Having spent the last 6 months in the middle of nowhere and driving around in an English plated vehicle, I had become accustomed to being stared at as if I'd risen from the black lagoon. I am in fact a fairly normal looking sort of person, you know, nothing to write home about. I can easily blend into a sea of supermarket shoppers. I don't dress outrageously, in fact I'm rather understated so as not to draw attention to myself. I also make a point of not speaking in a bolshy, loud and arrogrant manner which may appear abhorent and uncouth. Of course when on home territory I have been known to shout, roar, heckle, tell dirty jokes and occassionaly partake in the odd bit of binge-drinking...but when in Rome, as they say.
Cultural stereotypes exisit whether we like it or not. And perhaps more interestingly than what they are, is what we perceive them to be and how it can affect our own behaviour when in foreign climes. I personally take a blending in approach in order to discreetly hide the fact that I'm a foriegner. This includes not aviding snapping everything in sight, subtly consulting a map, and always looking like I know where I'm going and what I'm doing. Dawdling and gawping are dead give-aways. Anything so as not to draw attention to myself, and more importantly, my rather ropey grasp of the French language.
Granted this is rather narcissistic of me. After all who the hell is going to be looking anyway? But time in solitary confinement (otherwise known as stay-at-home mum world) does strange things to you, or me anyway.
I'm no expert on what the French really think about the Brits. Or what any nationally really thinks about another. But as a person with half a brain, I can hazard a guess. I can understand and appreciate somethings however much I don't like to tar others with the same brush. Like, for example, not bothering to learn the language (oops guilty as charged) or pushing the local property prices up (not guilty, but working on it). And I suppose that our international image of beer gluzing, casual sex loving, drug taking, street fighting lunatics with the highest rate of teenage pregnancy in Europe, spiralling crime levels and children under the age of 5 being treated for depression, doesn't exactly paint a heartwarming and positive image. But hey, how many of us can say we perpetuate even one of these social misdemeanors. Oh balls...GUILTY AS CHARGED!
But seriously, once you get to know us, we're really not that bad.
Earlier today Raffers and I were minding our own business, busy trying to 'blend' in during our weekly outing to the supermarche. (I like to go to the big one once a week just to get a big dollop of consumerism and to help with the long term withdrawals of a life without TESCO).
So whilst I was 'blending' in by frantically stuffing a goggie (aka dummy or dodee to the Irish in the house) in Raffers' gob as I wheeled hurridly past the pain au chocolat and gooey cake section. Anxiety building as I sensed a potential T A N T R U M brewing (never say the world aloud, it envitably happens if you do!) once the request for 'croissant' had been denied. The sight of a toddler red faced and screaming would instantly reveal my true identity. To date, I still haven't witnessed a French child having one. C'est vrai!
Suddenly someone touched my arm and I turned to see a sweet looking elderly gentleman with a broad smile spread across his tanned, leathery face. He said something to me incredibly fast which I just couldn't fathom. So I asked him to repeat, but still couldn't understand a bleeding word he said. Cue fire-engine red cheeks and an overwhelming sense of shame that I'm not tri-fucking-lingual and studying for a Phd in European languages. When I apologised and told him I couldn't understand, I was met with such a lovely forgiving and friendly smile, coupled with a gentle touch on the arm. 'Ah' he nodded knowingly like a wise old sage. 'Espanyol?' (Worth explaining I've caught the sun so am working a slight med look at the moment). 'Non monsieur.' I smiled back sweetly. 'Je suis Anglaise.'
'Ah' he said abruptly and quickly stood back as if I had revealed that I was in fact disfigured with leprosy. Shrugged his shoulders and shock his head in either disappointment or disaproval, either way the clarity of his action was extremely telling. And with that he was off.
Now call me paranoid if you will but do you think, just maybe, it was something I said?
Cultural stereotypes exisit whether we like it or not. And perhaps more interestingly than what they are, is what we perceive them to be and how it can affect our own behaviour when in foreign climes. I personally take a blending in approach in order to discreetly hide the fact that I'm a foriegner. This includes not aviding snapping everything in sight, subtly consulting a map, and always looking like I know where I'm going and what I'm doing. Dawdling and gawping are dead give-aways. Anything so as not to draw attention to myself, and more importantly, my rather ropey grasp of the French language.
Granted this is rather narcissistic of me. After all who the hell is going to be looking anyway? But time in solitary confinement (otherwise known as stay-at-home mum world) does strange things to you, or me anyway.
I'm no expert on what the French really think about the Brits. Or what any nationally really thinks about another. But as a person with half a brain, I can hazard a guess. I can understand and appreciate somethings however much I don't like to tar others with the same brush. Like, for example, not bothering to learn the language (oops guilty as charged) or pushing the local property prices up (not guilty, but working on it). And I suppose that our international image of beer gluzing, casual sex loving, drug taking, street fighting lunatics with the highest rate of teenage pregnancy in Europe, spiralling crime levels and children under the age of 5 being treated for depression, doesn't exactly paint a heartwarming and positive image. But hey, how many of us can say we perpetuate even one of these social misdemeanors. Oh balls...GUILTY AS CHARGED!
But seriously, once you get to know us, we're really not that bad.
Earlier today Raffers and I were minding our own business, busy trying to 'blend' in during our weekly outing to the supermarche. (I like to go to the big one once a week just to get a big dollop of consumerism and to help with the long term withdrawals of a life without TESCO).
So whilst I was 'blending' in by frantically stuffing a goggie (aka dummy or dodee to the Irish in the house) in Raffers' gob as I wheeled hurridly past the pain au chocolat and gooey cake section. Anxiety building as I sensed a potential T A N T R U M brewing (never say the world aloud, it envitably happens if you do!) once the request for 'croissant' had been denied. The sight of a toddler red faced and screaming would instantly reveal my true identity. To date, I still haven't witnessed a French child having one. C'est vrai!
Suddenly someone touched my arm and I turned to see a sweet looking elderly gentleman with a broad smile spread across his tanned, leathery face. He said something to me incredibly fast which I just couldn't fathom. So I asked him to repeat, but still couldn't understand a bleeding word he said. Cue fire-engine red cheeks and an overwhelming sense of shame that I'm not tri-fucking-lingual and studying for a Phd in European languages. When I apologised and told him I couldn't understand, I was met with such a lovely forgiving and friendly smile, coupled with a gentle touch on the arm. 'Ah' he nodded knowingly like a wise old sage. 'Espanyol?' (Worth explaining I've caught the sun so am working a slight med look at the moment). 'Non monsieur.' I smiled back sweetly. 'Je suis Anglaise.'
'Ah' he said abruptly and quickly stood back as if I had revealed that I was in fact disfigured with leprosy. Shrugged his shoulders and shock his head in either disappointment or disaproval, either way the clarity of his action was extremely telling. And with that he was off.
Now call me paranoid if you will but do you think, just maybe, it was something I said?
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