What defines national identity?

This morning I was stopped in the street by a cameraman who wanted to interview me for national television, on the following question: what constitutes national identity for you?

I must explain that we are debating this topic very heavily at the moment. France in the last 40 years has known several waves of immigration from North Africa, Subsaharian Africa, Turkey, and many other regions of the world obviously. We will soon have more practising Muslims than practising Catholics. Some people are afraid that our "national identity" is threatened. A minister even said that he feared that France was now a couscous land, instead of the more acceptable choucroute (which by the way is a German dish, but whatever).

I thought a few seconds about the interview. My mother is a quarter Belgian, a quarter American, a quarter Spanish and a quarter Egyptian. My father is a Scot. I'm French. You can't really say I'm a typical French person, yet I feel entirely French. It's my mother tongue, it's where I was schooled, it's the way I am. I am French. But I don't think that my roots make me any less French than someone whose family has lived here for centuries.

Maybe it's a religious issue. Maybe we are afraid of Islam, because when I told the cameraman that I was the product of immigration myself he shrugged it off:"You're European."

I didn't do the interview. I had too many thoughts to muddle through, and I have too much respect for immigrants to make a half-baked statement in front of the nation.

France for me is a language. I understand that immigrants don't always talk French when they arrive, but I definitely think they should learn it. France is a way of life: we have secular public institutions here, so religion does not play an important part in our lives. You can't wear a cross around your neck, or a headscarf, or anything else in that vein, if you are a public official or a teacher, or even a student, when you are in a place representing the state (aka a town hall or a university). If this makes you unhappy or uncomfortable I don't think you should come to France. Other countries are more open to religious displays.

But I'm still pondering. My sister lives in America, by tradition the land of the Melting Pot. A young country,shaped by immigration. I wonder if America has the same trouble defining what its identity should be. I wonder if people in China, where so many languages are spoken, and over a billion people live, have trouble defining their identity.

And since this week, I am helping to host 50 young students from all of Europe, I have to make a short speech on "being European".

I have no idea yet. But I'm thinking about it.

Singledom, swingers and cultural differences.

I am wary of general statements, expecially concerning America. I lived in the Midwest for a year, but apart from that I have no idea about how most of Americans live. Yet when I was in Chicago, I was flabbergasted by some of the things I learnt there.

So, dating. In France, we know about American dating, but we don't understand it. To us, when you date someone, unless you discuss it beforehand, it's understood that it's exclusive. Even in the tentative first weeks. Once you've slept together, if you decide to continue to see each other, you are considered to be a couple. These are general guidelines.

In America, people seemed to be OK with seeing more than one person at a time. Going to movies, having dinner, all that stuff. It was completely foreign to me. In the same way, casual sex is far less taboo for Americans than for us.Naturally it happens, but you wouldn't discuss it with your girlfriends. It's not something to celebrate, or to bemoan, it's a fact of life.

So when you say you are "single", this is French for "celibate". In America, "single" could mean celibate, but it could also mean other things, like "enjoying life".

So when I am asked if I have a boyfriend and I answer that I'm single, I get pitying glances from the French (because it means I now lead an immaculate life) and high fives from the Americans in my study program. The reactions go from "I'm sure there's the right guy out there for you..." to "Go get 'em girl."

I am amused by this. I find it funny that French people, with the most ouh la la reputation in the world, are so much more prudish than puritanical America.

I read blogs written by swingers, and I'm also struck by the difference in mentality. In Paris, we have many famous swinger clubs. Famous people are outspoken about their swinging habits. It's not a big deal.

So I guess we are more comfortable with cheating politicians and swingers, but less with the idea of American dating.

Funny, no?

Good conversations

We know them when we have them, but how do we get them, exactly?
I always think about good conversation as a matter of rythm. Ping-Ping. Pingping-Ping. Like a tennis match. I can hear the ball cross the net and BAAM! Back at you. Yet it's more complex than that. I remember an amazing conversation with someone in Germany: we were constantly interrupting each other (with that greatest of gestures, the conciliatory hand patting the knee as you break someone's flow just to say sorry, nothing against you doll but I need to say this) yet it felt unrushed, perfect, exhilarating. Another interruption-ridden conversation I recall was just bad-we weren't listening to each other. It was forced. We both knew how bad the conversation was, I seem to remember that one of us just halted and said ruefully :"This is a terrible conversation." And so we stopped it.

As a bad-listener-trying-to-improve, I love hearing good conversations. I try to understand what makes them interesting, try to implement my findings in my own life. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. Because conversation is a lot of good manners, a lot of passion and hopefully chemistry. We all know great people to talk to, as opposed to great people to talk at.

Ping. Ping. Pingpingpingping. You start the conversation and it works. You're communicating, arguing, laughing or staying serious, but the rythm is there, the sparkle is there. I'm ready for all these good conversations please.

Clearing stuff away

Tidying my room...
I have a room just under the roofs, with my own bathroom and a piano. I have most of my art on the wall, mostly XIXth century engravings and a few reproductions, but also gifts from my sister and neighbour, talented artists. I have a bedside table, which I should replenish with single girl fun stuff (but only after my devout Muslim friend N comes for a visit...) and books everywhere, but no longer on the floor. My desk is empty of crap, and I've stored all the funny, romantic letters and postcards I've gotten along the way in a box at the bottom of a cupboard, to read when I'm ready.
I feel so much better.

My most precious item is probably my inflatable moose head, which has followed me from Chicago to Paris, and hopefully to Berlin. And next to it there is the letter S, spray-painted blue with my ex at a time where I was pretty blue, and my father was dying in the hospital. I'd get hopped up on sleeping pills and try to jump on X and fall asleep in the middle of it.

See! I'm laughing about all these memories.

My first boyfriend never spent any time at my place, because he felt uncomfortable here. So no memories there.

Here's to a year of good living, money saving for travel and happy studies.