On studying abroad, the French, and the undervalued art of complaining

Whenever asked if I’m enjoying studying abroad, I never miss the opportunity to respond that you’re really not supposed to call them broads anymore. Woman or lady is the preferred nomenclature nowadays. This bit usually gets a groan or an eyeroll in response, to my delight, because any annoyance at that stupid joke will undoubtedly pale in comparison to when I actually answer the question and they discover with horror that I am one of those insufferable pieces of shit who is never going to shut up about his year studying abroad in Paris, and how this and that and that too were all so much better in France…

The truth is, though, that it’s not all so much better in France. There’s actually a long list of things that I have found to be varying degrees of worse in France, including, but not limited to: landlords, higher education in general, most foods that are remotely spicy, punctuation (which idiot’s idea was it to make you put a space between a word and a colon, semi-colon, exclamation mark or question mark?!), bureaucracy, the general technological proficiency of university professors, the price and quality of a pint of Guinness, variety of choice when it comes to any pint for that matter, and the average height of ceilings, doorways and canopies to the point that anyone taller than 6 feet will undoubtedly leave the country having suffered a plethora of stature-related injuries.

The length of this list might lead one to believe that I haven’t been enjoying my year abroad at all, but this could hardly be further from the truth in that I just really enjoy having something to complain about. In October, when I was bemoaning either the astonishingly amateurish administration at Panthéon-Sorbonne for not having registered me in any classes yet, despite it being well over a month into the semester, or the fact that I’d burst a blood vessel or four in my eye by absentmindedly walking into the edge of an awning because the French are all so short, my friend Anaïs said that she was sorry if I hadn’t been enjoying my time in Paris so far. I asked her what on earth she was talking about. I just love to complain, almost as much as I love making lists. Thankfully, this quality has stood me in great stead in France, because if the French love anything at all in this world, it’s to complain. It seems like every time I leave the metro at the Place de la République I’m suddenly smack bang in the middle of thousands of French men and women complaining about whatever stupid thing Macron has just done, shutting down whole boulevards with their complaints. I’ll usually join them, because they’ve got a point, and it’s good to get your steps in. 

It’s my working theory that the French’s love of complaining, protesting and general distrust of authority is instilled in them from childhood from their approach to education. I went to a French school, which despite being in Los Angeles, was equally committed to the French educational ethos. I only recently discovered, to my shock, that most elementary school children do not spend every day being yelled at and told that they are the worst class of eight year olds that the school has ever seen –  this was very much a culturally French thing. It’s through this harsh treatment during such a formative period of their lives instead of a nurturing environment, I believe, that the French are socialized into opposition, and naturally grow to resent authority in all later walks of life. I doubt they’d be striking or marching at every possible opportunity if they’d had understanding and thoughtful authority figures during their early years as opposed to the despotic historians and mathematicians that typically terrorize French children. On the other hand, this might mean that overly kind and understanding teachers only serve to placate the masses, rendering them docile and susceptible to domination by the ruling class. I suppose the ideal education would be somewhere in between, not inflicting psychological damage on the children by yelling at them incessantly, but not being so lax as to fail to instil any critical thinking capabilities in them whatsoever. 

Higher education for the French feels like an extension of their schools, where professors are still the students’ sworn enemies and attendance is called at the beginning of every class (because as a country they are yet to discover the novel concept of scanning QR codes). They could hardly be further from the kind of open minded establishments one finds in other countries where students are expected to have fun while getting an education, to spend as much time “finding themselves” and building community as they do studying. The only community to be found among students at French universities seems to be in their blatant disrespect of their lecturers. The subtle art of whispering somehow remains a mystery to the French student body. Never before have I seen students raise their voices to keep talking amongst themselves whenever the lecturer is trying and typically failing to get everyone’s attention. There is something almost admirable about their impudence, but on the off chance that the lecturer is saying something interesting, it really does make you wonder whether the French students know that none of this is mandatory and that no one really has to be there if they don’t want to be. I suppose they must know actually since about half of them drop out after only a year, and only a quarter of them complete their degrees. 

As much as I am railing on them here (it’s out of love I promise), the French do do a lot right to their credit. Duck, for me, tops the list. Before coming to Paris, I had to set myself a duck allowance of no more than one duck breast a week, be it smoked, cured, stuffed with foie gras or cooked any number of delicious ways. Some of the other things the French do well that come to mind are: relaxing, cinemas, a steadfast refusal to disgrace themselves by leaving the house wearing sweatpants, flea and farmer’s markets, life changing jackets to be found at said flea markets, always saying hello and goodbye (although often not much else), stripes and scarves, cathedrals (buildings in general actually), sitting on the edge of bodies of water, pastries, pastis, poetry, the list goes on and on. Urban planning is up there for sure. A wiser woman than me once said something along the lines of there being few things in this life better than being drunk in a walkable city with the love of your life. Few cities would be more befitting of such a ritual than Paris, and, in my case, most days of the week, one out of two ain’t bad. Everyone loves to hate the French, because, let’s be honest, it is good fun and they are an appropriate target, and god knows I’ve been guilty of many a transgression against them in my time, but they’re really not all bad. Alarmingly, we’re all much more alike than any of us would care to admit. The average cigarette rolling, curly haired mullet and moustache sporting Frenchman you’d find outside a 35mm screening of Magnolia in the Latin Quarter could easily be transposed to Hackney, Hyde Park, Clifton, Silver Lake, or Los Feliz, and nobody would bat an eyelid. Maybe this just means that the internet’s ubiquity has made insufferable men the same everywhere, but I still think it’s kind of beautiful. It’ll take more than toppling the tower of Babylon to stop guys from being unbearably pretentious. 

Speaking of guys, there will come two important points in any man’s life. At one point there will be a plane, train, automobile or any form of transportation taking you far away from home for a long time. It is imperative that you get on that plane and go see the world. Like Anthony Bourdain, the messiah to mildly annoying men like me who fancy themselves to be cultured once said, “Move. As far as you can, as much as you can.” At another point, there will be a jacket. This jacket will be arguably more important than the plane. Maybe it will only have been thanks to the plane that you were put in the situation to buy the jacket. You will know the jacket when you see it. It may very well be overpriced. This will not matter in the long run. You must buy the jacket, and treasure it for decades to come. I’ll forever be glad I got on that plane to Paris, if not for all the stories and afternoons spent sitting by the Seine or Canal and new friends and late nights turned early mornings and conversations with strangers, because there are few finer cities in the world to buy a jacket in. 

Words by Jasper Harvey