Well I guess this is gonna take a while so better grab a drink. Ill start with how I got here.
Not how I get here on the planet obviously, the birds and bees is a discussion for another time.
Here in France.
Ill make a long story short as its only a bit of background.
I married an English Girl That I met in an online text MMORPG, Yeah back when those were a thing. We Got Hitched when she came to visit after a whole 3 Months, and Bounced between England and The USA for a few years.
Then her parents Sold their House, and bought an old farmhouse in France, they offered us the barn to convert if I helped them do their renovation on the main house.
So off we go, at least moving myself was easy I had a suitcase which happily held all my worldly goods. They needed a 40 foot Semi Truck...
Now as the title says, drumroll please - Here's the Tale of...
An American in France
From Day one to be honest I made a big time fuck up, I wore a stars and stripes T-shirt, Not out of patriotism but the damn thing was on sale for 2 Bucks and I love a bargain. I Had the classic tourist camera in hand, the whole 9 yards.
We had happily arrived in nothern France and while walking down the SIDEWALK a car drove on the curb and tried to run me down shouting a whole lot of angry French. Now up to this stage I had Never really heard any of the language of love.
But I'm pretty sure he wasn't expressing his undying admiration while he was trying to run me over.
The only words I could make out were American and judging by his tone a whole lot of very naughty French words. So in my most polite sign language I Extended the universal finger to express my gratitude.
The rest of the trip to the southwest of France was fairly uneventful, I didn't Get out of the car except for taking a piss and that was at the side of the road. So really couldn't cause my usual level of trouble.
It was Pitch black outside for hours when we got to our Gite, (Overpriced holiday rental, but the outlaws or inlaws if we're being nice, were paying so fair enough). It was late and to be honest my opinion of France so far was underwhelming. So Off to bed we go!
When we woke up the next morning I watched the sunrise with the missus and Boom, Over the hills in the distance there's mountains, Big ass churches on hills and lots of open space so Now things are looking up.
Thus commenced a 6 month house hunt for her parents, and - months of long walks and chilling out for us. Eventually they found this place we live in Now. In a tiny little village in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.
The place they picked? A typical French Farmhouse, which needed a metric shit ton of work. Hurray!
They bought the place, and we got permission to start clearing the place up. It was a classic French Farmhouse in every sense of the word, Mud Floors, Mud Walls, No Running water, no electricity and the grass was taller than me. (I cut the whole 2 Acres with an old rusty scythe I found in one of the barns and fixed with duct tape, it made me feel manly.)
Now up until we moved in to the new place I had very little exposure to French Language, I could buy Cigarettes, Order Beer and just about introduce myself.
When we officially moved in the mayor invited us to the village fete at the end of the week, which was set to happen at Lunchtime.
My wife had enough school French to explain this to me while I nodded, Smiled and said Oui Oui! Alot, and I mean ALOT. He must have thought I was a bobblehead or something.
So The time for the fete rolled around and up we went. The village hall was Packed, From age 0 to 100 there were French people of every age shape and degree of Frenchness (Frenchiness, Frenchies, Frunchies?)
After about 20 minutes and feeling a bit steamrolled, watching My wife mingle and translate the odd sentence for me, I wanted to join in. So I approached a rather large group of guys of similar age. (Which turned out to be the local Rugby club, so I was in luck!)
Some of them spoke English and once I explained that No I'm not English, I was American, They took me in! Much different from the response I had in the north. So with drinks on the commune I had my first initiation to local drinking games. They poured shots of Ricard (An aniseed drink like lower proof Absinthe)
Now if you are familiar with this drink it should be mixed with water, So I'm alternating shots with an entire rugby team and something has been lost in translation.
They have theirs with water, I'm drinking the same size plastic cup neat. This doesn't end well...
After a few hours I stumbled back to our derelict house, collapsed in the Small caravan that was our base of operations and attempted to stay still until the Ferris wheel stopped. Lucky me the rugby team turned up a few hours later with the Fucking town marching band to drag my half naked, half dead self outside for more festivities.
So began my initiation into the local village. Over the next few weeks we met lots of English speakers all British, and it took some of the strain off of learning the local language, so the next few months passed pretty quietly.
My language skills were still practically nil, and the Local Brits actually seemed proud that they didn't need to learn the language. Needless to say this made me feel better about myself. It wasn't until the next village fete a few months later I had contact with anyone French outside of the necessities.
This time the same scenario, Mayor turns up, wife translates and I Oui Oui Oui all the way home. This time the Fete was a Hunters Dinner and I met my first local resistance to my American origins. A Local guy who ran a pig farm, and partially owned the town bar, immediately accosted me upon entering and dubbed me Bush... Now I am obviously less than Impressed.
I might not got alot of edumacation But shirley I aint that bad.
So for the entire evening I am educated on the French language in very bad English. I did however get my own back, I taught him that Mother Fucker was a Friendly way to say hello. For weeks it brought joy to me when he would shout, Hello Mother Fucker to any and every English speaker he had walk through the doors at that bar.
Now Being called Bush had made me a bit irritated, So I dedicated myself to learning as much French as I could, as fast as I could. We paid some local girls from the big city to give us lessons, bought books and audio books.
My wife flourished and learned grammar, past, present tense etc. I learned a great big Jack Shit, like nothing at all. No matter how hard I tried I spoke French like a Spanish cow.
