Finding me in France

by Bobbi French

  They say we’re in for another four or five days of la canicule but I guess I shouldn’t complain. The dog days of summer will be gone soon enough and I’ll be back to wearing long johns to bed and begging that furnace I call my husband to warm those blocks of ice I call my feet. But for now, if he comes within a foot of me never mind the clock, he’s getting the hose.

  FATHER

  FORGIVE THEM

  … for they know not what pigs they are. No, I’m not talking about Dominique Strauss-Kahn, the new national obsession of this great nation. Who needs big time porkers when I have small time cochons to disgust me?

  There I was, traipsing about my little French town looking très chic (that might be a stretch, but no sweatpants or orthopedic clogs), with my aviator sunglasses and my new French scarecut, not bothering a soul, a skip in my step and a song in my heart. Up the old stone stairs I climbed when I came upon a gaggle of giggling teenaged girls. They always make me smile, these gorgeous young femmes as they pour themselves over the stairs, fiercely exerting their independence with their matching clothes and hairstyles. They stopped pouting and posing long enough for a polite, “Bonjour, Madame.” So charming this lot.

  Then a turn of a corner and a turn for the worse. Enter les garçons of summer, a formidable posse of seven or eight loud, beefy guys of no more than 18 years apiece. Once face to face with them I smiled, said “Bonjour,” and waited for permission to pass. Dead silence as I made my way by until one of the snakes hissed, “Ahh, tu es très jolie,” followed by peals of laughter. I just assumed they’d met up with one of the girls but when I looked back I realized they were referring to moi. Now here’s what’s wrong with this picture. I’m no French linguist but I know enough to know that I am to be addressed by hooligans I’ve never met, decades younger than me with “vous” not “tu.” In this culture of politesse it’s incredibly rude and insulting. And after the first boy went over the edge, the lemmings followed with a series of catcalls, clever phrases like “yum yum” and various slurping noises that continued the whole time it took me to get up the stairs.

  Now for those thinking these Frenchmen in training were nursing fantasies of an older woman, I can confidently say that they were clearly making fun of me. In fact, they were pointing out how incredibly ridiculous it would be to consider me attractive. I remember the drill all too well from high school. These bozos wouldn’t know a compelling woman if she fell on them. Which explains why they were clustered at the top of the stairs while a dozen budding supermodels in various states of undress, literally around the corner, were wasting their mascara and perfume on each other. Instead, these guys thought it a better use of their time to harass some foreign woman old enough to be their mother.

  The real problem is that this rude awakening has completely messed with my “this is the friendliest town in France where merde like this doesn’t happen” delusion. Until now, every single encounter I’ve had with people here has been remarkably pleasant. Even the people at the bank were uncommonly gracious while refusing to lend me money. The worst part was having to walk silently on amid the taunts. As someone who’s always seemed to draw the room’s biggest loser (once a guy with two teeth wearing a floor-length leather coat), I’m quite used to having a snappy comeback in response to this kind of thing. But for these morons I had nothing, rien.

  Oh sure, I could say that I was out of practice or that I saw their lewd adolescent behaviour for what it was: insecurity, angst and a lack of positive role models. Or I could say that I am now enlightened and above what others think of me; that living the simple life has fundamentally changed me into a serene person who feels nothing but compassion for their enemies, someone like Jesus or that little guy from India. The sad truth is I just didn’t know the French for, “Oh yeah? Well suck me arse, ya bunch of slimy halfwit swine,” until I was home with my dictionary of French insults. Somehow, barrelling up the stairs and screaming that at a bunch of kids two hours after the fact would’ve been a little light on the femme fatale and a bit heavy on the raving lunatic. Next time, I shall channel my inner messiah, smile, raise my hand in blessing and say, “Father, I ask forgiveness for my young brothers—right after they suck me arse.”

