Do You Hear The People Sing?

In the local weekly newsletter, Montfort Hebdo, it was announced that the municipality was about to commence a lutte contre les pigeons. Yes, you read correctly: a fight against pigeons. I'm not sure if this involves a physical encounter and fisticuffs* or something more longterm - a sort of avian war on terror, if you will.

In any case, I'm absolutely for it. And, as a Brightonian, if the revolutionaries are prepared to extend the recipients of their ire to include sea gulls, they can count me in.

"Will you join in our crusade?
Who will be strong and stand with me?
Beyond the barricades, is there a world you long to see?
Then join in the fight that will give you the right to be free!"



* Or possibly talonicuffs. Actually, I have no idea what 'fisticuffs' are supposed to be.

Additions to 'La Haine'

- The fact that everybody is always late here. Always. I am, by nature, one of life's 'late' people* so to counteract against this, I always have my watch set to be at least five minutes fast, in the hopes that I might actually get to places on time. But there's simply no point here. Every French person I have arranged to meet at a particular time has been late - shamelessly, unapologetically late. No perfunctory made-up excuse about the traffic being dreadful, delivered in the customary fake breathless fashion in an attempt to make it look as if they ran to the meeting. No, they arrive with a casual hello and not a hair out of place nor an explanation for their tardiness. I'm not sure if I find this lack of hypocrisy charming or disturbing.

- The fact that you cannot check your bank balance at ATMs here, not even with a French carte bancaire and bank account. Is it too much to ask to be able to have a quick look at how much money I don't have before I attempt to withdraw it?




* In the sense of unpunctuality, as opposed to the sense of being dead, naturally.

L'amour et la Haine

So, it's almost one month in, and the effects of living in France are starting to show. I'm now a total convert to black coffee; I've already started to forget certain English words; I've stopped being surprised or even offended when other people queue-jump*; I've even caught myself making the Breton oy-loy-loy noise of exclamation. But the Anglo-Gallic pendulum is still swinging between love and hate.

What I Love About France

- The phrase je t'invite. It solves so many awkward money issues right from the start. If someone tells you, "Je t'invite à prendre un café," they mean, without being so crass as to actually say it, that they're paying for it. "Tu veux prendre un café?", on the other hand, means you're probably going to split the bill. Fan-bloody-tastic, in my opinion.

- Their strong sense of regional pride. Montfort is a tiny town, which probably wouldn't even be featured on a map if it didn't have a museum, yet the people refer to themselves as 'Montfortais' with no sense whatsoever of its utter absurdity. Someone asked me perfectly sincerely, "And how long have you been Montfortais?" and wondered why my mouth twitched with stifled laughter as I solemnly replied, "Oh, I've been Montfortais for three weeks."

- The word connerie. Not only does 'c***ery' not exist in English, but you'd never hear old ladies at the market say it. Only in France, my friends, only in France.

- The total lack of Health and Safety hysteria. At my local train station, there is no subway or footbridge to cross to the other platform. No, you simply walk across the track. There are no barriers or lights telling you when to cross; instead, it works on the ingenious mechanism of asking oneself: "Can I see a train coming?" and if the answer is no, then it's safe to cross.

- The fact that public transport is so efficient, disregarding the regular strikes. The train to Rennes was five minutes late the other day, and a man actually used the emergency telephone to ask what the hell was going on. In England, if a train is only five minutes late, we congratulate the company for its punctuality.

- The fact that harem pants are in fashion here; I can walk around town in half of my bellydancing costumes and actually look cool.

- Men actually do say, "Enchanté," when they meet you here. I know it's just a phrase, but I love the idea of someone being 'enchanted' to meet me.

- Schoolkids greet one another with a kiss on each cheek. I still haven't got used to this; it is so strange for me as a Brit to see stroppy fifteen-year-old boys gallantly faire la bise with a group of girls in the morning and again at hometime. When I was that age, if a guy nodded hello at you, it was practically a marriage proposal.

- Self-checkouts at supermarkets that don't say, "Unexpected item in bagging area," every thirty seconds.

- The hearing aid shop in Montfort whose owner has deliberately, I suspect, installed a light outside it which buzzes faintly. A stroke of genius.



