La politesse

Upon entering any establishment small enough for the owner to recognize your presence, French politesse mandates that you greet the owner. This also applies in cases when you see someone you know, see someone you don’t know, interact with anyone in any form, or make eye contact (consequently, eye contact is strictly avoided whenever possible).

At least the greeting is simple enough, right? Wrong.

In the morning, say “Bonjour.” In the evening, say “Bonsoir.” In the afternoon, do not say “Bon après-midi.” It’s just not done. If addressing a man, add “Monsieur,” and a woman, “Madame.” Unless she’s a young woman, when it’s “Mademoiselle.”

But what time is officially evening? And when is a woman no longer young enough to be a mademoiselle? This system practically requires constant embarrassment and potential offensiveness. While buying a dress at H&M, I greeted the cashier with a hearty “Bonsoir.” The customer approaching the counter next to me paused, puzzled, for a moment, then greeted his respective cashier with a emphatic “Bonjour.” What? I looked outside; it was still light out, but definitely past 5 pm. So why was I being put in my place?

I asked some French acquaintances about the rules for this ritual, and they laughed. “At 5:59 exactly. That’s when you change.” They broke into fits of giggles. Unhelpful.

Still, the age distinction is more problematic; rather than just appearing gauche and uncultured, it’s possible you could commit a serious offense. It’s like the time Dan Adler, attempting to order at Yorkside, called the waitress over with a respectful “ma’am.” She veered around, glared, and responded, “I am twenty-three. Never call me that again.” He never did.

I thought the reaction was a little reactionary at the time; I’m still at the age where birthdays are a time for public celebration and when urgings to “enjoy the best years of your life” are frequent. Yet I felt similarly last week. As I was sitting in the Musée d’Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris, attempting to parse Braques’ cubes into the grapes, pipe, and newspaper listed in the title, a crowd of schoolboys ran boisterously across my line of vision; suddenly, one of them turned back around, approached me tentatively and said, “Pardon Madame, désolé de vous déranger." Rather than remarking his sweet apology, one which never would have occurred by some kid at home, I was struck by his greeting. Was I really Madame-worthy? When had I passed by the times of mademoiselle, first loves, and blaming mistakes on youthful experimentation?

That afternoon on my way home, craving cherries, I lingered at a fruit stand long enough to be approached by the turbaned vendor, who encouraged me to try the cherries, bizarrely touting the fact they were imported. “They’re from Australia,” he said. “And you, where are you from?” I, the clearly-imported Parisian, explained my origins, and he laughed. “Tu a voté pour Hillary?” he asked, obsessed (as many French are) with the American primaries. We talked about our preferences for Obama, and laughed about Bush’s gaucheries.

“So,” I said, not wanting to waste his time, “how much are the cherries?” “Well, let’s see.” He took his time putting a carton on the scale: 0.7 kilos. “20 euro a pound, but for you, this will be 10 euro.” I made an apologetic face. “It’s too expensive; I’m really sorry.”

The vendor looked perplexed. “Mais Mademoiselle,” he said, insulted, “vous n’êtes pas obligée.” “There’s no obligation.”

And again, rather than notice the eccentricities of a world in which a businessman would rather converse than make a sale, I thought to myself, “Mademoiselle. Yes.”