  ALL IN A

  DAY’S WALK

  Heat waves and harassing hooligans aside, I love this town. One of the great things about living in France is how the everyday becomes the sublime. Places that I always took for granted in Canada like banks, libraries or city hall because they were, well, boring, take on new meaning here in Semur. I often start or finish my day here at Mademoiselle Elodie’s House of Pain.

  She calls it physiotherapy, which in French is pronounced sadistic torture. Oh, I’m just teasing, she saves my life three times a week. After Elodie finishes untwisting the pretzel lady, I’m loose enough to promenade home and the first place I see is the Caisse d’Epargne also known as a bank.

  When the banks look like this they get a certain amount of latitude no matter how arduous the process of seeking mortgage approval. A few more steps and the local library comes into view.

  When I am queen of the world (any day now) all libraries will look exactly like this one. In the centre of the courtyard there are benches where I can sit and take it all in, which is convenient because there’s not much point of me hanging about inside, not even in the preschool section. Ah, but someday soon I’ll proudly check out my first French book, preferably one with lots of pictures and really big print.

  Next, I pass through the gates of city hall.

  When I first came to France I noticed almost every town had a Hotel de Ville, which I thought was the French answer to Holiday Inn. Not so, a Hotel de Ville is the administrative hub of town. It’s a veritable extension of La République, where one seeks permission to live in France from Monsieur le Maire himself. The crowd at this one has offered us a level of service that a Howard Johnson’s just couldn’t touch.

  What I love about living here is that a simple walk to the physio clinic is inspiring and beautiful and makes me feel happy all over. Of course, every place in the world has its own beauty and no town is perfect. To be sure, there are parts of Semur that are crumbly, shabby and in need of some serious overhauling, but I’ve seen my derrière today so who am I to talk?

  IT’S EVERYWHERE

  I WANT TO BE

  Sometimes my relationship with France can only be described as a hot/ cold, love/hate, up-and-down-faster-than-a-whore’s-drawers kind of thing. As I amble home through the quiet streets of Semur, I marvel at how uncomplicated my life has become, how unfettered and uncluttered by the daily grind. Oh yes, as long as I don’t ever have to speak to anyone, this living in a foreign country is a breeze, a piece of gâteau. I often speak too soon.

  About twelve years ago some swindler in Guadalajara, Mexico ran up a tab on my Visa of over $7000 without even so much as a por favor or gracias to me. I called the credit card company, they took care of it all and I went back to conveniently using my card for everything from Chinese food delivery to international trouser purchases. France, however, is not exactly a credit card culture—yet. Our French MasterCards are nothing more than glorified ATM cards and people still write cheques for just about everything here. The point is, yesterday, my Minister of Finance was looking over our monthly statement and found 500 euros of charges that he couldn’t make sense of.

  Now our mantra here is “can we get by without it?” This is our year of living skinny (arse, please take note of this new policy) and I’m happy to say that apart from the odd book, I’ve been behaving myself. I mean if I had 500 euros lying around, that gorgeous grey trench coat just begging for a silver-haired owner would be hanging in my closet instead of the boutique window. We’d been volé. Bastards. A scam where slippery characters post phony telecom company charges to your account and hope you won’t notice. Good thing for us my monsieur doesn’t miss a trick. Of course this also makes it very hard to sneak in a new pair of shoes. Ah well, no matter, one call does it all, back to pou
ring the wine. Not so fast, Madame, you should know by now that France is hardly the land of instant gratification.

  We called the number on the back of the card that really should connect you to dial-a-prayer, as it would have been more helpful. Then we went off to the bank where the cards were cancelled without our permission and no offer of immediate replacements was made. The bank assured us the cancellation was for our protection, as the thieves could be spending more of our money over the weekend. Well they wouldn’t get far on our little stash but really, how the hell was this our problem? Oh the Minister was not pleased, especially when we were handed a mountain of forms to fill out. The bank washed their filthy hands of us and directed us to the local police station as the fraudulent charges had to be officially reported. And, bien sûr, the station was closed, more paperwork and more fun for another day.

