French Game Shows: NSFW edition

I love French game shows, even the American rip-offs like Qui Veut Gagner Des Millions. What's interesting is that, despite how useless I am on French pop culture questions, I own these people on history, grammar and anything related to religion. (Once, a contestant had to use a lifeline to arrive at the answer Adam and Eve.) However, this is even better:

Here, the host is reviewing the question (What orbits around the Earth?) and, as you can see, not only has the contestant felt obliged to ask the audience, but 56 percent of them have chosen the sun as the correct answer.

Another favorite is N'Oubliez Pas Les Paroles, which I enjoy but which I can't really participate in because I've never heard of any of these songs. Essentially, I'm just waiting for the inevitable French pop song which attempts to up its cool factor by including random English lyrics; I love when French people sing in English.

But without a doubt, my hands-down favorite French game show is Attention à la Marche ("Watch Your Step"), for the simple reason that I have absolutely no idea what's going on. At the beginning, there are four contestants, at least one of whom is certifiably insane. They answer a few questions, accompanied by these cartoon creatures who look like dancing purple popsicles:

After no more than two questions, the lowest-scoring player is no longer allowed to participate in the game, but he still stands around to take part in the chatting. And there is a lot of chatting. Think of the moment on "Jeopardy!" when Alex Trebek interviews the contestants and they say things like "I enjoy tennis and swimming... but not at the same time, haha!"* Now put that thought far, far from your mind, because nothing like that is happening here.

First, one of the guys tells a story about when he went to the zoo and felt he made a "special connection" with Ghislaine the Orangutan, that "something happened" when their gazes met. Right about now, we hear the first notes of "You Can Leave Your Hat On," thus announcing the arrival of, I kid you not, "The Naughty Question."

Today's question, after a clip of the purple popsicles dancing on a mattress: out of 100 women surveyed, how many said that all men have the same "mode d'emploi" in bed. (This doesn't translate precisely, but think along the lines of "methods of usage.")

Before revealing the answer, the host demands that each contestant do an impression. One guy impersonates Charles Aznavour, a dead singer; another impersonates a famous comedian; the crazy lady does an impression of (I swear, I am not making this up) "Me, climbing a rope."

Then the host goes back to the Naughty Question and invites the crazy lady to tell everyone about Her First Time. (Yes, that's exactly what I'm talking about.) To which she responds, "I had several, and they were all marvelous."

Then the guy with the braid gets his turn and proceeds to describe the four different kinds of orgasms women have:

I would just like to point out that this show comes on at noon on Sundays. I'm just saying...

After this, we cut to a commercial, and when we come back, a randomly-chosen audience member joins the other four contestants in answering questions on a staircase. Then there's a musical break, and everyone dances together. Then more questions. And finally the guy who told the orgasm story plugs his album, at which point I realize he's famous. Which means that the crazy chick in the tiger shirt is also possibly famous. Then it's revealed that the woman on the stairs has won 10,000 euros. (How? When??) And finally, the credits roll, while the in-house cartoonist (yes, the in-house cartoonist) shows pictures he's drawn of the other guy and the orangutan.

I have no idea what this show is about, but I deeply love it.

*My mother and I actually witnessed this on an episode of "Jeopardy!" and it so traumatized us that it has remained our standard of dorkiness ever since.

In Which Our Author Charms a Local

I got a phone number today. In the bus. From a guy who was about 45, wearing a Cosby sweater and blowing smoke in my face.

There were a couple of factors at work here, most notably, that he is apparently attracted to Ice Queens, because I said and did absolutely nothing to encourage him. I gave him a made-up name (and a second made-up name when he forgot that first one), and didn't say anything to him beyond "Oh, really?" in the blandest tone I could muster.

Here's the thing: it's sort of accepted practice that if someone isn't harassing you, you play nice until you can get rid of them. (One time I was in a wildly crowded metro train and everyone was smashed up against each other, and a random skeever with his hand in his pocket turned his fingers so he was basically feeling my crotch during the entire train ride. I didn't freak out, but when we got off the train I told my French friend what happened, and she said, I swear, "Yeah, that happens, but it doesn't hurt so it's no big deal.")

Anyway, back to Bus Guy. I put on the Ultra Freeze and refused to answer any of his questions, and let's just say he's not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, because at one point he commented that he'd never seen me around town before, and was I from the city? No, I said shortly, I was from very far away. And at first he thought "Very Far Away" was a town he wasn't familiar with, so finally I just said, "It's near Tours."

