In spite of a ubiquitous American stereotype of French snobbery and rudeness, I have found – after some polite condescension that the French remain enthralled with America. Having grown up in the age of Clinton and Bush, it’s easy to forget that France and America have a long history of exchange and mutual admiration. Thomas Jefferson died in bankruptcy because he had spent a fortune on French wines. Benjamin Franklin spent his time as a bon vivant and womanizer in Paris before settling down in Boston and inventing the lightning rod. Skipping forward a few generations, I myself recently paid homage to Ernest and F. Scott at Shakespeare & Company. Similarly, I realized I live a kilometer away from the famous apartment of another expat for whom “America is my country, but Paris my hometown,” a.k.a. Gertrude Stein.

Still, the French saw Americans as puritanical during the Lewinsky scandal (at the same time, it was an open secret that François Mitterrand, former French president, had a child with his mistress), and they maintained a deep distaste for Bush. For now, though, the political tables have turned. The French continue to fervently believe in “yes we can” and sympathize with Obama’s struggle against an intransigent Congress, as they simultaneously disdain Sarkozy and his right wing, fear-mongering tactics. We’re all in the same depressing financial state.

Despite expecting the worst, thus far I have mostly received praise for my abilities albeit with the implied “for an American.” “Your French is excellent!” I have been told repeatedly, despite flubbing my tenses and floundering when I didn’t have the necessary vocabulary to finish an anecdote (sofa-bed, deer?). My host family was delighted when I tried rabbit for the first time (delicious). Both host families, during the two-week orientation in Bordeaux and my new home in Paris, asked me if I had ever tried goat cheese, brie and camembert I simply said “yes” and omitted the fact that half a wheel of Brie and water crackers was my cholesterol-laden after- school snack. The French seem to forget that they export their products, and not all Americans live on hot dogs and potato chips. My host mom delicately asked me if my family ate dinners together, and was pleasantly surprised to hear that although our dinner are not four courses and 90 minutes long like theirs, the French do not hold a monopoly on home-cooked food and close family ties.

Despite the barbed compliments, the French love American culture even more than we do. While answering that “No, I never eat at McDo” has gotten tiresome, the McDonald’s in Bordeaux always had a line out the door. I awkwardly provided my 60-some- thing retired host parents some background on Katy Perry, who was featured on the eight p.m. news and who is apparently an Édith Piaf fan.

Our group made a new friend at the discothèque, who proceeded to chant “U.S.A.!” over a playlist of Michael Jackson, the Black Eyed Peas, and Lady Gaga (who the French have finally caught on to).

While the French will tease and make ridiculous stereotypes about America, in general there is little animosity behind it, more intrigued fascination. Of course, it helps if you are not a “Top 10 of Paris” tourist, fluently speak French, keep your voice down, appreciate wine, cheese, and pâté, and are from Parisians’ other favorite city, New York.