French for beginners

By Stephen Jessel
Former BBC correspondent, Paris

Like many of his predecessors and successors as BBC correspondent in France, Stephen Jessel stayed on in the country when his time with the corporation came to an end.

He reflects now on how integrated he has become after 10 years as a voluntary exile in the French capital.

The cafe culture is central to the Parisien lifestyle

Looking out of my window across the street to André's cafe I reflected that we have now known each other for 10 years.

Over that time I have eaten there on average, I suppose, once a week. Three courses, a quarter of a litre of wine and coffee are correct rather than great cuisine, but good value for £10.

We are not exactly close friends but I gave him a character reference when he was prosecuted for insulting a policeman who threatened to shoot his beloved dog Jazz.

We are on first name terms. I lent moral support when his relationship with his lady broke up.

What I do not do is "tutoie" him, that is, call him by the familiar tu. Rather, I "vouvoie" him, with the more formal vous. Maybe the moment to change has gone.

However long I live here I do not think I shall ever really understand the rules.

Of course, the books say tu is used for small children, family members, friends and animals, while vous is reserved for others.

But it is more complicated than that.

Grasping the basics

I worked for some years with four French people, among whom there was an intricate pattern of tutoiing and vouvoing, the rationale of which I never began to grasp.

President Chirac uses the tu very easily but addresses his wife as vous.

Jacques Chirac used 'tu' in a note to Tony Blair in 2003 on the PM's 50th birthday, to signify friendship

The North Africans running one of the five fruit and veg shops in a 200m stretch of road, call me tu, but I think that is cultural rather than insulting or patronising.

Broadly speaking, though, shopping is one of two areas where I flatter myself I have integrated.

The street in question is packed with butchers, cheese shops, greengrocers, patisseries, and wine outlets. As a regular client for a decade, I am probably known as much for my resolutely un-Parisian accent, girth and bizarre dog as for anything else.

I understand, more or less, the importance of the rituals that are executed before the commercial transactions begin: the exchange of politenesses, enquiries sometimes after children, comments on the weather.

The other area where I am fully integrated is that of the national past-time of hypochondria

Monsieur Marc, who runs a splendid fishmongers, recognises my non-French status and stocks kippers for me even if they are Danish and not Manx or Scottish.

The staff at the Greek delicatessen - an oxymoron, you might think - seem to appreciate a fellow non-French European.

Lifestyle

My progress down the street and through the quartier is punctuated with salutations and handshakes, though as a product of England I am not an instinctive hand-shaker.

The other area where I am fully integrated is that of the national past-time of hypochondria.

For years I never went near doctors, but now I have a GP, an ophthalmologist, a dermatologist, a pharmacist and a dentist - all women, by the way - plus a cardiologist of astounding depth of general culture, whose idea of a perfect summer holiday is visiting country houses in East Anglia.

Approximately 70,000 British nationals are registered as residents in France

Between these I waddle contentedly with my little green national health card, doing my part to wreck the nation's public finances. I can and do vote in minor elections.

The building in which I live is split between offices and flats. In recent years three young couples have moved in as apartments fell vacant.

I understand they are members of the extended family of the owner and all related to each other in some complicated way, to the point where one feels a little marooned as the couples shuttle between each others houses.

It could be that fears about the falling birth rate in France are overdone. Between the couples they have six children under the age of five.

These include Timothée who lives above us and has an allergy to carpets. That means that when he runs up and down the bare parquet in what appear to be lead-lined deep sea diver's boots, we are not unaware of his athletic prowess.

But it never occurs to us to complain. The couples are polite and friendly and anyway, they outnumber us and there are prices you pay for living in the heart of Paris.

C'est la vie

The richness of Parisien life is reflected in its architecture

On the subject of prices though, Parisian friends and acquaintances return from the other side of the channel pale and trembling after encountering the costs of accommodation, eating and transport there.

"Why do you live here and not in Britain," my GP asked, conversationally I hope, the other day.

No easy answer. The Palais Royal on a winter's day, the view from Menilmontant, the buzz on the Grands Boulevards on a Saturday night; and yes my local food shops. To be pretentious, it is the texture of life.

There are cultural references I shall never understand, not having grown up here.

French humour leaves me unmoved and, whisper it not, there are an awful lot of bad films made in France.

Neither fully in the society of the country I live in, nor fully out of it - certainly not given the amount of tax I pay - I am a semi-outsider casting a sideways glance.

But there are worse positions to be in than that.

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From Our Own Correspondent was broadcast on Saturday, 21 February, 2004 at 1130 GMT on BBC Radio 4. Please check the programme schedules for World Service transmission times.