  It’s an odd setup over here bank wise, and I’m still trying to get used to it. I still have my Canadian Visa card but the practical use of it here is very limited, which is a good thing, at least according to the Minister’s Office. But I can’t blame France. This goes on everywhere and anywhere but they sure don’t make it easy when it does happen here. Yet again a new test of resolve and willingness to accept what it is.

  Thieves hacking into your supposedly private bank account: 500 euros. Dealing with French financial bureaucracy: several handfuls of hair and buckets of sweat. Finding new European credit cards: 17 phone and Internet hours. Loving your new life in France warts and all: priceless.

  SEPTEMBER

  COPS AND ROBBERS

  Being an emergency room psychiatrist involves working closely with the police on a daily basis. So for me, no new life would be complete without a visit to the local cop shop. Here France’s finest wear pale blue polo shirts with GENDARMERIE printed across the back and cool navy cargo pants tucked into black army boots. They’re quite sporty and always look ready for the chase. While the cops in Canada are also ready, willing and able, they sometimes appear a little starchy in their crisply pressed dress shirts and stiff hats.

  Anyway, since we were the victims of the most heinous crime of bank card hacking, we went to make an official complaint or porter pleinte, as it’s known in these parts. The police station here is as unremarkable a building as you can find in France, a modern piece of nothing special. As I walked inside and surveyed the rundown interior, complete with grubby vertical blinds and tired rubber plants, I could’ve easily been in any station in North America. But then I looked at the wall behind the front desk and saw large marble plaques commemorating the loss of local gendarmes. Lost, not in the line of duty, but Killed by the Enemy, 1944 and Deported to Buchenwald, 1942 and then I remembered where I was. Suddenly, this bland precinct seemed historic enough.

  We were met by an officer best described as thick: thick hair, thick arms, thick hands, all business. He took our names and birth dates and told us we’d have to wait ten minutes while he went in the back. Suddenly, his voice called from beyond asking us if we had a femme de menage to which my husband, too quickly, responded no. I gave him the stink eye reminding him that we do indeed have a cleaning lady—me, which prompted Neil to ask me if I’d stolen our money. I can only assume there’s some cleaning lady ring of thieves in Semur. I’ll keep it in mind as I reflect on my next career move.

  He then invited us into his office for the next stage of the process. We sat, he typed and the rendez-vous meandered into a friendly hour-long chat about how we came to be here, police life in Semur and how much I liked their uniforms. “Bah, non!” he exclaimed and jumped up to show me all kinds of pictures of the more formal police wear that, and I just had to trust him on this one, was much better. Oh, I love a cop with style. He showed us old posters of Semur from the 1930s, told us about a film we could see showing the town many years ago and explained how and where they work in the area. He told us how he’d taken English and German lessons but didn’t get the chance to use his skills much. So, obviously more than just thick, this one.

  And then we got to talking about crime. I told him about my recent harassment and, to my surprise, he was quite interested. He asked me to describe the boys, but apparently, “Big and rude with absolutely no empathy for the difficulties of being a middle-aged woman in our society,” isn’t that useful. Then he turned his computer screen around to show me a mugshot of a menacing youth who may or may not have been one of the offenders. I told him I couldn’t be sure and then he said, “He’s here in the back, want to take a look at him?” Jaysus god alive, no I don’t want to take a look at him. Arrested for wielding a knife and I should stand in front of him, extend a bony finger and triumphantly exclaim, “YES, officer, YES! He’s the one who made fun of me in the street and made me feel old!” Like I want to walk around a very small town looking over my shoulder for this jackass for the rest of my days.

