some differences between American English and UK English.  I never realized until I lived in France how many different words and expressions we have.  The first thing on the list was "cinema" for the English and "movies" for us.  Yeah, that's a good one, I thought. Quickly, the smile faded from my face. 

"Your teacher had you write this down?" I exclaimed.
"Yes." Angela replied.
"But this is wrong!" I said, staring at the list.  "These are just so wrong!  I wish I had my camera, I would take a photo of this list and show everyone I know in the States that French kids are being taught that we are idiots!"
Angela laughed.  I finally tore my eyes away from her list, handed it back to her, and we began the lesson.   In writing this, I realize that I never explained to her why I was upset.  She must have just thought I was upset that the students had been taught incorrect words.  The following is the list, as I can remember it.

English                                       American

cinema                                           movies

night                                                nite

doughnut                                          donut

going to                                          gonna

want to                                           wanna

see you                                              cya

A few minutes into the lesson, I just couldn't resist talking about the list again.  

"Why are the titles just "English" and "American"?  Those are just adjectives without a noun!"  At this point, I was just trying to find anything wrong with what the teacher had told them.

"Non, non," She replied, "Those are the names of the different languages," she told me.

"English and American?"  I replied, faintly sensing my jaw touch the floor. "American is not a language."

"It's not?" She asked innocently.

I took a breath, reminding myself that my issue is not with Angela but with her teacher, who apparently studied English at the prestigious Text Message University.  "No, in the US we speak English.  We call it American Standard English, the 'American Standard' referring to the dialect.  But it is English, just like how in Quebec they speak French.  Even though it is different than your French, it is still French."

"Oh," She nodded.  French people can all relate to Quebec for some reason.  

 As the saying goes, "You learn something new everyday."  All my life I thought I spoke English!