So in an effort to cheer myself up, I began hitting the other local bar of an evening to drown my sorrows and get out of the house. 3 Km walk there 3 Km walk back a few times a week.
As the bar was full of old boys who had obviously been coming to the bar for the last 90 years or so. (I shit thee not the old people here are exceptional, they keep on working in their gardens, fixing their tractors and partying well past 80 years old).
My presence was initially unwelcome, but they let me sit with my Pint while they rambled on in the heaviest accent I had heard yet. After a few weeks I had absorbed some new words, a few sentences here and there. Eventually I was confident enough to say hello to the stoic old guys nursing their Ricard and talking about things I couldn't even vaguely understand.
Result! I walk in and in my best French 'J'mapelle Rick!' and that started a rapid fire reply that instantly crushed all confidence I had gained beforehand. In Desperation I understood the word Anglaise, So Like the big hairy gorilla I am, I thumped my chest and said 'Americain!'
A Minor correction for the sake of accuracy, after all if your not going to like me at least get it right.
They all dropped silent, like stone cold someone just insulted your momma silent. Its the first time in my life I was scared of a bar fight, These guys are old...really Old, and have walking sticks with metal caps... Run, Hide, Buy them all a drink, every possible option started running through my head in an instant.
One of the old guys cracked out a smile like his face was gonna split, another grabbed an empty chair and with a surprisingly strong grip sat me down and grabbed me a Pint from the bar. I had no clue what the hell just happened.
Turns out as teenagers during WW2 and the occupation they had all had seriously positive stories about AMERICANS!!! All of them had a spattering of English words and they slowed down so I could understand, with a lot of pointing, terrible quick drawings and explanations I had a great Night.
I learned that one of them was actually my neighbor, and His 50 year old son became a weekly Visitor to Play Petanque. (A Game throwing big steel balls at a little wood ball, surprisingly fun)
Over the next year or so I learned Local French, Slang, Patois, bad grammar and all. All thanks to some really animated games of Bar Charades. I could finally be understood!!
So I became the designated American Locally, I duly took note and have held a 4th of July barbecue every year since. (Yes Even Covid times, though much reduced.) I've cooked for over a hundred and under 50 at these things and its always a blast. A Mix of French, English Expats, and anyone who turns up, its an open house.
Over the years the group of old guys passed away. Even The old boy who was my Neighbor ( Died at 93 when working on his tractor), His Wife (90, I say a broken heart killed her after her husband went) and his son sadly (63 Heart attack on a walk), all one by one.
I've been to many more fetes, many more village dinners and it never ceases to amaze me that the teenagers are having animated, and Interested conversations with the 90 year olds with no sign of an age barrier. Only country I have ever witnessed that in, so worth noting.
As Time passed my French improved, I made more friends and met lots who had problems with me because of where I come from and lots who didn't give two shits.
I started having locals over for dinner, Improved my French and gradually integrated ever more.
I've even invited the local sheep round for dinner.
As you can see the stripped the lower branches in seconds. I think they enjoyed their meal.
The next Great French culture shock was my first Visit to Bretagne, or Brittany. I went to help a buddy repair his boat he had bought.
I stayed for a few weeks on this boat and to be honest after a hard days work, Instead of sleeping like a sensible person, I was being taken to the fishermen's bars and houses, getting back to the boat by 6 am and starting work by 7. I don't think during that first Visit I slept at all.
The French here were ULTRA Self contained and incredibly proud of their heritage. They weren't French, they were Bretons. Where you came from didn't matter in the slightest, You weren't Breton. They Respected you but you had to earn it, It was all about what you could do.
So After that 2 week stint I was happy to get back home to the wife and son. A Year passed while my buddy sold his house and prepared to move to Brittany. When he did I was once again invited down this time for 8 Weeks to Renovate his house with his son, a builder by trade.
Thus Began another 8 weeks of Mayhem. The locals remembered me, I was invited to more parties and Nights out than I can remember. (Seriously its a big fucking blur, I think My liver applied for a divorce)
But I learned that while they have no real problems with anyone who can play hard and work hard, The outside world might as well not exist.
I've experienced What I would call the cornerstones of The culture here, From The contempt of foreigners in general in the North, To the relaxed attitudes on the Mediterranean Coast, and The super chilled attitudes of the west coast.
The Resort towns here are the same as everywhere else in the world. Gimmee your wallet and hard earned cash and you'll fit right in.
Personally I feel most at home right here in the southwest, en Gascogne. Its home, I have great friends, and apparently, as I get told in every other part of France...I speak French like a Gersois Farmer.
I guess what I learned from this experience is that no matter where you come from, what prejudices you face or where you go. Some people will be worth the time and effort, others will make your life difficult.
But In general the rest Is down to who you are.
I'm not an expert on the culture here but after 15 years (which is the longest I have ever lived in one place by about 14 years!) I have learned... Being an American in France Is alright, as long as you're not THAT American.
I Passed lots of time in lots of different parts of France, Too many to recount in one post. But I think that sums it up.
So @edprivat, Order number 1 Complete. Well over 2000 words and a few Sleepless nights later I finished this post. Seriously this thing took ages... You were right its good to have a target to focus the brain. I didn't even count this paragraph to cheat!