La famille

Sundays in France for the most part piss me off, not only because it means I have work the next day but also because most stores in France are closed, including many restaurants.  However, there is one Sunday ritual in France that I can't help but call mignon (mihn-yohn:cute) : that of the family Sunday stroll in le parc (luh pahr-k: the park).

The French tend to be very traditional as a culture, and the tradition I see them holding the most dear is that of la famille (lah fam-ee: the family).  Not only do old world child rearing standards hold firm in France (that of spanking children, corporal punishment in the classroom, and openly demeaning children on the street for spilling their ice cream), but the idea that family should stay close and spend lots of time ensemble (on-semb-luh: together) still has deep roots among the French.  This isn't to say that the French family is without it's obligatory dysfunction.  Oh non, au contraire (no, oh kon-trer: on the contrary):  French families are every bit as dysfunctional as the American ones, but at least in France they keep their fighting and backstabbing together under one roof or in a public park, where it belongs.

Sundays seem to be the day when the French famille puts their art of togetherness to the test.  It's the day when not only does the family hangout together during the afternoon in the park, but the entire extended family will often get together for a lunch or dinner.  And since it's still quite common for the college age Frenchie to live at home until some poor sap agrees to marry him, getting together for a meal isn't all too hard to do.  In a large country like the US, where families sometimes live a thousand miles apart from each other and getting the family together for some quality time usually just means sitting around the t.v. and watching American Idol while waiting for the pizza delivery guy, I have to say, it's refreshing seeing the families of France make a more concerted effort to stick together and openly argue about Dominique Strauss-Kahn and immigration while strolling along le Sein (luh sen: the famous river that runs through the middle of Paris), especially when this family includes a petit chien (puh-tee she-ehn: little dog) available for my patting pleasure.

Les dimanches

Les dimanches (layz dee-mahn-sh: Sundays), I discovered today, is the time of the week where the entire country of France falls fast asleep.  Shops, even in the cities, are closed for the most part, expect for the necessary bread purchase in the morning at the local boulangerie (boo-lahn-jehr-ee: baker's).  This isn't because the French necessarily feel the need to commit themselves to God, Church, and Country.  Oh no, quite the opposite.  You may still have one or two churchgoers from the olden days, but the rest of le pays (lay py-eez: country) rolls out of bed at 10 in the morning, spending the rest of the time lounging around in their slippers, cutting tomatoes and preparing their hunger for 1:00, when lunch is served.

My own very first traditional Sunday spent in France was in the hills of Voiron, a suburb of Grenoble.  Claudie, an English teacher at the lycée (leez-eh: high school) invited me to share lunch with her, her English husband, and her four French sons.

The whole experience was lovely, even though I struggled to understand the slang spewing out of her sons' mouths, feeling like a fool every time Claudie had to translate for me.  And of course there was the inevitable faux pas (foh pah: misstep) of my gaping mouth as Claudie brought out the main dish: curried chicken.  I silently cursed myself for forgetting to mention my vegetarianism, secretly hoping that those large white round blobs simmered in curry sauce was just the French version of tofu.

As I quickly debated with my conscious over whether to eat or not to eat, I decided to bite the bullet and go with the flow.  After all, I hoped to be invited back to her house someday.  I, as politely as I thought possible, asked for the smallest piece of chicken breast and said a silent prayer that I wouldn't spend the next two days hanging over the toilet with the presumed sickness that haunts all végétariens when they decide to swallow their morals and their pride with a meat dish.  The verdict?  Not bad.  Tasted like chicken.  And I'm still alive to write about it.

In all, the meal was delicious and lasted a good hour and a half, followed by a stroll around a nearby lake as Claudie, her husband, and I compared differences between cultures.  Claudie informed me that this Sunday ritual of leisurely meals and sacrificed chickens is currently a hot political debate in France.  Apparently the government is pushing for a more Anglo-Saxon Sunday.  But government be damned: the French, for now, have made it clear that le dimanche is a religion in and of itself.