Urban Legend: French People Are Rude

A more accurate statement is, Parisians are rude. People in Le Mans, my coworkers specifically, could not possibly be nicer. They are warm, they are friendly, they love to strike up conversation with my about the U.S., Alabama ("Forrest Gump!") and how I am finding Le Mans. (I can be diplomatic when needed.)

The problem is that these folks all seem to know me, while I have no idea who they are. So, as it happens, I have given out my phone number at least three times with only the vaguest idea of who the person is.

Today, for example, I left class and got snagged in the hallway. "Ah, la nouvelle collègue!" (My name is, according to all evidence, "the new colleague." Similarly, my name at home is "the new neighbor." Only the couple across the hall just bought a new place, which means I'm ridiculously excited about someone else moving in so that I can say, "Tiens, c'est le nouveau voisin!")

Anyway, this woman in the hall insisted that I come to her office to have a coffee and see where it is "in case I ever need her help." (For what? Who is she? Not the principal, I know that much.) While she fed me coffee and madeleines, she told me all about her past two vacations to the U.S. (National parks; East Coast; she's a trip to California away from the French Travel Trifecta!) and took my number so she could invite me to dinner.

Dinner invitations. They're funny things. People tell me all the time that they're planning to have me over for dinner (it's a big deal here). In fact, they all seem rather panicky and apologetic about not being able to invite me over immediately. (The wife is out of town, I'm so, so sorry, it's horrible that we can't have you over sooner, but we will very very soon, I promise.) A woman that I swear I've never seen before rushed up to me in the teachers' lounge to explain that her son just started school and so "it's all very complicated right now" but she wants to invite me over as soon as she can.

I find this all quite entertaining. Frankly, I'm not in a hurry to fill up my calendar with dinner dates, as this would entail days of fretting about what to wear, paranoia that I am secretly someone's pony in a Diner de Cons, and a last-minute crisis related to the selection of an appropriate hostess gift. All of this culminates, of course, in a minimum of 4 hours of small talk at one stretch, the very thought of which makes me faint.

Full reports as they happen, naturally. But for now, kids, start speaking the truth! French people are friendly!