Le Monde de Manhattan

As much as they hate Americans, “Ze French” are omnipresent in this city. Even with Manhattan being one of the most un-French places of America. First of all, people work a lot here. Second, they don’t take time to eat. Third, they tend to work out on a daily basis. Therefore, once experiencing the real art de vivre in France, I thought New York would definitely not be their place.
Well, I was wrong. It just so happens that French is the third most spoken foreign language here, after Spanish and Chinese. (Provided, of course, that we still consider Spanish a foreign language in this country.) They come in massive floods, more than three hundred thousand a year from L’Hexagone to visit. Many of them decide to stay for good and join the exclusive community of bienhereux French expat metropolitans.
What I adore about French expats, though, is their obstinate reluctance to adopt American habits and their deep commitment to their own culture. It’s both entertaining and enviable.
You occasionally meet one or two in the gym but they are the laziest ones in class. (…the French don’t work out.) You see them in line in Whole Foods, but what do they buy? Roquefort and French imported wine. (…the French don’t eat American crap) They pack the halls of museums, but they faithfully stick to Cezanne, Monet, Renoir and Co. (…the French have an adequate amount of of world class painters, why would they care about American artists?)
They’re also there in the best cafes that serve coffee in real mugs and they pack the most excellent dance performances of the Joyce Theater. They’re also all out in Central Park when the weather is idyllically pleasant, oh no, not jogging of course: simply enjoying the intense unseasonal sunshine.
Wherever they go, they tend to flock together and speak French, which is the only reason you can tell there are so many of them. French language, one that everyone must speak even in New York is the indistinguishable symbol of their national pride. For them it is perfectly natural to start and end a conversation without even trying to switch over to the local language. The mere fact that you are able to reply, give directions, chit chat or joke in their native tongue in a city that is not even on their continent hardly ever impresses them. Not that I mind practicing but a little back-patting never hurts. Even so, French two-sentence-conversations became such an ordinary part of my days that sometimes I honestly forget what the official language of this country is. Then I quickly realize that in fact, there isn’t one.