posted by Charles H. Russo on Oct 26
When my daughter was two years old, we were sitting one feverish afternoon in the pediatrician’s waiting room. Waiting. The doctor’s office was kind enough to furnish some pastimes to distract the younger patients until they could be escorted into the examining rooms.
My blond cherub picked up the stub of a purple Crayola and started scrawling on whatever paper was available — in this case, a dreaded Disney coloring book. Her artwork was nowhere within any lines at that age, of course. After a few minutes she finished her embellishments and proudly exclaimed, “Look, Momma!” as she held up her masterpiece. The page of the coloring book was a black-and-white outline of Prince Charming bent over Cinderella’s hand, giving it an elegant kiss. “Look!” she cried, “Da pwince is fixing Cindewella’s boo-boo!”
I practically piddled trying to suppress my laughter. Of course, in her world, all spot-kisses were bestowed maternally with magical powers of healing bruised knees or pinched fingers. How could I expect an American toddler to know anything about the European culture of hand-kissing, le baisemain?
Even we American adults in general are not that familiar with le baisemain (pronounced “le bez-menh”). I think that most of what we know we’ve gleaned from movies. I don’t know the long story of it, but it’s a fairly aristocratic gesture in origin, so I imagine that it went out of style in the US around the time that American colonies chucked our ties to the monarchy. If it ever reached our shores to begin with.
Personally? I love le baisemain. It doesn’t happen on a daily basis, not for me anyway. But oh, when it does! It’s so full of gallantry and elegance — when done properly by a Frenchman who’s got the lifelong skill honed to a delightful art. I admit that I still blush a bit inwardly.
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