What I Hate About France

- Bureaucracy (see various previous posts)

- The fact that most rude words also have perfectly clean meanings too, which results in me being absolutely terrified of accidentally swearing at old ladies or the headmaster. You have to choose your words carefully when talking about jumping the queue, for example, when 'sauter' also means 'to screw' and 'queue' also means 'dick'. Plus the strongest phrase I know includes the word 'branler', which means 'to shake'. If you're English, you can figure out for yourself what the rude word is, and if you're French, you can tell me if there are any worse ones out there...

- On the subject of ambiguity in language, the fact that copine/copain means both 'friend' and 'girlfriend/boyfriend'. Recently, a girl introduced me to another girl who she described as her copine and I still have no idea whether this means they're sleeping together or not. Surreptitious attempts at discovering whether either of them possess a pair of dungarees have so far been unsuccessful.

- The whole vous and tu thing. It causes so much stress because I never have any idea which is appropriate, and I don't want to be over-familiar or over-polite. I recently joined a local theatre group and they actually spent ten minutes deciding whether to tutoie or vouvoie one another.

- The fact that nobody eats on the hoof here. Go into any bakery and you'll find an array of the most drool-worthy cakes and muffins you have ever seen. How can they possibly expect you to wait even five minutes to find a place to sit down and eat it, let alone the time it takes you to get home? I simply don't have enough willpower and so I always provoke looks of disapproval as I walk along, happily devouring some delicious thing, usually with lots of chocolate in it. It's sacrilegious to the French, who really do seem to view food as a religion, but I don't care.

- Following on from that, the fact that everything closes for lunch. Not only that, everyone from banker to shopkeeper apparently requires two and a half hours for lunch. How the hell do they eat enough to warrant taking two and a half hours every day and not look like Nick Griffin's lardier big brother?




* But I haven't gone so far as to actually queue-jump myself, of course. There are some mortal sins that no amount of cultural immersion can make me commit.

A Complete Banker

It's no coincidence that the word 'bureaucracy' is, by origin, French. Sometimes, the power of the local municipality and the existence of far too many people with nothing better to do that push bits of paper around can be useful. A phonebox in Montfort was vandalised one Saturday night; by Monday evening, it was as good as new. The roadworks near where I live actually progress at a pace visible to the naked eye, whereas in England, one of those slow-motion cameras they use to film the growth of plants is needed to see any difference. Yet most of the time, the bureaucracy here is just plain irritating.

For a start, when you open a bank account here, they don't send you the debit card through the post. Oh no, that would be far too easy. No, you have to wait ten days and then go back to the bank to collect it. Figuring this was probably actually not a bad idea, given the number of postal strikes they have here, I did as I was told and turned up at the bank.

The banker had clearly watched too many episodes of Who Wants To Be A Millionnaire as he taunted me by showing me my shiny new bank card, before telling me that he couldn't give it to me as there was no money in my account. I protested that I had been told that I didn't need to deposit anything when I first opened it. He conceded that this was correct, explaining that, one my salary went into the account on 20th October, I could have the card.

Still relatively calm at this stage, I told him that I wouldn't try to use the card before my salary went in; I simply wanted to collect it now to save me having to wait a week or so before being able to come back into Rennes, and also to save me having to trek all the way over that side of town again. Could he not give me the card now, trusting that I would somehow, with my 1500 cc of fully-evolved human brain, remember not to try to take out any money before it was in my account?

Apparently not. It would appear that, in an attempt not to discriminate against the brain-dead - and by this point, I was beginning to wonder if he was included in this class - it was the bank's policy not to give out cards to customers with no money in their accounts.

Taking a deep breath, I asked whether I could, in that case, deposit some money now and thus be allowed to have my card.

"Mais bien sûr, mademoiselle", came the reply, and in my naivety, I believed that it really was as easy as that. I looked in my purse, found a twenty euro note and triumphantly held it out to him.

What a pathetic fool I was. It turns out that this bank also has a policy of not allowing personnel to handle money, for security reasons. How could I have been so idiotic as to assume that a person working in a bank would be allowed to actually take my money? With all the glee of a man who has just sent his bishop to F3 and smugly declared, "Check," he informed me that I could make an appointment with someone who was authorised to take my money - presumably someone who actually learnt to count at school or something - in about three weeks' time. It was at this point that I realised the futility of yelling at this imbecile how ridiculous that was since my salary would already be in my account by that time. He already knew that, of course, and he was loving every second of it.

