So, I’ve decided to do it. I’m not an expat here yet but I’m hoping it’s only a matter of time 🙂 Would love it if you all hopped on over to take a look at the latest blog post – https://expateyeonfrance.blogspot.com/2024/04/french-plumbing-quelle-horreur.html – the blog layout, etc. is still very much a work in progress, much like French plumbing so please bear with me 🙂
And thank you all so much for being with me on the Expat Eye on Germany ride – here’s to many more adventures and laughs together!
With the forecast for last Friday being sunshine and 28 degrees, I decided to do what any professional, career-driven woman would do – take the afternoon off and go to the park. This seemed like something the French would approve of.
Given my (albeit limited) understanding of French people so far, working does not seem to be something that’s high on their list of priorities. However, from what I can tell, walking around – generally looking fabulous – and sitting around, eating and drinking, are things that they are very much on board with.
French people sitting around eating and drinkingFrench people sitting around eating and drinking
You get the idea.
Anyway, according to Google Maps, Parc Bordelais was an easy 20-minute walk from my flat – in a pretty much straight line so even I couldn’t get lost. There’s also a petit train touristique that does a lap of the park, which I definitely wanted to do; if petit train drivers in France work on Friday afternoons… unlikely.
After spending the morning arsing around working hard, I set off and, miraculously, actually ended up in the park 20 minutes later. I had done it – me, in nature, on a beautiful Friday afternoon in Bordeaux. This sure beat the crap out of working.
The park is absolutely stunning, a 28-hectare green space in the heart of the city, with around 3,000 trees, many of which are more than 100 years old.
Look at the little babies!
However, as I suspected, the petit train was not running – it only operates on Wednesdays, Saturdays and Sundays, which seemed a bit random but the French work in mysterious ways.
Why Wednesdays?
Anyway, after strolling around for a very pleasant hour or so, I eventually adjourned to the sunny terrace of the park cafe.
Bonjour, I would like a glass of (butchers name of wine), please.
Your French is excellent.
Hmm.
Non, non, madame! It is enough – in France, you only need to be able to order wine. And maybe bread.
And perhaps a pain au chocolat.
The barman raised an eyebrow.
No, wait! It’s not called a pain au chocolat in Bordeaux, it’s a chocolatine! See? I’m learning!
The barman beamed at me.
Slightly aglow after wresting victory from the jaws of defeat, I inserted my card into the machine.
Urgh, you’re German!
My card had betrayed me. Whenever I insert it, the language on the machine switches to German – which in this case, clearly, was not in my favour.
He took the card out of the machine like it was scorching his fingers, then handed it back to me as if fearful that being German might be contagious.
No, no, no, I’m Irish! I just live in Germany! Look! I also have an Irish card!
His expression transformed.
Irish!? I love the Irish – sláinte, what’s the craic, pĂłg mo thĂłin!
Bah ha ha! This is the best service I’ve had so far in Bordeaux!
OK, I may have thrown the Germans under the bus a bit but it’s not every day you get a Frenchman telling you to kiss his arse in Gaelic.
Last night was my second time doing a pub quiz with two lovely French men in the Charles Dickens pub in Bordeaux. They took pity on the stray Irish woman sitting at the bar last week and invited me to join them again this week after we didn’t completely embarrass ourselves the first time. (We came dead last but they’re stuck with me now.)
However, I did pick up some interesting information – not about Asian flags, I’ve forgotten those already – but about my increasingly beloved and endearingly odd France.
1. It is illegal to be naked in France if there’s a chance someone can see you
This brought on a bout of panic when I remembered that I’d blithely waltzed out of my bathroom buck naked earlier in the day. Had I inadvertently broken French law? What even is the French law? Today I found out:
“Article 222-32 of the new penal code (applicable since 1 March 1994) stipulates: “Deliberate sexual display in the sight of others in a place accessible to the public gaze is punishable by one year in prison and a fine of one hundred thousand francs .”
Zut alors! Is being naked in your apartment considered a “deliberate sexual display” if the neighbours’ gaze can see it? How much can they actually see through the net curtains? The towels here are barely big enough to cover one boob – would they think that perhaps I was being coquettish? Peek-a-boob?
I decided not to take my chances and spent my lunch hour today buying a bathrobe. I also bought a yoga mat and a couple of dumbbells – just in case someone does catch a glimpse of my bits, hopefully they won’t deem them criminally offensive and shop me to the police.
Incidentally, it’s forbidden to wear a swimsuit in the botanical gardens. But I assume, based on the above, that that doesn’t mean they want you to show up in your birthday suit either.
They make jumping on the flowers look like way too much fun, in my opinion.
2. It is illegal to flush dead goldfish down the toilet
I suspect that this may be nothing to do with respect for the dead, but rather fear of dodgy French plumbing not being able to cope with anything other than… shall we say… the bare essentials?
???
Still, with no plans to buy a goldfish, have it long enough for it to die, and then figure out how to dispose of it, this one doesn’t pose too much of a problem.
Of course, I have saved the best for last…
3. It is legal to marry a dead person in France
Apropos loved ones that have shuffled off their mortal coil, it is completely legal to marry a dead person in France – although consummation might be tricky.
Before you get too excited about moving to France and marrying Elvis though, you have to be able to prove that the dead person actually wanted to marry you and get approval from several civil servants and the family of the deceased.
Having thought about this literally all day – I mean, obviously – I’ve come round to the idea of marrying a dead man. Less mess, for starters. No droning on about boring man stuff or, worse, mansplaining it to you. Nobody stealing the covers or snoring like a train next to you.
Just a nice ring and a tidy little urn on a shelf that you can blow a kiss to on your way out the door in your little black dress. Black out of respect, naturally…
(Oh, and unlike in Germany, it is completely legal to make noise in France on a Sunday morning so if you do want to secretly flush a goldfish, that’s probably a good time to do it.)
“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sailaway from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” ~ Mark Twain
Expat Eye on Germany 