The Myth of the French Lover

This essay first appeared in Polly Platt's last work:  Love a la Francaise, 2008, published by Schoenhofs Foreign Books

here is a abundance of myth circulating in regards to the amorous talents of Frenchmen. “The French Lover” is seen as a redundancy, and many of my female compatriots will attest to the pants-dropping effect of English spoken with a strong French accent. I’ve been pondering this idée reçue lately, trying to put a finger on what exactly makes the Frenchman so sexy.

Seductive tool # 1: I think I’m handsome; so should you

To us American gals, the average Frenchman is just that: physically average. Observe the French actors who are continually cast in heart throb roles: Gérard Depardieu, Vincent Lindon, Daniel Auteuil. None of these men possess the physical attributes of say, a Brad Pitt or George Clooney, yet all three of them have bedded some of the most beautiful women in France, both on-screen and off. How did they do it? Sheer confidence. There is nothing more seductive than a man who thinks he is worthy of your attentions.

Even if he is 5’5.

The Frenchman’s self-image is a reflection of France itself. You’ve got a small country the size of the state of Texas here, yet it is one notch down from the United States in terms of international relations, with a permanent seat on the United Nations Security Council. Just as France revels in its self-importance (Former President Chirac once proclaimed France “a beacon for the human race”; I once knew a Frenchman who thought the same of his penis), your average French male projects a similar sense of self-worth.

Seductive tool #2: You are the most beautiful woman in the world.

Frenchmen do not hesitate to tell you how beautiful you are. It is not necessarily used as a pick-up line; it can be a mere observation proffered as fact. Once I was riding the métro, daydreaming and minding my own business. The train arrived at my destination; as I rose to exit the car, the very normal-looking, neither swarthy nor lascivious man across from me spoke up: “Mademoiselle,” he said, “Je voulais vous dire que vous êtes ravissante” (Miss, I wanted to tell you you are ravishing.) There was no subtext to his statement, he was merely sharing his observation. Whether it is true or not, I cannot confirm. But the unencumbered freedom with which the Frenchman shares his thoughts about how he perceives you is powerful stuff.

Seductive tool #3: The Actual Act

Frenchmen love to make love. They love to make love to their girlfriends, to their wives, to their mistresses; why, sometimes they love to make love to all three of them one right after the other! Flagrant desire is a source of pride and a renewable resource. They have such a good time between the sheets! It’s like an amusement park in there!

None of this research is going to get me into the Panthéon. My statistics may be skewed because I have not done much random sampling, my subjects are self-selecting, and I lack a control group. But it is my academic duty to continue on, in the name of Liberté, Egalité et Fraternité! Aux armes, citoyens!

Globalization

This essay first appeared in So Far and Yet So Near, an anthology of expatriate musings, published by ACA Press.

he day STARBUCKS© hung their shingle in Paris, the press was all abuzz. The presence of yet another icon of American consumer habits on French soil—joining the ranks of GAP, ESPRIT, MCDONALDS et al-- has me reminiscing about the days when we Americans-in-Paris were hard-pressed to find anything from our native land over here in our adopted one.

I expatriated myself in 1986. Global marketing was in its infancy and the internet did not exist as we know it today. A few American companies had made inroads in getting their product to market in France: one could find Coca Cola (although the mix was tailored to local tastes, ie less sweet and never served on ice), and McDonald’s was just setting up on the Champs-Elysees (later to be fined for allowing dogs on the premises; they shut their doors for a bit but reemerged with a new policy). I would always take an empty suitcase on my trips to America, with the intention of filling it with all that I missed and could not find an adequate substitute for in Paris. These items fell into two categories: foodstuffs (peanut butter, Reese’s Peanut Butter cups, Hershey’s Kisses, Lucky Charms) and health and beauty products (Crest toothpaste, Vidal Sasson shampoo, deodorant).

For my longer stays in the US, I would do the same in reverse. I would leave France with a suitcase filled with everything I could not find in the States: again, the comestibles (Ricore coffee, 80 percent chocolate cooking chocolate, Carambar candies), and the rest: Dim stockings, Klorane hair supplies, French lingerie.

Oddly, once I had the foreign product in hand in my “other” homeland, I would often refuse to use it, for fear of running out, or hoard it for so long that I would surpass the expiration date and have to toss the thing away!

I no longer drag local goods back and forth. I realized after a time that it was not the actual product that I longed for when away from either country, but the country itself. The product was merely a talisman which served to conjure up a memory or illusion of something about that “other place”. As I sat on my parent's deck in Marin County, I could fix myself a bowl of chicory coffee (a bowl, not a mug!) and have the Proustian madeline moment of believing that I was back in my Parisian apartment. And upon my return to France, I could pop a Hershey’s Kisses into my mouth while riding the métro and conjure up a memory of sitting in Candlestick Park with my Dad, watching the Giants play ball.

I also realized that I savored the specialness of the separate country/separate product paradigm. Kraft Macaroni and Cheese belongs in America! Runny and ripe Camembert belongs in France! Having access to all goods in all places produced such a pale feeling of sameness. There is a beauty and soul to regional goods. Something that strip malls and ubiquitous branding have left behind.

So while I applaud the opening of the STARBUCKS© at the Place de l’Opéra (I like my decaf nonfat latte as much as the next suburban yuppie bitch), I also relish the fact that I can still patronize the little merchant down the street that sells nothing but sea salt from the Guérande. And he has no idea how to export it nor interest in expanding his market share.

From their flagship shop at the Opera, to this post-modern masterpiece under the Louvre, Starbucks is now as ubiquitous here in Paris as it is in the United States