Who Do You Think You Are? Part I

In Europe, they Call Me 'Madame'

Of all the things I've ever been called - both nice and unflattering (ah, life!)- the most memorable one is the European courtesy, "Madame". Madames have always been, for me, grand corseted figures in super-white powder foundation. There's something matronly about it. "Madame." Alas...there I was. A twenty-five-year-old Polynesian first-timer to the Northern Hemisphere. Talk about a culture clash!

If you're wondering where I got such fanciful stereotypes/ perceptions of a word that's actually a really common courtesy in Europe, please know that I place the full blame on Ever After and the dozens of bulky historical fiction tomes that litter my reading list. I know, right? I'll give myself grace on this one, though. The stories you're about to read are from what was only my first time out of the Oceania (Pacific) region. And what a time it was! #blessed

My first view of the famed Swiss Alps. I was overcome with a million different emotions, all at once. I made sure to play the Sound of Music's 'Climb Every Mountain' as we landed, in honor of my father, who loved and taught about Europe, but did not live to see it. 

Going to Europe is a rite of passage, isn't it? Well, it was, for a lot of people I knew as a teenager. It's the making of a social grade. The ticking of a box. You get bragging rights and photos for 'the Gram', and if you're from a tiny little speck like Samoa, you'll be featured on the Coconut Wireless front page. If you don't know what that is, count yourself lucky (😴). I know this idealization isn't limited to those of us in the small (and vast!) Pacific. Europe is, after all, the seat of much of what we still consider to be 'world history.' I've put that in speech marks because it's a whole other conversation about colonial and imperial narratives as well as white-washing. That's for another post, most definitely. Back to the point, for now: Europe is a dream destination, a life goal, even, for many people all around the world. If I'm being completely honest, I never actually really desired to travel to Europe. It's not that I was actively opposed to it or anything. It just wasn't on my immediate bucket list. If you'd have asked me a year ago where I'd go if I could travel anywhere in the world, I'd have immediately answered: South Africa. Now THAT was the seat of my childhood dreams. My father was an Alan Paton fanatic (zealot, lol?). Another story for another post, this one is.

I remember the first time I saw the very tips of the Swiss Alps. I'd seen pictures of them on chocolate boxes and plastered across various walls in Auckland and Wellington. I'd watched The Sound of Music more than a hundred times, at the least, and I knew all the words to that beautiful song: 

Climb ev'ry mountain 

Ford every stream!...

Nothing, and I mean NOTHING, had prepared me for how beautiful  the descent into Geneva, Switzerland would be. The clouds melted into snow-capped mountain ranges, deep dark rock contrasting the whitest (and first ever!) snow I had seen in my life. We didn't get snow in Wellington, only random hailstorms that conveniently always seemed to start while I was walking to school! Oh, gosh...Anyway, the Swiss Alps! I had Climb Every Mountain on repeat as we slowly came down, through the thick clouds. It was a pretty steep climb, I remember. I have a lifelong fear of heights, and a fear of falling in general. I recall the nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach- there was a point where I actually thought we might just fall the rest of the way down. Fear of the unknown, you know? But fall, we did not. We touched down comfortably on a sunny tarmac overlooking the ever-gorgeous mountains. I stepped off the plane in the heaviest skirt I own, a long shirt, socks pulled up long too, and gloves. Boy, was I an idiot! I had known it would be summer in Europe at the time, but I'd imagined European summers might be like most of the New Zealand summers I'd had- think autumn, but with brighter sun rays. Oh, the despair of breaking into a sweat as I walked through the airport. It was bloody hot! Like, almost Samoa-hot! 

Bags and passport cleared, I tore off my gloves, rolled my sleeves up as high as they would go, and rolled my socks down as low as possible. Thankfully, the uber-esque ride I'd booked was already there and ready to go. The driver had a chuckle at my unpreparedness for the Swiss summertime, and reassured me that there were only warm, sunny days ahead. 

It was at the check-in desk at my hotel- the Hilton- that I first heard the word 'Madame' in active use. We say 'Ma'am' in most English-speaking countries, which is polite enough, I think. But 'Madame.' My God! It has a different ring to it, doesn't it? All the front desk staff spoke either French or Arabic as a first language, so their way of saying words like 'Madame' has these really beautiful, almost musical intonations. I felt so grand. It was amazing! It is amazing, actually. How something as simple as the way you address someone can impact their self-esteem. Think, Johnny Lingo and the Eight Cow Wife (lol, again!).

I was so relieved to finally get to my room. What a great room it was! I opened my window to see the most amazing thing ever: a sign that indicated the turn-off, on the highway, which would lead you out of Switzerland and into France. "This way to France." Fancy that! I called my family immediately and told them I was looking out the window at France. To add to the irony, my students were studying the European land-locked borders at the time, especially the ones that historically allowed rival troops to traverse into each other's countries easily. How could I have been teaching this stuff for so long, and only be seeing it for myself today? The will and ability of the human heart to imagine, to colour, even that which we have not witnessed, for the sake of others, is something I will forever be in awe of. 

My first proper photo in my hotel room, after seeing the "this way to France" sign.

Having showered twice during the 30-plus hour trip from the Pacific to Europe, I was running out of clothes. I called the Help Desk immediately to ask where the laundry room might be, or if there was a nearby laundromat I might send my clothes to. "Madame, the hotel does all guests' laundry. Please hand yours to the nearest usher and we will add this service to your bill." I thought he may have misunderstood me- I was asking where I could go, ME, to do my laundry MYSELF. Like what I was used to. So, I explained it to him again. " I see, Madame. Yes, you may hand your laundry to one of our ushers. We will do your laundry for you as part of our hospitality services. We'll iron and press your garments, and then return them to you either folded or on a hanger; please indicate which you would prefer." Oh, no! I realized that I wasn't getting anywhere. I had to make a choice. A good one, and a fast one. 

A bit of background to my dilemma: any Pasifika person reading this will know that most of our cultures have taboos, some strict and some merely ingrained, regarding even things as mundane as laundry. The two 'restrictions' that I grew up with were:

1. Do your laundry yourself, especially if you have undergarments in there. 

2. Don't get people older than you to do chores for you!

But I needed clothes! The conference I was there to attend would be opening the following day, with a formal dinner at the World Economic Forum Headquarters. Those were the longest two or three minutes in my life! The brief silence as the Help Desk waited for me to make up my mind was almost deafening. My mother, being Melanesian, is particularly strict on these 'taboos.' My father was always a little more modernized in his thinking. He'd say, "do what the Romans do. You're in Rome, after all." It was then that it hit me. Rome has its own wisdom. This wisdom is borne out of the experiences and values of its own people. All wisdom has some wisdom in it. "If I refuse now, I'll run out of clothes by Day 2 of the summit, and I won't learn a thing about this strange and beautiful place, or these polite and beautiful people who are so so sooooo kind!." Less than five minutes after I agreed to let the hotel handle my laundry, a lovely woman in a red blazer and the nicest shoes I'd ever seen came by to pick up my laundry. She was around the same age as my mother, and I had to actively suppress the deep guilt I felt at having her do my laundry for me. She spoke only French, so it was a bit of a struggle to explain to her about my favorite checkered blue shirt. I always keep it on a hanger, even though it does not need one. Eventually, we came to a good enough consensus, and she said some of the only French words I know: "merci, Madame." A woman twice my age was not only going to do my laundry for me, but also calling me 'Madame'! I really was a world away from where I grew up!

(Story to be continued in next entry!)