3 weird things I’ve learnt about France

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.

According to Wikipedia, “Posthumous marriage for civilians originated in the 1950s, when a dam broke and killed 400 people in Fréjus, France, including a man named André Capra, who was engaged to Irène Jodart. She pleaded with French President Charles de Gaulle to let her go ahead with her marriage plans even though her fiancé had died. She had support from the media and within months was allowed to marry her fiancé.”

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.)

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…

Sacré vert! It’s Green Day in Paris!

A random Tuesday night in the local bar:

Me: I think Green Day are coming this year. I’d love to see them live.

Manfredas: I’d be up for that. When are they coming?

Me: Not sure. