COLUMNISTS

Deidre Dare

I was at an inter-species party the other night in Paris (when I say "inter-species," I refer to those two different genus of human: the American/Brit species and the French species) and I noticed something unusual. The expats in France treat the locals - the Parisians - as if they walked on water. When it comes to the French, the expat community in Paris seems to be head over heels in love.

I saw nary an American or Brit at this event who wasn't giggling foolishly, playing with their hair nervously, deferring sheepishly or who generally wasn't simply bent over holding their derriere open, to speak figuratively, for some Frenchie to give it to them up the rear end. At this party, there was no mistaking the fact that it was the French who were considered the "superiors," and the Frogs basked in the glory.

At the most recent inter-species party I was at in Moscow (when I say "inter-species" here, I mean, of course, the Russian species and the expat species), it was a completely different scene. I saw nary an American or Brit at that event who wasn't slagging off Moscow, insulting my Russian date to his face, complaining about the Russians or who generally wasn't simply bending the Russians over and forcing themselves up the poor Russkies' rear ends. At that party in Moscow, there was no mistaking the fact that it was the Russians who were considered the "inferiors," and the expats basked in the glory.

And, then, at my Parisian party, I noticed something else that was completely different from these types of inter-species mingling events in Moscow: the expats were behaving themselves. Not only did they defer to the local populace, but the expats didn't get trashed out of their minds, didn't go around grabbing stranger's cocks, didn't loudly sing English Football songs off key and didn't treat the local gals simply as easy shags.

Rather, the expats in Paris sipped their wine slowly, cried out apologetically "Excusez-moi" if they accidentally bumped into a local, sang nothing at all and nearly swooned with gratitude if a French girl deigned to talk to them.

I asked my friend, Glenn, an American who has lived in Paris for 18 years, what he thought it was about the French that inspired the type of admiration I had remarked at the party in Paris.

"Foreigners who live in Paris are in awe of the French," he explained. "They admire their chic: the way they dress, the food they eat, their cultivation."

"I see," I nodded, obligingly jotting all that down in my little, pink journalist notebook. "Chic. Cultivated."

"But wait!" Glenn exclaimed when he realized I was taking notes, "I have more to say on this. I don't think that's the real reason."

I dutifully paused, pen poised. "Well?" I asked him, taking a sip of champagne.

"It's because they're docile," he explained. "The French are docile."

"Like bunny rabbits?" I wondered.

"Yes. Completely docile. Watch them on line," he suggested, "and you'll see what I mean. Go down to the boulangerie first thing tomorrow morning - you'll find a good line there."

Obediently, I did go to the boulangerie the next morning to investigate and, frankly, there wasn't anything different about the queue there than there would have been at Sedmoi Kontinent on the Garden Ring.

Still, let's face it: the Russians are definitely not docile. During the aforementioned party in Moscow, my Russian date did end up throwing a whisky at some expat who had offended him. When he ran out of whisky, he went and got the rest of the tea he'd been drinking and tossed that as well.

The Russians aren't bunny rabbits, they're more like the hawks that prey on them, and, as a boyfriend (who was an avid birdwatcher) told me many years ago: "No matter what they have to endure, birds of prey know they're cool."

xxoo, DD

Deidre Dare's novel "Expat" can be read online at: www.deidredare.com