If you choose to work in a museum, you really should take pleasure in watching a family of 5 - two parents with a 26 year old daughter and 7 and 9 year old sons – thoroughly enjoying the art that’s responsible for your livelihood.
But not if you work in France. Here, “35 Heures” (35 hours) is responsible for everything. God forbid you work overtime, you might give someone the impression you care.
I have never been so close to slapping a man in my life. No boyfriend has ever infuriated me as much as this completely full-of-himself French security guard. (Then again, the closest I came to a French boyfriend was a 2-day affair with a Corsican football player, mostly via SMS). Our conversation went something like this (in French, with voices and my use of offensive words escalating by the second).
Me: Do you think it’s logical to let people pay to see this exhibit, then tell them they have 25 minutes since you close at ten to five, and start kicking them out after 15 minutes? Especially when the poster you’ve hung all over Nice says you’re open til 6? What do YOU think?? (At least until now, I’ve been smiling at him ironically, hoping that my good-natured rebellion will let us see a few more Chagalls.)
Him: But Madame, it is not a question of logic or opinion! That is just how it works! There is a hierarchy here, and you do not question it!
Me: That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard! Where I live, there is no hierarchy (at this point, Denmark is the most wonderful place on earth). And anyway, don’t you have your own opinion? (My favorite question for law-loving fools.)
Him: Madame, rules are rules! It is a question of security! (Has he ever stepped outside of his museum into his rule-guided, security-loving city? Perhaps, then, he could explain the laws that govern its motorway lunatics who aim at pedestrians?).
Me: Do we look dangerous to you?? There’s no one else here! Do you think I’m going to attack a Chagall painting?
…and it goes on, until my Mom covers an entire page of the Comments book in furious scribbles, ending in the words “destroyed my visit” (in reference to the elderly security guard who insisted on following her, as much with his physical presence as with his museum-filling odor that makes one wonder how this country could have possibly invented Eau de Toilette).
So much for our day-long anticipation of the Chagall Museum.
The worst part is that this was a totally one-off experience. Our week here has been fantastic. Everyone has been friendly beyond belief. This morning at breakfast, I had a little monologue over my croissant about how ridiculous the French stereotype is. Yes, maybe it’s because we speak their language, but they seem so damn charming and helpful!
And then it took so little to realize how fitting the 80/20 rule is here, as it is everywhere. 80% of your impressions are based on 20% of your (bad) experiences. Or something like that. Mais oui.
