Emma Vandore's Schizophrénie française
Writing my first book, Schizophrenie Francaise - Sego, Sarko, Jacques et moi, has been a bit like having a baby. I resisted the idea of conceiving for a long time, and gave in after a lot of persuasion and encouragement. After several botched starts, my baby began to take shape. Bringing him into this world cost me a number of sleepless nights, a little nausea, combined with some moments of sheer delight. In the process, I made sacrifices, neglected my friends, and also put on a fair amount of weight. My next project will be shedding those excess kilos.
The book, published by Jean-Claude Gawsewitch Editeur, is a personal account of three years discovering the Byzantine world of French politics. Until the presidential campaign began to heat up, I was often the only Anglo-Saxon around.
While there are many more experienced and highly respected American and British journalists in Paris, most of them are too busy chasing the lady made famous by having the world’s first face-transplant or writing articles about Parisien dog poo to turn up at political speeches or the parliament, especially when they can watch them events on television or lift copy from the news-wires. Nor can many of them afford to board the French equivalent of Air Force One and follow Chirac and his ministers around the globe as his valiant efforts to persuade Vietnamese and Chinese students of the benefits of learning French has limited interest to readers outside of France. Until very recently, I worked for the only major international news agency not to have a French service, meaning I had the honour and privilege of being one of the few non-French journalists skulking in the corridors of power.
During the referendum campaign for the doomed European constitution, I discovered that my non-Frenchness is often sharply felt. While I would often forget my nationality as I got on with doing my job, the moment I open my mouth and my accent slips out, florescent lights start flashing on my forehead which read: ‘NOT FRENCH: PROBABLY ANGLO-SAXON.’ For most French people, the flashing soon becomes a sort of exotic accessory, like French ladies’ scarves are for British people. But in nationalistic world of French politics, the light never stops blinking.
My problem, being a Scot, is that the epithet ‘Anglo’ was never going to do down very well. Let’s get things straight. I am not an Anglo-Saxon. I am Scottish, or if you prefer, British. Even at a stretch European. But there is no Angle or Saxon blood running through my veins, both being largely illiterate tribes from Germany who died out about 1,000 years ago.
The French appetite for blaming Anglo-Saxons for all the ills of globalisation that threaten the French way of life led to many amusing – in hindsight – clashes. In London, I debated with Tony Blair and Dominique de Villepin the merits British cuisine. In Gleneagles, I convinced one of Chirac’s officials to taste the Scottish delicacy haggis. In the Salle des Fetes of the Elysée palace, Jacques Chirac fondly related a trip around Scotland as a young hitch-hiker.
‘Here is a book that all the presidential candidates should read,’ said Paris Match the day my book was published March 29. ‘Emma Vandore is one of the rare correspondents in Paris to cover directly all the political events she recounts,’ said Liberation. ‘This book covers political and societal events,’ said Les Echos. ‘But her take on France, sometimes between the lines, should be read by all French people who are prepared to abandon for a brief moment their sensitivity.’
My tales of the campaign trail continued on my blog http://anglosaxonne.blogspot.com. My next task, whilst loosing the weight, is translating all of this into something that an English-speaking publisher might be interested in. Any advice would be greatly appreciated
The book, published by Jean-Claude Gawsewitch Editeur, is a personal account of three years discovering the Byzantine world of French politics. Until the presidential campaign began to heat up, I was often the only Anglo-Saxon around.
While there are many more experienced and highly respected American and British journalists in Paris, most of them are too busy chasing the lady made famous by having the world’s first face-transplant or writing articles about Parisien dog poo to turn up at political speeches or the parliament, especially when they can watch them events on television or lift copy from the news-wires. Nor can many of them afford to board the French equivalent of Air Force One and follow Chirac and his ministers around the globe as his valiant efforts to persuade Vietnamese and Chinese students of the benefits of learning French has limited interest to readers outside of France. Until very recently, I worked for the only major international news agency not to have a French service, meaning I had the honour and privilege of being one of the few non-French journalists skulking in the corridors of power.
During the referendum campaign for the doomed European constitution, I discovered that my non-Frenchness is often sharply felt. While I would often forget my nationality as I got on with doing my job, the moment I open my mouth and my accent slips out, florescent lights start flashing on my forehead which read: ‘NOT FRENCH: PROBABLY ANGLO-SAXON.’ For most French people, the flashing soon becomes a sort of exotic accessory, like French ladies’ scarves are for British people. But in nationalistic world of French politics, the light never stops blinking.
My problem, being a Scot, is that the epithet ‘Anglo’ was never going to do down very well. Let’s get things straight. I am not an Anglo-Saxon. I am Scottish, or if you prefer, British. Even at a stretch European. But there is no Angle or Saxon blood running through my veins, both being largely illiterate tribes from Germany who died out about 1,000 years ago.
The French appetite for blaming Anglo-Saxons for all the ills of globalisation that threaten the French way of life led to many amusing – in hindsight – clashes. In London, I debated with Tony Blair and Dominique de Villepin the merits British cuisine. In Gleneagles, I convinced one of Chirac’s officials to taste the Scottish delicacy haggis. In the Salle des Fetes of the Elysée palace, Jacques Chirac fondly related a trip around Scotland as a young hitch-hiker.
‘Here is a book that all the presidential candidates should read,’ said Paris Match the day my book was published March 29. ‘Emma Vandore is one of the rare correspondents in Paris to cover directly all the political events she recounts,’ said Liberation. ‘This book covers political and societal events,’ said Les Echos. ‘But her take on France, sometimes between the lines, should be read by all French people who are prepared to abandon for a brief moment their sensitivity.’
My tales of the campaign trail continued on my blog http://anglosaxonne.blogspot.com. My next task, whilst loosing the weight, is translating all of this into something that an English-speaking publisher might be interested in. Any advice would be greatly appreciated
posted by SOAF Chairman at 2:55 AM
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