Je suis Bordelaise!

Temporarily anyway*. The company I work at in Berlin (for now) offers the nice perk of being able to work from another country for one month out of every six – and so I chose France, Bordeaux to be specific. I’m on holiday here for one week and then working from here for all of April. If you’re asking, “Why France?”, the answer is: it’s France.

Having planned everything meticulously, the night before I was due to fly, I got a message saying that my flight to Amsterdam had been cancelled and I would now be flying through Zurich, two hours earlier than the original flight. Sigh.

Still, despite being up at 5 a.m., I sailed through Berlin airport and onto the plane, only for the pilot to announce that we had missed our slot (due to idiots not being able to put a bag in the overhead locker or under their seat and sit down like normal people) and so the flight took off over 30 minutes later than planned. Being wedged in the middle seat of the very last row, things were going to be tight in Zurich. But, after a mad dash from one end of the airport to the other, I made it and, just over an hour later, was setting foot on French soil. Miraculously, my suitcase had also arrived.

Having already decided to be lazy after all that hard work, I hopped (flopped, in reality) into the first taxi in the line.

“Where are you from?”

“Ireland, but I live in Berlin.”

“Oh, the Irish are good, nice people. The English too – but drunk. And the Russians. The Chinese are bad. And the French. Very rude. The Japanese are good.”

“And the Germans?”

“I don’t have.”

“Huh.”

“How was your trip?”

“A bit stressful, I had to run through Zurich airport.”

“Bah ha ha ha!!”

“What? What’s funny?”

“You said you had to fuck someone in the ass in Zurich airport.”

“No, I didn’t. I said I had to run!”

“No, you said you had to fuck someone in the ass.”

“Oh, right. Well, I meant run.”

“Bah ha ha! Is no problem. You try. My Ing-leeeeesh is very terr-eee-bluh.”

He then proceeded to try to prove this by rooting around in the glove compartment for his English phrasebook and starting to read out random sentences. I was too tired to try to formulate “Can you please keep your eyes on the road?” in French, so I just clung to my seat and prayed to sweet baby Jesus the rest of the way to my apartment.

After celebrating my survival with a glass of wine in the pub on the corner – again, it’s France – I sent the host a message to let her know I was downstairs. She came down to meet me, handed over the keys, gave me a quick tour, and then I was free to explore by myself.

Frankly, I thought she was taking the piss charging €50 per missing item, but I had no intention of taking a taken or a plaid since I didn’t know what they were so I supposed it was no big deal. I also wasn’t sure how something could be taken from my security deposit in advance if she only realised after I’d left but I promised myself I would be careful to respect the places…

That evening, I headed out on the town for the first time, not knowing a soul and with no particular destination in mind. Finding myself in a bar – quelle surprise – I got chatting to a girl who was rather obsessed with her dog.

“Do you also sleep with your dog?”

“Bah ha ha ha!”

“What? What’s funny?”

“You asked me if I fuck my dog!”

Hmm, clearly I would have to hone my French skills a bit. It seems to be very easy to be talking about something completely innocent or boring but a French person thinks you’re talking about fucking. This could also explain why I seem to be like catnip to French men.

Me: I like sandwiches.

French man: (Oh la la, the lady says she likes to fuck…) Here’s my number.

I have a steadily growing collection at this point – numbers, not men.

The next day, my search for a beret began. I know, I know, but I wanted to be wearing one in my online marketing meeting next week for a cheap gag. (Maybe I shouldn’t mention “cheap gag” in French either – could get me into trouble…) I hit Claire’s, C&A, H&M, Zara, Mango… no joy. Could it be that French people don’t actually wear berets?

I posed the question to my next pub victim that evening. Where could I find a beret? She didn’t know but had one that she never wears and would happily give it to me; I just had to swing by the shop she works at the next day to pick it up.

I walked in the following day but my new bestie was nowhere to be seen. I browsed a bit, picked up a bottle of wine, and went to the checkout. A man in front of me was buying every vegetable in the place so I had time to formulate what I wanted to say in French.

“Hello, is Juliette here?”

“Yes, but she’s on a break. How do you know her?”

“Er, she wants to give me a beret.”

If he was surprised by this, he didn’t show it. Off he went to get her. Juliette emerged from the back room, empty-handed.

“Oh, you forgot! No problem!”

“No, I didn’t forget but I couldn’t find it, I’m really sorry.”

“That’s OK, I’ll find one somewhere, see you around!”

Having exhausted a lot of clothing stores, I headed for the mothership, Galeries Lafayette – if they didn’t have berets, then there were probably none to be had in all of France. Sure enough, there they were! I decided €55 was a bit much for a one-off joke but €25 was doable. Funny is funny, after all. And so, this happened…

Not sure if I can be deported for this type of cultural stereotyping but hopefully, I can just distract the French by talking about fucking.

Stay tuned for more hilarious stories and observations from (temporary) Expat Eye on France…

*Could become permanent…