The story of an American dream

A few months back, I attended a story-telling class during one of my visits to Seattle. The team at Assembly Intiman provided us with precious advice and guidance on how to bring anecdotes to life, to insufflate in paragraphs sparks of emotion that will take your readers or your audience on a journey. The inspired us with vivid examples from The Moth. They explained how by bringing the story to life through with personal examples and necessary details, whilst never losing sight of the greater purpose, you could turn a story line into a richer experience. One of the exercises consisted in randomly selecting a topic and elaborating a plot on the back of that situational teaser... I picked up: "Your first crush". Here is how it ended up, after a few minutes of reflection:

"Close your eyes, and imagine. In a few months, my wife, two kids and I will move to Seattle, WA. The winter will be over and a truck filled with our boxes will be parked in front of the house we have just bought. The last reminiscences of snow will be still melting in the shade of the large evergreens. I have taken a big job at Microsoft, and I am about to embark on a career path that should be rewarding in many ways... A dream. Some would even call it the American dream.

But let me share a French dream. Her name was Nathalie. I was a young teenager attending the local high school in a small town back home, in the Alps. I was then relatively good academically, certainly good athletically and socially... well, I had friends. I did not drink. I did not smoke. And in that picture of perfection, the only thing missing was The Girl.

The year before, though, I got to know Nathalie during drama classes. As others performed the year-end play, we were exchanging connivent smiles in the promiscuity of the improvised backstage. No words. Just candid glances and smiles. As the summer broke, we parted ways for the holidays, but as our respective birthdays came, letters made their way to our mailboxes. Innocuous pieces of paper, peppered here and there of clumsy attempts to infer some sort of feelings. As many mountaineers, I am probably better at dealing with the grandeur of my surroundings than with the depths of my inner self.

Nonetheless, as school resumed, I rushed to the school gate to see in which class I was, and I could not avoid searching for her name, secretly hoping we would be able to continue that flirt between maths and geography. And she was there, her name just a few rows above mine on the pupil list of class 7D. I remember smiling at that discovery... Until she arrived and went straight in, without a look for me.

Nathalie the perfect girl. She was smart, and beautiful. Her eyes were green with hazelnut shards scattered around her iris as if a glass marble had been crushed into her eye. It is funny that thirty years later I still remember that detail because for months I was unable to look at her. I stared at her, timidly, but was unable to make eye-contact. I spent hours listening to lectures, half-present, with my gaze wandering her golden locks and my respiration slowly getting in tune with her own. I have looked at her back for hours, for days, for months in fact but without the courage to ever face her. But then came the warm, inspiring month of April. Encouraged by the bourgeoning nature (and the encouraging whispers of friends), I dared to call her out as she strolled across the schoolyard:

- Hi?
- Hi.
- Do you want to go out with me?
- No!

She had replied without the hint of an hesitation. So, as a good French, I turned around, shrugged and went back to my friends as if nothing had happened. Disappointed, deeply hurt, but utterly dismissive of the whole situation (as you rightly do when out of touch with your feelings). I was a teenage boy after all. What would you expect?

But she came running at me. Not Nathalie, her best friend. She confessed that, although Nathalie fancied me, she did not want to hurt one of her own friends who also had feelings for me. Yes, that made sense. Somewhat. Deceived by my own success... That was good enough for my ego, even if disappointing for my libido.

That same best friend called me back a few years later. She had found my number in the phone book and although we had respectively moved to different parts of town, she thought it was a good idea to let me know that Nathalie was still very much into me, but that she could not dare to reach out, after the schoolyard anti-climax. So, in a non-act of emotional courage, I grabbed my phone immediatl... a couple months later, and called her to invite her out. We went to the cinema, spent the afternoon together and as I walked her home our hands touched. An almost imperceptible brush of skin. We looked at each other. Eyes in eyes. I tilted my head. She titled hers. Got closer, and as our lips touched each other... Nothing.

Just like that, years of fantasy vanished in a brief exchange of saliva. So as I reopen my eyes, and look at these boxes that we have just finished to pack, I cannot avoid but think that my American dream may well just be another fantasy. But, you know what? I don't really care, as it is still very much worth living these dreams."

In the marsh-mellow

Spot the difference

Ever since I moved from Paris to London, my friends back there kept on asking me the trivial question: "what is the real difference between the two capitals?". I say trivial, because two different cities are by definition... well, "different". But fair enough, both cities have a certain appeal, an history, a reputation... They are attractive destinations for tourists. If both nations may have entertained centuries ago some bellicose relationships, since then the Entente Cordiale has warmed up. Exchanges between the two countries have been as frequent as a French teenager exchanging saliva with a British girl during a linguistic trip.

More recently many French people have started crossing the Channel, and no longer to discover a new mother tongue. If British retirees keep on investing in houses in France, it is more active a population that transit in the other direction. Some say it is for tax evasion, to embrace liberalism, to be offered more exciting job opportunities, to live in a multicultural environment... Many reasons are brought forward, some positive, some more dubious. But in light of that context it is understandable that people want to understand that exotic proximity. In fact, my personal appeal for that French-British relationship got me on TV a few years back, when Sky News invited me to comment on the French news that was that week abundant in the press outlet. An interesting experience...

