I was wandering down the busy streets of the Bastille neighborhood with my hubby when we both came across one very dolled up mature lady. I mean, this lady was out on the town and ready to show it. She was wearing pink lacy stiletto granny boots (pun intended), short jean shorts with tights underneath, and a pink bra with a see-through lacy white blouse on top of it. Totally curious to see what this person looked like from the front, Pierre and I scurried past the tons of people keeping us from a solid vantage point and pulled out right in front of her. I did a slight, nonchalant glance backwards and noticed a very well put together woman who must have been in her mid-70s. I was shocked. No woman of that certain age would be caught dead going out like that in the States, except of course for those ladies who enjoy the comforts of mobile home living.
I asked Pierre if he knew anything about that. He shrugged and said, “C’est la classe.” Ah, la classe. I should have known. That little phrase explains every little nuance of French culture that involves all things considered to be particularly French, including rude waiters, bureaucratic nightmares, and now, scantily clad grandmothers.
Well, happy to have learned yet something else about the French culture, I decided to teach Pierre something about the American culture, you know, as an earnest cultural exchange. So yesterday Pierre learned what a GILF was. Although, he was quick to point out that it actually should be called a GmILF.