Fitting into another society shouldn’t be difficult. It’s odd that borders — inexistent virtual barriers — should bind us to a particular culture. But we all come from a particular place, and the values from there bind us so tightly that eight hours by plane in any direction can take you to a place drastically different.
I sobbed giant tears at the airport and dribbled snot as I boarded the flight that would take me to Paris for a year. The French hippie who had been doing rounds of the Himalayan footsteps gave me a comforting hug in the check-in line, telling me that “zat ze cheeze naan in France” was better than in India. I sat back in the airplane picturing images of bereted Frenchman running across streets wielding baguettes , wearing their signature red striped t-shirts.
I remember fearing the snobbery that French people seem renowned for, in the face of my lack of accepted French etiquette, particularly while dining. I expected women to be dressed à la mode. I thought their version of food would consist of smelly cheese, snails and frog legs. As for the city, I expected everything to be spotlessly clean, the sun to shine constantly and for accordions to soundtrack my life as I walked down the streets.
A few years on, it’s hard to recollect my preconceptions. French people, particularly Parisians, speak English comfortably, albeit with a charming accent. They’re welcoming and often excited to talk about India and keen to understand more about topics such as Gandhi, castes and Indian religion.
They always keep a polite distance that threw me off, coming as I did from a country where two people can be declared ‘good friends’ after a couple of encounters. The ‘bisous’, a French custom of greeting all with a kiss on each cheek, threw me off many times. I came to dread greeting people for fear of messing up.
In France, etiquette is a rule, not a virtue, extending to personal relationships. I had to remember to always say good day, good bye, and bon appetit. Pyjamas anywhere outside the house are completely unacceptable. They like their baguettes and wine as much as is rumoured. Sighting people on smoke-breaks isn’t though, and the streets remain lined with cigarette butts. The streets aren’t always clean and the weather can be as miserable as England’s.
Accordion players haunt the metros and popular public squares, but they’re there mostly for the tourists. Silence reigns mostly, so different from India where people talk, dogs bark and cars honk constantly.
Once you scratch the cultural surface, clichés melt away. When their customs become second nature, you realise you’ve integrated. But then, when you least expect it, there are the occasional awkward bisous to remind you where you come from.
