"Yes nobody does."

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"...nobody nobody wants to learn either by their own or anybody else’s experience, nobody does, no they say they do but no nobody does, nobody does. Yes nobody does." —Gertrude Stein, Wars I Have Seen (1945).

Citoyens du monde,

Earlier this month I headed to Normandy with some friends, to drink Calvados and reflect on Americans who arrived in France before me, in 1944, by boat, with guns. Bracing against a stiff, cold breeze we strolled along Omaha Beach (now not just an historic landmark, but also a summer resort with beach condos and hot-dog stands) and through the scarred landscape and decaying gun emplacements at Pointe du Hoc. In this setting, it is impossible for even the most jaded among us (moi, par exemple) to remain unmoved, imagining the horror that occurred there, its terrible human cost, and how horribly, frighteningly different the entire world would be right now had the allied invasion not occurred or had its outcome been different.

A new visitors center at the American cemetery at Colleville-sur-Mer provides an impressive homage to our heroes through film footage, audio reminiscences, photos, and exhibits. But it's the cemetery itself, with its austere and perfectly aligned grave markers overlooking the coast, that weakens the knees. If we hadn't the foresight to spend a part of the previous day buying Kleenex and a small hip flask filled with the region's famed and potent apple brandy, I would surely have been a streak-faced, blubbering fool. Well-equipped as we were, wiping and swigging as inconspicuously and respectfully as possible, I was able to keep my cheeks dry. Nevertheless the tears did sting my eyes as much as the brandy stung the enormous lump in my throat.

Since World War II, American soldiers who've died in battle have always, if found, been sent home for burial. Nearly 10,000 American war dead are buried at Colleville-sur-Mer (of over 93,000 WWII casualties buried on foreign soil). It's important, and heartbreakingly poignant especially now, to note that the families whose sons, husbands, and fathers died in France in the 1940s felt that French soil was the rightful place for their interment. It's hard to imagine an emotional connection so strong between Americans and the countries in which we are fighting today, supposedly for the same lofty goals of liberation and protection; would we allow our children to be buried so far from home because we felt that their blood in that soil bound us to the place and its people by common dreams, common suffering, common victories, and common advancements?

Surveying the Norman landscape, this revelation was not only heart-wrenching, it was also—considered in a modern context—infuriating. The detachment we feel from contemporary warfare diminishes the understanding we should have of it. And the cynicism of our leaders and their unclear and dishonest rationale for our current conflicts belittles the sacrifice of American and allied troops who die fighting on our behalf, and it blurs the lines between good and evil that seem in retrospect were so simple and clearly defined back then, in the 1940s, in France.

While wandering and wiping and swigging and pondering and fuming, another thought popped into my head unexpectedly and truly unnerved me: Standing over one of the thousands of white crosses, upon which someone had recently rubbed some wet sand to make the engraved inscription legible, I was overcome by an irrepressible indignation at everyone who hasn't been completely gracious to me since my arrival. Yes, I admit it, and I am completely shocked and somewhat upset with myself about this. It was the exact sentiment I always disdained in the most obnoxious Americans who came back from their Parisian vacations and spouted idiotic drivel like, "We saved their froggy asses in World War II, and they can't even speak English when you ask where the Mona Lisa is in the goddamned Louvre!" It just welled up from nowhere and I stiffened with rage thinking of my bank teller who looks at me as if I am a cross between a martian and a hillbilly, and remembering the waiter at a cafe near the Pantheon seven weeks ago who wouldn't serve me coffee but wouldn't explain why, and recalling the three women behind the counter at the BHV department store who laughed at my mispronunciation of the item I was asking them to help me locate.

I don't even know who this person was who was having these angry thoughts; it certainly wasn't a me I recognized. But for a short time, standing in the American cemetery in Normandy, it didn't matter that the French weren't being anti-American when on the very few occasions they were rude or brusque. (I'd call it more "anti–Not Them.") It mattered that they weren't going out of their way to be nice to me.

That sentiment has passed, however, and now that I'm back in Paris I'm back to seeing the French as just another group of strange people with their own passel of idiosyncrasies—some charming, some not—and I'm back to believing that it's the foreigners like me who need to adapt to France, and not the other way around. And when I reflect on my short time here, I really have to insist that contrary to the image the media promotes of the angry, anti-American Frenchman railing 24/7 against all things Etats Uniques, I don't receive a daily earful of anti-American sentiments here.

It could be that my poor skills of observation prevent me from noticing beer cans being lobbed at me from the windows of passing Peugeots, or perhaps my self-absorption makes me deaf to any jeering by my fellow Metro riders. And maybe it's just that my French isn't good enough yet to detect the anti-American undertones in every cheery bonjour and bonne soirée that shopkeepers and cafe workers throw my way. But I doubt it.

In addition to the general friendliness and incredible patience most French have for we Yanks' abysmal language skills, it's difficult not to notice the crowds of Parisians queued up for Happy Meals and ordering venti no-foam soy-milk cappuccinos. And it's impossible to guess the number—no doubt huge—of French citoyens in American Apparel and Gap clothing who at any one moment are scraping dog shit off their popular Converse high-tops.

Last week, a fellow non-Frenchmen adjusted the chip on his shoulder to a more comfortable position to accuse his perceived persecutors of hypocrisy: "If the French hate Americans," he whined, "they should damn well stop buying all our stuff!" (I agree that such a boycott would be an excellent idea if anti-Americanism were as rampant as he charges, but I was not about to suggest it last night to the Frenchman in front of me in the supermarket who, when he overheard me tell the cashier that I'd forgotten my wallet and had to run home to get more money, stopped bagging his groceries to give me the euro I needed to complete my purchase.)

Of course there must be some anti-American sentiment here; it can't all be fabricated by the media to drum up some good-old American chest-beating jingoism. I'll just repeat that I've not experienced it. I've been here long enough to get some pretty crappy treatment in restaurants and to be driven nearly mad by indifferent French bureaucrats; and unlike the experience of American GIs following France's liberation in 1944, throngs of thrilled Frenchmen don't come running when they see me to kiss my cheek and load me down with flowers, so I'm willing to ease up a bit on my age-old insistence that the French are a universally huggy-snuggly bunch. But stay tuned to these pages to see if I ever report that their occasional lapses in warmth and civility are directed at me just because I'm American. I promise to let you know if an example occurs.

À plus tard ...

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