Americans abroad are insecure, especially in Paris. No matter how good their French is, they are convinced that not only can't they sound French but they can't act French. Get over it. I can't act American. After six years in the US I surely can speak English but I can't hide the fact that I am not from this planet. And I am not even trying to. I give up. I belong to planet France. The good news is that it only took me 24 hours to figure it out.
It all began the morning after I landed in San Francisco to work as a journalist for a French magazine. It was 8 a.m. Already a little homesick, I went out to get breakfast, looked hopelessly for a bakery, ended up in a coffee shop and decided to order an elephant-sized croissant. I approached the counter and addressed a rather bored looking waitress.
--I would like to order a Kraw-sant
--What?
--A Kraw-sant.
--A what?
Wondering if I had just made my first faux pas I pointed my finger toward the gigantic, oily thing that was displayed on the counter.
-- "We don't have any".
Croissant, I thought miserably, was the only word I could pronounce right. With dignity I asked for a bagel. She gave me a plate of bacon.

A few days later I was waiting patiently for a bus to go to work. Mornings in San Francisco can be chilly but my pea coat and my scarf, I thought, would protect me from the wind. And of course I wore a beret. At last the bus arrived. As I paid my fare, the driver gazed at me for what seemed an eternity. Suddenly, he bursted out laughing. "Americans are really good-natured people", I thought, laughing politely in response. Between giggles the driver managed to sputter, "Babe, Halloween was yesterday". I drew myself up and stopped laughing. "It is not a costume, I am French". The whole bus began to shake.

Concluding that my English might need some work, I signed up for a class at a local university. It was on civil rights, a subject of interest to me and I happened to be the only white person in the class. I am not shy and from the beginning I was determined to take a vigorous part in the discussion. One day as I was triumphantly proving a point, a fellow student pointed his finger right at my nose and said: "You Caucasian! Just shut up." "I am not Caucasian, I am French", I replied indignantly. How could he think that I came from the Caucasus region?

Finally, I realized that I was losing my struggle with the English language. On New Year's Eve, I decided to go to the hairdresser, hoping to give my wimpy hair a bit more body with the help of a hair drier. Sitting in the chair I realized that I did not know the word for what I wanted. "Blow something" I thought. "Eureka!"
"A blow job," I said with as much enthusiasm as I could.
The hairdresser looked at me as if I was landing from Mars. "You mean a blow dry," she asked without a smile. "Whatever you call it", I said aware that I had most certainly made another faux pas. It is only when I looked at her nametag that I realized I had asked for a sexual favor. Her name was "Zizi", a word French boys use to refer to their Willie. No wonder I got confused. Had this not been before Monica Lewinsky made a certain vocabulary famous around the globe, I would not have made that mistake.

Though I am offended when people tell me that the French are obsessed with sex, now I must confess I have played a role in perpetuating the legend. When telling my landlady that my husband and I were going skiing for the weekend, I mentioned that "We have rent a condom in Lake Tahoe," (a popular ski resort in Northern California).
She only smiled and advised: "Make sure you return it clean". I knew that the French have the reputation for being a bit unhygienic but I was offended to think that my landlady shared that thought. Arriving home I told my American husband that she thought we were dirty, he suggested that from now on we will rent cabins and stay away from less comfortable condominiums. "Excuse her," he told the landlady. "She is French."