He finally got off the bus and I continued to my destination in peace. I relay this story for all of you who harbor fantasies about French men. You just keep that dream alive while I cope with the reality, how about that?

"Oh mais franchement..."

There is this word, franc, which gets thrown around a lot; the most obvious synonym is frank, as in Frankly, my dear... To the French, there's an element of truth to the word; someone who is franc is sincere and honest in his speech. He does not prevaricate. To me, though, the better translation is blunt. And lemme tell you, that's something these folks have no problem with.

Earlier this week, in the teachers' room, a woman randomly starts this conversation with me: "So, are there more black people in Alabama than in other states?"

Me: "Uh, I don't know. I guess maybe."

Her: "You've never been to another state?"

Me: "No, of course I have. But--"

Her: "Well, when you went to other states, were there more or fewer black people?"

Me: "I don't know. I guess I didn't notice."

Her: "Ah, well then, if you didn't notice, then maybe it was the same?"

Me: "Listen, I don't know. When I go to visit other states, I don't take a census. If you want, we can go to the computer lab and look up the numbers, but I can't tell you because I don't know."

Her: "I read that there were more. Because of the slavery."

Sigh. Why me, God?

Dinner Party: Do These Pants Make Me Look Grim?

I was invited to dinner at the home of a retired French teacher from my school. We were joined by a retired math teacher, a retired history teacher, and a retired-something-else teacher. It was a regular ol' teacher fest. I'd been told beforehand that everyone wanted to spend the evening practicing their English. Only when I got there, someone said, "Perhaps we could speak French just a little at the beginning, and then start speaking English in a few minutes?"

We spoke French all night. Well, I should say they spoke French all night. I mostly listened and made grocery lists in my head. Ostensibly everyone had gotten together to meet me, The Visiting American, but it didn't take me long to blend in to the upholstery, apparently. It's not that I didn't want to participate, it's more that they talked about hip replacements and osteopaths (like chiropractors who crack all your bones), carpal tunnel surgeries and the various classes they take in their ample leisure time. (Art! Music! Stretching!) There was a quick inventory of who had parents still living, then their care and ailments were discussed at great length. Turns out my parents are pretty healthy, so again, not much to add.

Don't get me wrong, it was interesting. They wanted to talk about Roman Polanski, and you might be surprised by their response. The consensus was that they didn't understand why the European elite rally around him; if he committed a crime (and in their minds, a grown man and a 13-year-old girl does, in fact, constitute a crime), then he should be required to atone for it.

Also interesting: they all lost at least one grandfather in "The War of 1914," and one or both of their parents grew up with no male presence in the home. Americans make a lot of noise about France's resistance to our military endeavors, but you've got to see things from their side. We think of wars in terms of our brave boys heading overseas to defend freedom, and that's true, but for the French it wasn't a distant thing. These wars were fought in their backyards. The Battle of Verdun (in northern France) lasted nine months and killed a quarter of a million people. France had 1.6 million casualties overall. (To compare, the U.S. had 117,000.) They also had more casualties than the U.S. during World War II, and with a fraction of the population. Is it any wonder they're so reticent to go to war? Any wonder they'd rather exhaust diplomatic option when it comes to dealing with Iran and Iraq?

Do me a favor. Please stop perpetuating that whole "we saved your asses" thing. They know. They remember. And they're eternally, sincerely grateful. It's just that this gratitude doesn't extend to following the U.S. blindly into yet another war that could kill off a substantial chunk of their population.

I'm off my soapbox now. Dinner was lamb with apricots and prunes. (Yeah, prunes. I accidentally took one too many from the bowl and wow. I'm pretty sure my ears are clean, too.) For dessert we had ice cream and stewed pears from somebody's father's orchard. Wine was consumed. French was spoken. Somebody drove me home at 11:30 (which makes it an early night, in terms of French dinner parties). I managed to get a couple of hours sleep before school the next morning.

And oh yeah, I've got another invitation to dinner. And this time they swear they're going to speak English. We'll see.

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!

Side Note: French Men

I confess I'm always a little startled when people assume that one of my goals in coming to France is to snag a French man. Because while most Americans think of French men as what-- some variation on the theme of Latin lover?-- what I mostly think of is dudes wearing cropped pants while reading a copy of Hésitation. (Which I totally saw on the train.) And yes, these guys are straight, and no, there isn't strictly anything wrong with men wearing cropped pants, it's just that it's not what leaps to mind as a romantic ideal, non?

**And as a side story to this side story, I still crack up every time I think of my Parisian friend who complained that after seven or eight years of living in Alabama, "French men just seem so delicate."