For starters, I am not a Francophile.
I am much closer to being a Franco rasp.
By the way, this stuff really happened. I was only about forty and I could handle it then.
So, On With the Story
During 1980 and ’81, I made quite a few trips to France for business.
I must say that the first time was a bit exciting.
But that wore off quite rapidly.
The Fun of Business Travel
On Saturday afternoon, drive to the Raleigh airport. Wait. An hour on a plane to JFK. Wait. Six hours on a plane to Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris. Wait. An hour to fly to the airport in Nice. Rent a car. Drive an hour to La Gaude.
While in France, order something to eat you can almost pronounce. Hope it is close to what you think it was. I ate a lot of pizza.
And always remember that they refuse to understand you if you say “la” when you should have said “les”.
And the dreadful meetings with Frenchmen.
On Friday evening, reverse the “to France” process and add a Friday night in the Charles de Gaulle Airport hotel.
Great fun. Not to mention two weekends shot to hell.
Oh, yes, I forgot to mention customs. A wonderful experience in any country.
I also forgot to mention the time difference. The Sundays following the flights were recovery days.
One thing before I forget. Business travel is not quite as glamorous as shown in the movies or on television.
The French and I
Touch and go all the way.
Three Frenchmen I knew were right friendly. They didn’t hate Americans and we became friends, or at least friendly.
A few, I got along with. Sort of.
The rest, save one, didn’t like Americans and didn’t much like me.
One just flat out hated all Americans in general and me in particular. The man hated my guts. There was no build up to this. It was hate at first sight. I mean, you would have thought I had been shacking up with his mother. Or, just maybe, it was because of my position on the project; I was in charge.
By the way, this guy’s name was Guy. I remember because I used to irritate the dickens out of him when I used the English pronunciation, “Guy”. The French pronunciation is, “Gi”. He corrected me frequently.
A Typical Small Meeting
There were a few of these a week. Some days, it might be two or three meetings but the general content of all the meetings was about as follows.
Four or five of us in some guy’s office. Some Frenchmen and I.
9:00 a.m. talk about what they had for dinner the previous evening.
10:30 a.m. squeeze in a little work.
11:00 a.m. talk about what they were going to have for lunch.
12:00 p.m. lunch.
1:00 p.m. talk about what they had for lunch.
2:00 p.m. squeeze in a little work.
2:30 p.m. talk about what they were going to have for dinner tonight.
4:00 p.m. go home after an exhausting day.
A Typical Big Meeting
Two Americans and twenty Frenchmen in a large conference room.
Technical discussion about the project.
Much of the discussion was involved with explaining how stupid Americans are.
Some of this caused me problems because I was the stupid American who was the programmer in charge of the entire project and who had designed the software and written the specifications. The French loved that.
I was involved in a few of those memorable meetings but there was one meeting I remember well.
An Especially Memorable Big Meeting
The guy who was supposed to go with me became ill and I had to go all by my lonesome. For small stuff, I usually went alone. But this was a big deal meeting. And I had to face a flock of Frenchmen with no backup.
I was standing and giving the status of the project to date to about 20 Frenchmen. Somewhere along the line I said, “Yak, yak, yak is fait accompli.”
I was stopped in my tracks. My special French friend, the one who hated my guts, jumped up, mumbled something about the English language, and then said, “You can’t even explain something without using French words.”
I was standing there, surrounded by Frenchmen.
Not a word was spoken and 40 beady little French eyes were staring at me.
I started thinking fast. Once and for all, somehow, I was going to get that little French son of a bitch. Then, out of the blue, it hit me. The sun was shining and I was absolutely brilliant.
I said, “The phrase ‘fait accompli’ is an English phrase.”
My Special French Friend
My special French friend started to argue.
I cut him off and then I gave the name of a book. I can’t tell you the name because I made it from whole cloth. I also gave a chapter name and a page number from the same book. I then brilliantly said, “It’s a history book. Read it. The phrase ‘fait accompli’ was stolen by the French shortly after the Battle of Hastings in 1066.”
My special French friend just stammered.
Most of the others has quizzical looks.
Then the three with whom I had become friends started laughing. They knew my sense of humor.
What I had said slowly hit the others and then all of the other Frenchmen began laughing at my special French friend.
My special French friend started turning various shades of purple. He said nothing more and sat down.
That little French son of a bitch never bothered me again.
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