But back to my initial question, what are the differences between both cities? After 8 years in the UK, I have now lived longer as a Londoner than a Parisian, and the disparities are becoming less and less obvious to me. I guess that is what one calls assimilation. When the difference becomes the new norm... That said, I remain French at core, and there is still every now and then a little event in my daily life that will make me smile. This happened last weekend for instance.

Wetland...

When you are the father of a couple kids, you are always on the look for new activities that will help you keep your sanity. Outdoor activities are great for that, because as Sigourney Weather pointed out in one of her films, "no one can hear you scream in space". Sympathetic friends directed us to the London Wetland centre, a marshland within walking distance to Central London which has been adapted for educational purposes for kids and other bird watching fans. You can walk around discover migrating species in a protect habitat, when 10 minutes before you were still in the middle of the traffic jam.

I realised then that this greenery was one of the key differences between London and Paris. In the latter you can walk in parks and squares, but they are nowhere near the size of Hyde Park or Richmond Park. Paris does also have a marshland... but the colourful birds there are of very different species...

Le Marais (The Marsh in French) is one of the oldest part of the city. It is tucked on right bank of the city, just off Ile de la Cite and the Hotel de Ville. It is the medieval part of town and was built upon what was then a wetland. Nowadays it is the gay-tho after having been the real pletzl. There are still some reminiscences of the Jewish past around Rue des Rosiers, where kosher restaurants and museum are available. The only surrounding humidity in that part of the city comes from sweating clubbers who are enjoying the Parisian night life to its full. Throughout the day (although not so much in the late morning) it is a vibrant part of town, with bars, restaurants, galleries, small boutique shops, hotels... And even if you are not a proud member of the gay community, the walk through these ancients cobbled streets with not-so-straight (pun not intended) buildings is a delight.

You will agree that although sharing the same terminology, both are very, very different experiences... The extra focus on the nature in London could also be the source of some misunderstandings for keen party animals. When a Parisian plans a Stag-Do he is probably not thinking of something as literal as his Richmond counterpart...

Anthology of a teenager sex life

Warning: this blog post should be rated PG18... Look away if you are underage!
OK, now that I have your attention, you dirty little minds, I wanted to confess something. Having been caught in some aerial mayhem in the recent months (in fact I realised that in 2010 I have been stranded 13 days due to flight cancellations, snow storms and other volcanic ashes!), I have also been forced to deal with the in-flight entertainment and its depleting content quality. But, hey, when you are stuck in a plane for way too long, you have an alibi to catch up on the latest romantic comedies and other so-called blockbusters: there is not much else to do... especially if you have been graciously flanked with some over-weighted fellow travelers who block your escape route.

Teenagers' underbelly

Having rapidly exhausted the movies I really wanted to watch, and not being a great fan of the Turkish film scene in original version and without subtitles, I had to make a concession: watching one (or two) of the latest features for teenagers. I am not talking about sanitised movies like Anna Montana or the High School Musical series, no, I am referencing to the underbelly catalogue, films a la American Pie for instance.



The revelation of these screening was a bit weird... and you will certainly concur that I must be a crooked mind myself to watch such a movie and draw cultural/societal conclusions. These films however remain in my eyes a magnifying glass of cultural trends happening on the other side of the pond. And one thing that struck me was the vulgarisation of some sexual practices.

"voulez-vous coucher avec moi?"

I will not enter in the discussion around pre-marriage lust, you can make your own decisions. What I would like to call out are cultural discrepancies between Western societies around oral sex.

It seems that girls (and boys) on the west side of the Atlantic are more likely to perform such stunts rather than having regular intercourse. It seems less committal. I let you digest that first fact and reflect on the fact that for some societies ingurgitating something is absorbing its essence, its soul, its power... Think a moment of Toreros and the post corrida feast of bull ears and tail, or even cannibals.

Putting something in your mouth does not seem to be that trivial a practice for some. And so, let's put this into the perspective of a European culture. Let's say the French (as I can make generalisation about my own culture, without being taxed of racism). If you agree on today's legend about French girls, it would seem that they are quite easy to get laid.

Let me first demystify that cliche largely echoed in the above-mentioned films... Twenty years or so struggling with female gender allow me to clearly confirm: this IS a legend. Nevertheless, assuming that this myth was somehow based on some statistical truth (and that I must have been exposed to the placebo group when I was young), it appears that girls in France would be more prone to open their legs than their mouth.

Taste the difference.

The dichotomy between both countries seems to be articulated around, on the one hand, fear of pregnancy/lack of understanding or rejection of contraception, and on the other hand, a different conception of intimacy.

Note for the male teenagers who discarded my introductory warning and read all the way to this sentence: if you were planning a trip to France to "enlarge your horizon" and practice my mother tongue, it seems that you may have to get into a serious relationship before you can get a taste of home from a local. Yet I could understand your misunderstandings, after all, the inventors of French Kiss should be skilled at this tongue twisting oral drill. To boot aren't the German referring to oral sex as "Franzosisch" (i.e. French sex).

Too bad, guys, France is also the country of romance and seduction... You will still learn a lot from that trip. Unless you end up in the placebo group.


To read further:

• The end of a myth, or how the Little English girls lost their European sex appeal;


• The cost of loving, an article on the hidden truth behind weddings;


• Watch you moves, or what your gesture can tell in a different culture