Foreign exchange for everyone in Toulouse, France

Liz Swiertz Newman

Only exceptional circumstances could have induced us to travel to

France in mid-March. There were many reasons not to go: It might be

rainy then; terrorism made travel conditions unsettled; and the air

between our nations became clouded with war issues as our departure

date grew near.

Regardless, my husband and I needed to be in Toulouse right then.

Our granddaughter’s term as an exchange student was ending, and we

had planned to show her a bit of France before her classes at

Dartmouth began again. Sally was the sunshine in an otherwise

unstable atmospheric and political climate.

On previous trips, Lee and I had found the French tres

sympathique, and we hoped we’d still find them likable. My husband

and I are not among the Americans boycotting everything French, yet

we Americans are often divided on critical issues.

The French, according to CNN, were as one with President Jacques

Chirac. Were they all boycotting apple pie and Americans? We

wondered, in particular, about Sally’s temporary family. M. and Mme.

Serrano had hosted Dartmouth students over the course of three

decades. How did they now feel about America and Americans?

Naturally, our reunion with Sally was delightful. She met us at

our hotel in la Place de President Wilson (Wilson Square), in the

heart of Toulouse. Sally is a scholarship-winning college sophomore

from the Montana hinterlands, but she looks like a California surfer

girl -- tall, slim and blond. She had taken French in high school,

and as part of her learning experience in France, she contracted to

speak only French in her classes and in her temporary home.

After three months in Toulouse, she spoke it fluently. Lee and I

had also taken French in our youth, and Lee studied at Berlitz in

Paris during World War II. We’d never carried on prolonged

conversations, but we were prepared to chat with the Serranos -- if

the words were simple and spoken slowly.

Sally’s temporary parents invited us to dinner. I could tell Sally

was eager for her French parents to meet us. She had brought two

bunches of bright yellow spring flowers when she arrived, one to

greet us and one for us to give to her temporary mother. I had also

brought a hostess gift, a whimsical Ganz vase from home. I wanted to

be sympathique, too.

The Serranos live 20 minutes north of the city center, in a modest

home connected to M. Serrano’s atelier. Sally led us down the drive

to a paved back yard bordered by pansies and cyclamen. The aroma of

blending flavors greeted us. On our left was the honey-colored door

to their kitchen, but ahead of us -- framed by the narrowed

proscenium of the workshop’s sliding door -- was an enormous electric

wok, simmering with a redolent Spanish paella. M. Serrano came toward

us from his workshop, and Mme. Serrano from the kitchen.

Sally introduced us. She called her temporary parents Mama and

Papa. I began by calling them Madame and Monsieur, the courteous

terms I’d learned when I was 14.

Then it occurred to me that that would be like guests in our home

calling us missus and mister, and I asked if I might call them

Michelle and Jean. They both nodded, smiling, saying “Mais oui” and

other French niceties.

I pointed to each of us in turn. “Liz, s’il vous plait,” I said.

“Et Lee.”

Michelle is a librarian. She speaks only French. She is pretty and

petite, a slim, stylish woman, her dark hair glimmering with silver.

Jean crafts fine handmade furniture. He is 60-ish. His forehead is

high and broad, his hair mostly gray.

While Lee shook hands with M. Serrano, Michelle and I awkwardly

exchanged the flowers and the gift box, giggling softly in the

universal language of women. She asked me a question in rapid French,

which I did not at all comprehend, and Sally translated as soon as my

eyes glazed over.

“Mom wants to know whether you prefer the American greeting or the

French,” she explained.

“Oh. La francaise! Le francais!” I said, covering whichever gender

was appropriate for greeting or kiss, and Michele and I each kissed

the other’s cheeks. Lee shook hands with Jean and kissed Michelle.

From then on, the conversation in French and English circled my

head like chirping birds around the head of a dizzy cartoon

character. Sally translated as necessary. I can’t now remember who

said what in which language, so I will convey the gist of our

conversation as if we had spoken in English.

