Down the hall there’s a whole office of French sales people. All calls to France get rerouted to them. They are very French and travel in a pack. Lunch, coffee and cigarette breaks all happen en masse. My office lies along the route. You know they’re coming when you hear loud sighing and exapserated exclaimations of ‘oh mah gawd, oh mon dieu‘!
There’s one tall thin fellow who seems to sum up all that is French. Anytime he’s outside there’s a cigarette in his hand, I never see him eat and his hair is always perfect. He is also, of course, a great friend to many women because of his excellent fashion advice.
Despite the temperatures hovering at minus ten he is still wearing the same light windbreaker he started wearing in September, sans scarf. I wondered at his survival skills to my co-worker, who answered,
“He’s French. He doesn’t feel the cold, he only has disdain for it.”