Le wow

If France is so great, why don't they have a word for 'kick ass'?

by Kris Frieswick

Americans think the French are terrible snobs. Having just traveled there, I believe I have discovered why they appear that way. It is because, in French, there is no word for "wow."

I know this because on the 14th of July, I had the good fortune to celebrate Bastille Day in Bergerac, a little town in the Dordogne River Valley in southwestern France. Bastille Day is the French independence day, and the celebrations there are equivalent to those for the Fourth of July here in the States, with fireworks, big barbecues, bands, and all measure of French mirthmaking. My friend Eileen and I were stoked for the big Bastille Day party, which we were sure would be a fête of truly legendary proportions. Having seen some of the Bastille Day goings-on at the French Library on Marlborough Street, I knew it would be a night to remember.

And it was, but not for the reasons I expected. It was memorable because of what happened when the tremendous, magnificent, top-notch, awe-inspiring fireworks display raged just over our heads, accompanied by a synchronized soundtrack that bellowed over the public-address speakers throughout the village (part of their civil-defense infrastructure -- they've been invaded a lot and they're still a little skittish).

What happened was nothing. Eileen and I stood there yelling "Woo-hoo!" and "Yippee!" and "Awesome!" at the top of our exceedingly American lungs while 55,000 Frenchmen, crammed like les sardines onto the banks of the Dordogne, stood there and stared, making nary a peep until le grande finale, at which point they clapped politely.

"What is up?" asked Eileen, looking around at the stone-like revelers. "What's wrong with these people? You'd think they saw these things every day."

I, too, was perplexed. And then it hit me. "It's not cool to scream `Woo-hoo,' " I replied.

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The fireworks ended, and the throngs surged back up the hill into the heart of the medieval village of Bergerac, where they commenced eating fresh foie gras, drinking fine Bordeaux for a buck a glass, and dancing to a rock band that did a passable rendition of "Stairway to Heaven" from a stage set up at the base of a towering 500-year-old church that still bore the marks of cannonballs that had bounced off it during the Hundred Years' War. No wonder they weren't impressed. The French are the ultimate "been there, done that" people.

In the US, any building older than 250 years is part of a re-created colonial village like Sturbridge or Williamsburg. In the valley where I was staying, people live in houses that are 1000 years old. So, yes, we Americans are easily impressed. But, come on, fireworks are cool. It's physically impossible for an American to see fireworks and not scream "Woo-hoo." The French apparently do not share this trait. They do not have a word for "wow" or "woo-hoo" or "yikes" or "wheeeeee" or any one of the declaratives that make up fully half of the overly excitable American lexicon. Most bizarrely, considering their amazing food, I do not believe that the French have a word for "yum."

In fact, as far as I can tell, only two things get the French people going: World Cup soccer and the Tour de France. And they get really excited about the Tour de France. They line the streets for miles and miles just to get a glimpse of the cyclists whizzing by at 65 kilometers per hour. They stick their faces into the cyclists' paths during the grueling Alpine climbs. They run alongside them during the finishes. Basically, they freak, but in an understated, impeccably cool French sorta way. It's nice to see these people let off a little steam.

So (or donc, as they say in French) I felt a little bad about the huge American crowd that hometown boy Lance Armstrong drew to the Tour course this year (which, by complete coincidence, happened while I was in France). The roads were packed with Americans, many of whom had big signs reading LANCE KICKS ASS and those big blue styrofoam hands that say WE'RE NUMBER ONE! The Americans were all just screaming "Woo-hoo" and "Yippee" and so forth and making such a big American racket that the road to the finish line atop towering Mount Ventoux looked more like Brookline Avenue on opening day at Fenway. I felt a little guilty because this is their race and everything, and it's one of their two officially sanctioned opportunities to get enthusiastic, which is a bit of an event all on its own.

I thought perhaps all this American revelry would further alienate the French and reinforce their often well-founded belief that we Americans are a classless, tasteless, style-free, loud, easily excitable pack of wild boars with money and Nikes. It would give them just one more excuse to do that funny thing with their lips that they do when they find out you're an American. Frankly, that lip thing is enough to make you want to say, Hello, Frenchie! Do the words "Omaha Beach" mean anything to you?

So no one was more surprised than I when, on my flight home, I glanced over at the Frenchman sitting next to me, who was reading the French newspaper Le Figaro, and there was an editorial about Lance Armstrong's victory. In spite of my abysmal command of the French language, as I scanned the words, the message was unmistakable. There were the words superbe and excellent and survivre and champion and orgueil (pride). My God, I thought, they're impressed, not pissed. They let down their French coolness and positively gushed about our American boy. And even though they may not be as loud or as boorish about it as we Americans, the French definitely have a word for "kick ass." It just sounds much, much nicer when they say it.

Kris Frieswick can be reached at krisf1@gte.net.

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