Choc culturel.

We all come from our own worlds.

Whether we are an heiress living in London or a rapper selling your CDs on Crenshaw, we construct our lives based on how we see ourselves and the people around us. And as such, we gravitate toward those who validate our reality. Of course, most people don’t consciously realize this…

for there is no need when surrounded by people who are like you.

Over these past two years, I’ve been perplexed by the number of unstable relationships that just do not fit me. The French women I meet are either elusive and unapproachable or just a flat out bitchy. The French men usually never pursue anything beyond innocent flirtation or a one night stand. Perhaps I am just too tall and intimidating. I tell myself innocently. Or perhaps they just like drama.

And then you get the Lame-os: the dudes who so hopelessly just don’t make the cut. They usually are uneducated and/or have absolutely no money and/or no respectable aspirations and/or are too short. I don’t want a boyfriend who sells cars and never went to college, they make me want to yell. And yet those are the ones I get to choose from here.

Sure, I gave it a shot once or twice: the short guy, the penniless guy, the “uneducated car sales man” guy. I’m not a shallow girl who judges people simply on height and wealth, if he can make a girl laugh then he’s worth a shot. But each one left me unconvinced that we truly understood each other. We disagreed on very basic principals. Ultimately we came from different worlds.

But then I realized something.

I felt it with cute Frenchman too, as well as the sexy Spaniard, the hot Italian, etc etc etc. In fact, it applies to my entire life in Paris in general. This is not my world.

I’m done with this.

I’m going back to my roots and my people.

I’m headed for Atlanta.

La Parisienne.

I’ve realized that in order to begin understanding dating in French culture -

I need to start at the top of the food chain…

Parisienne |pəˌrēzēˈen|noun

a French girl or woman native to Paris
ORIGIN mid 17th cent.: 
French, feminine of parisien ‘Parisian.’

At first glance, the Parisian woman is a captivating achievement of culture. She puts American women to shame with her tall, thin physic and elegant  posture. She wears only black in the winter: a black coat, tall black leather boots, and a black leather handbag. She does not smile, she does not even look at you. She is involved entirely in her own world. As she struts down the avenues of Paris she knows that she is sexy and doesn’t give a damn about you or what you think. Does her coldness offend you? Good.

When I first arrived to Paris, I was taken aback by these goddesses. Each one was so – beautiful: dark hair piled so gracefully upon their heads like a crown, lovely rose lips that pouted so angelically. They spoke to each other in esoteric verses. And their men were as equally breathtaking. Their feathered hair and long black coats were different from any American man I’d ever met. They looked at me from afar in curious bewilderment, but would not dare cross the line in fear of being whipped by their stiff maidens. And so man nor woman would approach me, for in my tattered jeans and cheap Forever 21 shirts I was unworthy to receive them.

It took me nearly a year and a half to fully acclimate to Paris. It meant throwing away ‘boyfriend’ jackets and purple corduroy pants, it meant not wearing the beret which  I considered to be so cute (a young French woman rarely wears a silly beret on the streets of Paris). It meant not dancing like a stripper at a nightclub (damn).

It meant being personally offended by people who were outrageous or weird. It meant not giving a shit about anyone, American or French. It meant being personally insulted when anyone broke the barrier of isolation between myself and the rest of the world.

Finally I made my first French friend. She was lovely, sweet, and polite. I marveled at the way she delicately placed her knife down as she chewed her food and how she always wore sheer stockings.

And then I made quite a discovery.

She was crazy. Irrationally insecure, an excessive dependency for affection, defensive, angry with the people in the world around her, unsystematically hostile, reserved attitudes toward her repressed sexuality…she was a neurotic by classic psychological standards.

Of course, not all French women are like this. In fact, I’ve met some very lovely Parisian women who were not mentally unbalanced and do very well for themselves. But I came  to see the chilly reservation of the common Parisian woman as conformity inbred within the society to hide a much deeper cultural disturbance. Many critics say that French women enjoy eating whatever they want and do not concern themselves with their weight. However, I have found them to be obsessed with their weight. They ruthlessly revile others about their size because they indeed are insecure about their hips.

There are some aspects of the Parisian woman that should be emulated and adored.

There are others, however, that need to be further explored.

Femmes Françaises Savent l’Amour

I suppose this blog is not very french of me according to Debra Ollivier. That’s alright, a part of fitting into French culture is realizing you are indeed not French.