Preconception of France

Before I visited or even did any research on France, I added it to my map of the gaps. This is what was in my head about the country, from pop culture or hearsay or dimly remembered school. (Of course, actually going there will change this a lot.)

Ohooo!  Ze land of croissants, accordions, contrarian political opinions, and casual rudeness.  Joan Of Arc, Napoleon, Claude Monet.  The epicenter for all things firmly European in my mind.  To be French means to live a pastoral life centered around fresh produce, warm bread, full-fat milk, unfiltered olive oil, and a steady intake of wine.  Your kids walk to school, your friends live right next door, your cat is black and skinny, and the few things you don’t make by hand you get by driving a microscopic little car to the corner store.  The whole rest of the world does not exist at all except as vague images on the television.

Or, if you live in the big city, you have a tiny but extremely classy apartment with a planter box, up on the 5th floor of a building that was constructed at least 200 years before you were born.  You work an unfulfilling job but make decent money thanks to government support, spend your afternoons at one of a rotating list of cafes, and just generally do not give even the slightest fuck about anything that isn’t at least as French as you are.  You are not exactly happy; instead what you feel is “ennui.”  Even though Americans mock its people and politics to each other, France is where they all secretly wish they could retire.