  Anyway, I’ve met a lot of great cops in my day and he was by far the most congenial of the lot, a true credit to the French police service: polite, charming and I bet he can kick some major arse when necessary. After we left, we wished we had gotten his name. Another Frenchy factoid: disclosing names isn’t often done here, even in official capacities. Officer Friendly wasn’t even wearing a nametag. We’re still trying to get used to the famous French discretion that requires names to be exchanged only if absolutely necessary. It seems small but it’s really hard for two polite Canadians to get a handle on. Not that it matters. He told me if I had any more problems in Semur he’d be happy to help. I know where to find him and if I need him again I’ll just call and ask for the good cop. It seems the bad cop works somewhere else.

  OPEN SEASON

  I just love September. It’s always been my favourite month. When I was a kid I had an inexplicable fondness for school supplies. Now, while three-ring binders and mechanical pencils still give me a certain thrill, it’s more about nature’s autumnal majesty. Here in Semur, the days remain hot and sunny but the cool misty mornings and crisp starry evenings make enduring summer heat waves worthwhile. The leaves are in full fall splendour and already I can smell the sweet scent of chestnut fires burning again. It’s magic. I know that this will all be too quickly replaced by a long, grey winter, so I’m frantically trying to spend as much time as possible soaking up the pleasures of the season.

  Today we woke to a glorious Sunday and decided that we should finally get over to see the château in Lantilly, a town just around the corner. For some reason we hadn’t managed to drag our pastry-laden arses over there yet, and once we did my suspicion that we are the worst tourists in the history of French tourism was confirmed. The weekend before last was the one weekend a year when all the French châteaux are fully open for viewing, free of charge. And what was I doing? I don’t even remember, but I’ll bet it involved eating. And today we discovered the château closest to us was now closed for the season. How can we be this lazy about seeing the wonders of France? While I fully expect such ridiculous behaviour from myself, I was especially disappointed in Neil, who is supposedly perfect in every way.

  But the day wasn’t a total loss. As we drove home, we passed through a pretty village called Grignon, not far from Semur, where I saw the perfect place for a fall fix. So I grabbed my phone, hopped out of the car and raced down the lane.

  It’s no French castle, but it is beautiful. Then I turned my back to the lane to have a better look around and capture this vista for my photo collection …

  While I was squatting in the driveway, I saw the blue bonnet of our car out of the corner of my eye and I quickly turned to get in. Instead, I turned smack into an elegant gentleman dressed in his Sunday finest and holding a Bible who coincidentally, also has a blue car. I didn’t quite catch all that he said to me but “my house” was in there for sure. Holy trespassing, how do I get myself into these situations? Add in a few frayed nerves and my French goes from bad to worse so I knew I wasn’t getting out of this one on my own. And where was my beloved? Watching the whole thing unfold from our car at the end
of the lane. I fired him a look that said two things: thanks for the warning, dingbat, and get out of the bloody car and come help me. As it turned out, the man wasn’t angry at all, merely curious if I was taking pictures for a blog or a book. I guess he’s used to the world stopping to admire his home. He was incredibly obliging and said that while he didn’t have time right then, we should call on him another day when he would be pleased to give us a tour of the village and its church, which he assured us was magnifique.

  It always amazes me how eager people are to show off the treasures of this land but then again, look what they have to offer. This time I was just plain lucky. One of these days I’m going to wander too far in the name of pretty pictures and end up face to face with a farmer’s rifle. Next time, I’ll wait in the car and send Neil in for the shot.

  SO NEAR

  AND YET SO FAR

  One of the best things about Semur is that it’s a mere hour from Paris. And one of the worst things about Semur is that it’s a mere hour from Paris. This is when ma vie en rose stinks a little. Last week Jerry Seinfeld performed a stand-up routine at a small cabaret club in that city 60 minutes from my door. Sixty minutes by high-speed train that is, it’s a six-hour round trip by car. Apparently he did his usual schtick and afterwards held a Q & A session with the audience, an audience of which I was not a member. Merde. I love all his good, clean fun that makes me laugh until my face hurts. I’ve never once seen him perform and this time it was not to be either.