Any one who thinks they have the ability to understand a culture other than their own is a fool. I remember an old asian hand, who after several miso wari’s (scotch and waters for you non-old asian hands), opined about a common malady of expats who had stayed too long. We called it asian fever, and it happens in other areas of the world as well. He told me that perfect comprehension of the Oriental culture came only when one finally realized that he would never understand.
It’s relatively easy to apply that wisdom to eastern cultures, where things really look different, but we often fail to understand that it applies equally to places where things on the surface seem and look like they do in the good old US of A. As I had the experience of doing business and living in different parts of the world, I was often asked, “what’s the most difficult country in the world to live/work/do business in?” I always immediately responded, “France”. “France”, they would say. “What about Japan, China, Mexico?”. “Nope, it’s France”. “Why”, they would ask. “It’s simple”, I slyly rejoindered. “White socks”. “In no other culture in the world would a business man wear white socks with their business suit”. (nb. I did see some guys in Croatia a couple of years ago with white socks, but I think they were actually Russian mafia so they really don’t count as businessmen.)
Don’t get me wrong I love the French, and I even love most things French, but they are difficult, very difficult to get along with even if you want to. The reason is simple. They think they are always right….about everything. And they are better. Their food is better. Their wine is certainly better. Their art is superior. Their designs are more fashionable. Their way of doing things should be the model for everyone, if only we were smart enough to understand. So if a fellow decides to wear white socks with his Armani suit, it must be a statement of fashion superiority and not be criticized.
One area in which they do have clear superiority….bureaucracy. Their government bureaucrats can out bureaucrat any bureaucrat in the world. Let me give a recent, personal example. In preparing for this trip, my able assistant, T., came across a pile of French francs in the files. When I say pile, I mean a pile. I can’t now imagine why I would have toted them back from one or more of my trips, but I did. As I am tending to get tighter with the purse strings as I age, I quickly referred to my knowledgeable-in-all-things friend Mr.Google. Google informed me that, yes, they could still be converted to Euros and even gave me the exchange rate. Happy days. A windfall that might well pay expenses for my Paris holiday. To be fair, even Google warned that I would have to report to the Banc de France and fill out some forms.
At the first free moment, me, with an envelope stuffed full of francs, and S. (who came along only grudgingly) made a bee line for the venerable Banc de France, only to find out there are two of them. One on the left bank (rive gauche) for you francofiles, and one on the right bank. I had a 50/50 chance of picking the right one. Nope, it was the left bank. We found the left bank Banc of France which happily was in St. Germain du Pres…one of my favorite areas, and prepared to turn old paper into new money. But the door to the bank wouldn’t open, and it looked awfully dark inside, but I thought I saw movement. I tried knocking to draw their attention. No luck. Then I saw the small brass plaque with instructions to “sonner la cloche…”. I didn’t know what cloche was but I was pretty sure sonner was to ring, and there was a button near by, so I sonnered la cloche. The door opened, S. and I stepped in, the door closed, but the opposing door did not open. We were trapped in a glass box. Again the brass plaque. (Why would anyone put ring the bell instructions on a brass plaque?…see the paragraphs above). I rang, and the second door opened into a cavernous semi-dark room which at first I thought to be empty of people.
My eyes adjusted, and I saw a man in a short sleeve white shirt and black tie (see paragraph on white socks above) with numerous imposing signs of instruction in front of him. None were in brass. I ignored the signs and dumped my envelope of francs on the counter in front of him. Without a blink, he started slowly, and I mean slowly sorting them into two piles. One which he labeled oui, and the other non. Each time he put one in the pile, non, he shook his head, so I was getting the idea that these were not going to pay for my wine tonight. The non pile was about twice the oui pile, but they all looked the same to me. I started to ask, but nah, I thought, if I said, “pourquoi?, I wouldn’t understand the answer, and he might move more of the notes to the non pile. After he tidied up the piles he handed me a form with detailed questions on two sides. All in french, of course. I guessed what I could, ignored what I couldn’t translate. It took about five minutes. I handed it back to him, he shoved it back to me and pointed to a bench on the other side of the room. He waived me back to him, handed me a small slip of paper with the number 50-17 on it and pointed again to the bench. The rest was easy. I waited until my number came up, took the form and my francs and with my best “bon jour madame (she was definitely a madame), handed them to her through a security slot. She read the form, clucked several times, punched numbers into a machine and gave me two more forms to sign. When I returned the forms, she counted the money once again and put it through the slot. With a polite merci madame, I headed for the door.
Maybe they are superior after all.
