Bisous

Let's talk about kissing.


The French do it a lot. An awful lot. No amount of swine flu paranoia can sway that near-stranger's lips from their inevitable path towards your defenceless cheek. It's just what's done.

I can safely say that I have kissed more people in the last four months than I have in my entire life up to my arrival in France. In fact, I probably broke that record in one night at a birthday party I bellydanced at just before Christmas, where I was shepherded round to meet everyone, complete with bisous.

I don't have any personal space issues but all this physical affection for people I've just met does jar a little with my English sense of restraint and propreity. There are people I saw almost every day at school for seven years of my life with whom I have never had any physical contact, and yet I'm expected to embrace every Jacques, Pierre and Jean-Claude that my housemates bring back to the apartment. Sometimes I'll forget, and when a random friend-of-a-friend is introduced to me as I'm chopping onions in the kitchen, I'll simply look up, smile and say, "Salut," then carry on with what I'm doing. Then I'll notice them hovering, a fixed smile on their face in an attempt to mask their thoughts about the rude, cold English, and remember where I am, before going over to faire la bise.

I hadn't realised just how important this was for establishing relations until today. Normally, when I meet friends/lovers/fuckbuddies of my housemates, it's very casual and we start off on 'tu' terms. This suits me down to the ground, because I hate the tu/vous distinction; I never know which one to use and generally end up talking in roundabout sentences to avoid having to say the word 'you' until I've worked out where I stand.* But today, I was in the middle of the delicate process of baking a banoffee pie when I was introduced to a housemate's friend, and so I simply greeted her from where I was. This was the first person I haven't kissed, and I don't think it was a coincidence that she was the first visitor to vouvoie me. I can only assume that she decided I'd set a certain level of formality between us by not doing the bise. The problem is that I refuse to offer tutoyer because of my age; I've heard too many horror stories about young people saying to older people, "Et si on se tutoie?" and receiving the crushingly civil reply, "Comme vous voulez". And so we ended up with awkwardly formal small talk until my housemate laughed, told us not to be so ridiculous and tutoie one another. All because of one bloody kiss.

Except, of course, that it isn't just one kiss; it's two. And that's just with reasonable people - it can be three or even four with some. It's incredible how much time this takes up, especially at work. I have to arrive in the staffroom at least five minutes early each morning in order to have time to do the rounds of kissing before classes begin. And if, on my way to a lesson, I happen to spot a pack of as-of-yet ungreeted 4-kissers (because they always seem to group together, like wolves), it's actually quicker to take a detour and go the long way round to avoid them. Then hometime comes, and it's the same kissy-kissy business again.

Bisous, everyone.



Update: according to Combien de Bises?, two is the average for my département, but if I go any further East, I'll be in dangerous four-bises territory...


* A while back, I was walking along the street in Montfort and met a woman who clearly knew me. I recognised her from somewhere, but couldn't think where. That would be an awkward enough situation in any language, but it was made worse by the fact that I had no idea if we were on 'tu' or 'vous' terms! The irony is that so many French people I've met must think I'm incredibly rude because of the strange way in which I speak and avoid asking questions, which is all due to my cringing fear of accidentally offending them...