We began our meal and our discourse in the living room. Michelle

served canapes and hors d’{oelig}uvres, and Jean proudly showed me

the label on the champagne bottle.

Lee and I admired Jean’s handcrafted cherrywood desk and also the

trompe l’oeil inlaid floor he had designed himself. We soon came to

discuss the possibility of war and agreed that it might be a good

compromise to wait a month while the U.N. inspectors searched further

for banned weapons.

Jean seated us in the dining room, while Michelle returned to the

kitchen to bring the salad and bread. We admired the fine workmanship

of his table, and the chairs inset with porcelain depictions of

Renaissance figures. Michelle next served the paella, a pinwheel of

crawfish decorating the saffron rice.

Jean opened a bottle of chilled rose wine, again displaying the

label. I regret that I didn’t record the names of the excellent

champagne, wines and port served with the courses, but each was aged

to perfection, and we felt honored.

Throughout the entree, the cheeses, fruits and the decadent

dessert, we shared our opinions about the impending war and of how

our presidents’ actions might affect the world situation. On major

issues -- to at least some degree -- all of us were in agreement: Lee

deplored that President Bush would act against the United States’

pact with the United Nations.

Jean feared that it would not serve America well to wage war

contrary to the counsel of its allies. I doubted that the delay the

French wanted would prevent war in Iraq. Michelle believed that the

overthrow of one evil man didn’t justify the deaths of many innocent

soldiers and civilians on both sides.

And Sally -- who helped establish the Green Party at Dartmouth --

regretted the consumption of American resources and felt certain that

controlling oil was an American objective. We talked and ate for

three hours.

It requires great concentration and effort to converse in an

unfamiliar language. Jean clearly understood this, and he spoke very

slowly, repeating his points, feeding us French words. I focused

hard, to the point of exhaustion, but the value of the effort to

understand was inestimable, especially regarding one particular idea

Jean expressed.

Jean reflected upon the slogan of the French Revolution: Liberte!

Egalite! Fraternite! (Liberty! Equality! Fraternity!). His point was

that if the people in the world would all subscribe to fraternity,

there would be no need to fight for liberty or equality.

To my mind came a skeptical thought: The French think brotherhood;

the Americans think sibling rivalry. Lee and I have seven children,

and at any given time, some of them aren’t speaking to one or another

of their siblings. How can we expect countries to behave well toward

one another if siblings won’t talk out their differences? Maybe

brotherhood comes more naturally to the French. Maybe it’s the water.

Maybe it’s the wine!

The Romans knew, even if they didn’t heed their own dictum: In

vino veritas. If we could just get George and Jacques to sit down

with a carafe of wine and make the concerted effort -- until sweat

beads on their brows -- to understand each others truths.

For the first week that American and British forces marched toward

Baghdad, Sally and Lee and I toured through the south of France. The

skies remained blue and the weather fair. We heard American music and

Beatles songs played everywhere.

Often, as we made purchases, asked directions and ordered dinner,

citizens brought up the subject of the war in Iraq. The security

checker at the airport asked why our president had singled out the

French for his denouncement. The French were one in their opposition

to the war and their support of Jacques Chirac.

Perhaps it was because we agreed with them that we didn’t have a

single unpleasant experience in France during this time of

disagreement between our nations. I prefer to think it was because,

like Americans in general, the French are nice people. Again and

again -- in French, in English and by their actions -- they told us

that they love Americans.

The French do not deserve the abuse they’ve received because their

beliefs differ from some Americans’. This is a freedom for which we

fought -- a freedom the French helped us gain when they supported us

during the American Revolution.

While Lee and I enjoyed the warmth and kindness of the French

people, some of our compatriots waged a verbal onslaught against the

New York manufacturers of French’s mustard.

When we returned home, close friends found fault with our having

visited France. My AOL inbox held forwarded e-mails ridiculing the

French. And -- oh, the irony -- across America, spiteful siblings

circulate a petition to return the Statue of Liberty to France.

* LIZ SWIERTZ NEWMAN is a Corona del Mar resident.

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