I must have looked absolutely crestfallen because he decided to throw me a lifeline. "Of course, you could always deposit money into that automatic machine over there," he suggested. I nearly kissed him.

My euphoria didn't last long, however. I returned and explained through gritted teeth that the machine wouldn't let me deposit money without a card.

"Ah oui, c'est vrai," he replied, with only a hint of a smirk.

I enquired as icily politely as possible whether he might deign to give me my card so that I could deposit some money in my account. I cursed having never been very good at chess as he informed me with some delight that he couldn't possibly give me my card if I didn't have any money in the account. Hundreds of beautiful images involving this idiot and a variety of large, spiked objects flitted through my mind as I patiently explained that I've always hated the book Catch 22, and that if he liked, he could personally escort me the three metres across the room and watch while I deposited the money.

As it turns out, I now have the card. And if the cops find the battered, bloody body of a banker in Rennes, then I admit it. I did it, in the Crédit Agricole, with the debit card.

Colocation

The search is currently on for a house-share in Rennes, ideally close to the train station since I'm too lazy to walk too far at eight in the morning, but not too expensive. One of the biggest hurdles I've come across so far is finding someone who's prepared to live with a bloody foreigner, and an English one at that. Entente cordiale be damned.

Whilst perusing the small ads, a certain number of them can be crossed out straight away. A 57-year-old single man asking for a young lady between 16 and 25 to come and live with him? I think not. Anyone who specifies that they woud like a heterosexual housemate is suspicious in my books, too; either they're homophobic or hoping to get lucky, and neither appeals to me. As for the charming young man who decided it would be prudent to put up a naked photo of himself in lieu of one of the actual house, I thought it wise not to go there.

Eventually, I found one that seemed perfect: right next to the station, spacious, and best of all, they were asking for an English-speaking, female student! Let me just check a moment... Anglophone? Aye, aye, sir. Degree? In the pipeline. Two x chromosomes? Packed and ready to go. We have lift-off!

I arranged to meet one of the housemates, a Spanish guy, and he showed me around the apartment. It was absolutely perfect: decent rent, enormous room, clean and well-equipped kitchen, and brilliant location. I was over the moon.

He offered me a glass of water, and I panicked. He would read all sorts of things into it if I refused, surely: that I was too snobbish to drink from the tap, that I suffered from an eating disorder so acute that I refused to be seen even drinking water, or worse, that I was some kind of vampyric creature who did not imbibe the drinks of mortal men but instead would prey on their very life's blood during the night, sneaking into their rooms to feast upon their sleeping, defenceless flesh. I mean, you do get some real weirdos coming to look for house-shares.

In fact, the real problem was that I had always had it drummed into me never to drink the water when I went abroad. I have been on holiday to France every year since I was a baby, even if only for a few days sometimes, and not once have I drunk the tap water, except in tea or coffee. Avoiding it had become as normal and habitual as avoiding red light districts or bagpipe players. But suddenly, it struck me how ridiculous it was that the second biggest economy in the EU and home to 65 million people might not have clean water. I smiled, accepted, and drank the glass in one long gulp. And guess what? I'm still here.

I went home with a massive grin on my face, pleased that I had got on well with the two housemates I'd met so far. I was to meet the third one a few days later and then, assuming all went well, look into signing papers and moving in. And then... nothing. He never turned up at the meeting. I called, he promised to call me back, and never did. Texts, calls and emails went unanswered. Finally, yesterday I saw that the advert had been reposted on the website. I still have no idea why. Maybe I shouldn't have told them I'm learning to play the drums...

Bon Marché

Every so often, most cities and large towns in Britain will have a visiting 'French market'. These events give British people the chance to wander around a small number of brightly-coloured stalls, cooing with delight over baguettes, cheeses and crêpes, all at hyper-inflated prices, and giggling as they try out their best, "Murky bucket" or, "Sivoo-play" on the slightly smug French merchants.

