As fall approaches, I’m working hard to keep our big summer vacation front of mind. We went to France, and o mon Dieu!
Many times during our trip I concluded that the French deserve to be snotty, since everything is better there. Other times I would think, this is crazy, we would never put up with this nonsense.
Some contrasts were obvious: They have the Eiffel Tower; we have Monument Road. They have the beaches of Normandy; we have KVI. They have public transportation and government.
Unlike Vashon, French children are raised on wheat, blood, milk fat derivatives, wine and cigarettes. It is illegal to be gluten or lactose intolerant, and the idea that you wouldn’t want to eat what we might call “mixed liver loaf” inspires looks of confusion and pity.
Where we have militant bike activists in competitive spandex and extra cranial protection, they have 50,000 three-gear granny bikes installed throughout the city, rented for less than $1.50/day by Parisians in suits and skirts and no helmets, weaving in and out of traffic, through red lights, while smoking and talking on their cell phones.
We gawked in wonder, since not one aspect of that image could happen here. It was an affront to everything we hold dear regarding litigation. Being from King County, we were amazed and giddy at the unregulatedness of it all — it felt so dirty!
Meanwhile, there seemed to be tons of unspoken rules in beach etiquette. In Brittany, we unwittingly squatted in pre-paid beach tent #6 in the fancy vacation town of Dinnard, while the fancy Parisian physician was (likely) getting a crepe. Admittedly, it was an ugly American mistake. We were removed like pesky flies, but then managed to spread our towels 6 inches into our neighbor’s sand perimeter, at which point the entire beach went silent and glared at us.
Ok, I’m exaggerating. But imagine that happening at Lisabuela, or for that matter, imagine a French tourist at Lisabuela. I can see them wandering into a Vashon beach potluck, being handed a veggie burger, then being too polite to remark on how it really tastes, or how they were dying inside.
Then they’d drive around the island, which is really not much different from the French countryside. Then again, their roads change names every couple blocks, have no logic to their one ways, and in the starkest contrast of all, they don’t seem to do road repair, nor have anything like our rabid enthusiasm for traffic cones.
This distinction was made most clear when we arrived home to the quadruple traffic bypass on the north-end dock. We jetlag-lugged our bags to a car whose location I couldn’t remember on a hill far, far away, and I (snottily) thought: If this were done to the French, they would block the traffic with their tractors, drink wine, gesticulate and throw tomatoes. We should totally do that.
One afternoon I wanted to go to a café to, you know, drink wine, read a novel, smoke a cigarette and be bohemian. I found the perfect spot, and right behind me was a swarthy French guy in his 20s with a lip ring, quietly singing a depressing song with a guitar and smoking. Bonanza!
I motioned to the spot next to him, he shrugged and made a “pffft” sound, which is Parisian for pretty much everything. I sat down and said, “Parlez vous anglais?” and he went “pfft” again. I explained that I was from a small, sparsely-inhabited island in the heavily wooded remote western frontier of America, which could only be reached by boat. He blinked a few times, as if waiting for more.
I asked for a cigarette. He “pfft”ed. I asked him to play a song, and he explained that he would have to see if the muse came to him. I struggled with the cigarette; he tinkled the strings with excruciating quietness; I leaned in to try and hear his brilliance, and then he turned to me and said, “It’s not coming.”
It was an awesome moment, even though for him it was probably like a 50-year-old Kansas diaper salesman had put him through a deeply painful life experience.
But I’d so like to return the favor. So I say come, you French cheese makers and pig product eaters. Come, you wordy philosophers and moody artists: Come to our island, where we have all this and more to rival yours. You’ve never seen trees like ours, and once in your life, you should experience the thrill of ordering a skinny triple soy caramel split shot flan latte.
You might just swoon.
— Kevin Joyce is a writer, humorist and father on Vashon.
