My transformation began at 0900 hours on the beach, one recent weekend, in a skimpy black Speedo. No American would be caught dead in one, except perhaps tri-athletes and the most avant metrosexuals. But I’ve never felt safer in a disguise that offered so little ultraviolet protection. Political camouflage has become my obsession. Off the beach, I wear prefaded jeans by Faconnable, low-cut Pumas and football jerseys sporting my new alias, ZIDANE. Deodorant has been replaced by enough eau de toilette for two. I briefly considered a tattoo but was spared the pain by my children who “loaned” me several peel-offs featuring Power Rangers.
My diet has taken a left turn, too. Gone are gin and tonics with a squeeze of lime. Real men in France drink pastis–a licorice-tasting milky fluid that creates a shock-and-awe effect on the taste buds. (If you cannot imagine the flavor, mix a cup of Listerine with your kid’s leftover Halloween candy and serve over no more than two cubes of ice and add a splash of cream.) It’s the sort of aperitif that puts hair on your chest. Real Frenchman don’t eat cooked food, either. They prefer raw oysters and steak tartare served with raw egg yolks, washed down in summer with copious amounts of rose, a wine known by Americans to be served at luncheons for ladies playing bridge.
After several weeks of this cultural hormone therapy, I am now the embodiment of European “soft power” masculinity, as at ease with my inner multilateralist as any man from Paris or St. Tropez. Rather than reward myself with a fast car or a day of mountain climbing in the Alps, I spend lazy days playing boules under the shade of sycamore trees and long Sunday lunches with my family. I even shop for my wife’s lingerie at La Perla. Life has become a balanced, epicurean existence that’s far from feminine but closer to its mystique. Or so I thought, until one fateful day as I wandered the market seeking sweet cherries and a ripe fromage de brebis made by the rugged farmers in Corsica. Speaking to me in French, a vendor asked if I were… Canadian? “No,” I had to admit, “I’m an American.” The kind that still loves France and wishes that our two countries were as close as the colors of our flags.
