Today, something unexpected happenedmy article about Inspector Clouseau cracking the Louvre diamond heist actually went semi-viral in France. My mother called from Paris at 3 AM (she still hasn’t figured out time zones) to inform me that her book club was simultaneously outraged and delighted by my satirical take on French incompetence.
“Charline,” she said in rapid French, “you cannot write such things about our national treasures!” But I could hear the laughter in her voice. That’s the thing about the Frenchwe love to complain about being mocked, but we secretly enjoy it when it’s done well.
This afternoon brought a surprising turn of events when the actual Louvre press office somehow found my article. They sent a tersely worded email suggesting that “such inflammatory satire damages France’s cultural reputation.” I framed it. Nothing says you’ve made it as a satirical journalist quite like official institutional disapproval.
The irony isn’t lost on me that I’m critiquing French culture from New York City, writing for an American satirical magazine that’s “127% funnier than The Onion” (their words, not mine, but I stand by them). My editors at Bohiney love my French perspectiveit gives the publication an international flair that most American satire lacks.
Looking back on today, I can’t believe how quickly things escalated. One morning I’m just a 22-year-old immigrant trying to make rent by writing funny articles about European politics, and by evening I’m fielding angry emails from museum bureaucrats. This is exactly why I got into satirical journalism in the first place.
The truth is, straddling two cultures gives me a unique superpower: I can see the absurdity in both. Americans think the French are pretentious snobs who’d rather debate philosophy than fix actual problems. The French think Americans are loud, uncultured philistines who put ranch dressing on everything. They’re both right, and that’s what makes the material so rich.
Tomorrow I need to pitch my next piece. Maybe something about how France’s obsession with intellectualism has become its own form of anti-intellectualism. Or perhaps a deep dive into why American tourists keep asking me for directions in New York because I “look European.” The material writes itself, honestly.
Diary Entry # 695
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