Real French markets are nothing like this, as I discovered today in the Place des Lices in Rennes, which is home every Saturday morning to an enormous, sprawling collection of stalls spilling out into narrow streets and snickleways. I shall take this opportunity to apologise to the several hundred people I nudged, trampled and walked into today, because I was far too enchanted with the sights and smells around me to concentrate on something so tedious as looking where I was going. Along a road almost a mile long were stalls selling fruit and vegetables of every kind; many I'd never seen before in my life, and one stall sold no less than thirty different kinds of garlic. There were courgettes and marrows of all shapes and colours, many twisted and misshapen - the French, fortunately, do not share our prejudice against ugly fruit - but all irresistably fresh.

The market was huge and labyrinthic but simple to navigate by simply following one's nose, as a myriad of smells leapt out with each turn of a corner. First the cheese-sellers' quarter, a testimony to the French belief that the smellier a cheese, the better it tastes. Then the fishmongers, selling just about every edible creature that possesses gills or a shell. Suddenly, I turn a corner and the street bursts into bloom, announcing that I have reached the florists' quarter.

My stroll also brings many surprises, in the shape of the best buskers I have ever seen, even in London. The sound of accordions float through the streets, creating a wonderfully French ambiance. In one clearing, three talented young men, each dressed as Zorro, play twelve different instruments between them, switching several times per song while never losing their funky jazz beat.* At the next block is a group of young people dancing leroc to smoky blues music. I stand watching for almost half an hour, absolutely mesmerised. They're not busking - no hat is passed around - and they don't even seem to be advertising their dance school as there are no signs, no sales patter. They appear to be showing off their dance skills in the street for the sheer hell of it, and their obvious enjoyment is infectious.

The market has a charm to it that is missing from the typical English market with its cockney grocers yelling, "Gitchoor laaahvvly strawbs ee-ah! Paaahnd a punne'!" and burger vans selling lukewarm instant coffee in polystyrene cups.

Maybe it's the fact that the cobbled streets and half-timbered houses of Rennes are particularly beautiful in the sunshine. Maybe it's the fact that I've been mistaken for a local and thus asked for directions twice now - and have been disproportionately pleased about being able to give them. Maybe it's the fact that I am now on first-name terms with the people in the France Telecom shop because I buy so many phonecards, and also with the waiters in the Cafe Leffe near the station, where I sit, dipping a madeleine into a coffee Proust-style, and using their free wifi for hours on end. I don't know what it is about this place, but I'm starting to feel like this could be home.





* I was so impressed that I actually bought their CD, something I've never done with a busker before. If you're interested, they're called Guz II and can be found on MySpace.

Those who can...

The timetable is (mostly) sorted, I have thousands upon thousands of documents/lesson plans/pupil lists, and I'm beginning to finally feel like a teacher. Walking into the familiar surroundings of the lycée, I beam as pupils call out, "'Ello Zoé!" in their tell-tale French accents, and I can hardly believe I am in the same building that seemed so labyrinthic and terrifying only two weeks ago. I love the camaraderie of the staffroom banter, with hundreds of different conversations going on at once, punctuated with typically wild gallic gestures and singsong delivery. I love the way in which the other teachers revel in teaching me risqué French phrases with wicked schoolboy glee. I love the genuine delight they take in deadpan British humour; when someone asked me if I'd like to play Gaelic football and I replied with a straight face that surely it was just like ordinary football, only you drink Guinness first, you would have thought I had made the funniest joke in the world. I love the fact that everybody drinks at least six or seven very strong black coffees every day. I love the way that it is de rigeur to greet everyone you see, no matter how many times you see them in a day.* I love the private joke of keeping a straight face when male pupils tell me with apparent sincerity that they have husbands or that they serve icecream at customers. Oh, and being able to jump the queue in the canteen isn't a bad perk, either.

The icing on the cake, however, was the ultimate tool of a professeur's trade: my very own magic key which opens every classroom in the school! Ah, the power. Sod long holidays and warm fuzzy feelings - this is why I want to be a teacher.



* This has got to be one of France's most charming qualities, and a habit I'll have to learn to shake off when I eventually return to England if I am to avoid funny looks. Even in the streets, you greet everyone you pass with some form of appropriate salutation, no matter how bizarre it might seem. Bonjour. Bonsoir. Bon journée. Bon weekend. Bon dimanche. Can you imagine a Brit or an American stranger wishing you 'happy Sunday'?