One of the many differences I have noticed between the Italian and French temperament is the attitude to poorliness in general. If I had been in France at this time of winter and had dust induced respiratory difficulty, a conversation with a French friend may have gone rather like this:

Ami français: Ça va?

Me (croaking): Oui.

Ami français: But your voice, it is all funny?

Me: Oh it's nothing much; temperature of 41°c, debilitating pain in my joints, double vision, projectile vomiting, bleeding sinuses, non-stop coughing, epiglottis the size of an orange ...

Ami français (with a bit of a sneer): Ah! 'Tis just a simple cold. Beh, c'est la vie, eh!

The Italian approach, however, appears to be slightly different:

Amico italiano: Tutto bene?

Me (croaking): Si.

Amico italiano: But your voice, it is all funny? You sound terrible! Have you taken your temperature? You must call a doctor! Go home and go to bed. Don't worry about the dog, I'll take him out for you. You must take some drugs; ummmmm aspirin, paracetamol, ibuprofen! Do you need antibiotics? Shall I bring you some pasta? How about soup?

Whilst the French “C'est la vie” attitude to life can be inspirational - it is certainly a welcome counterbalance to the victim mentality so prevalent in modern society - it can also be intensely irritating. Not only does it ensure that receiving sympathy is a rarity, it also complicates the giving of it. Whilst happy enough to tell you at length all about their problems, be warned if you are foolish enough to commiserate:
Me: "I cannot tell you how sorry I am about your father strangling your mother with a string of onions before beating himself to death with a baguette..."
Ami français (with a disdainful eye-roll or no-nonsense shrug): "C'est la vie."

No it isn't! And if it was, would the French really spend so much of their time complaining? I think not. I certainly don't hear them c'est la vie-ing the perceived injustices that instead cause them to periodically bring the country to a standstill through strikes.

My worst experience of Gallic indifference was visited on me as I sat sobbing in a hospital bed. Having just had my broken ankle screwed back together, it transpired that I was allergic to the morphine administered during the operation. I was also violently vomiting all analgesics which, as well as leaving me pain-relief-free, was jerking my shattered ankle like a puppet on a string as I proceeded to heave up my stomach lining.

Things didn’t feel as if they could get an awful lot worse, when the ferocious nurse suddenly whipped round and snapped, “Madame, arrêtez votre cinéma, tout de suite!” (Stop being such a drama queen right now!). I cannot yet say whether I would have had a more sympathetic reception in an Italian hospital, because (touch wood, or “tocca ferro” – touch iron as they do here) I have not yet injured myself badly enough to find out! Although as I have so far managed to fall down the stairs on my coccyx twice, cut my finger nearly to the bone and gauge an enormous hole in my shine, it may only be a matter of time!

Kirsty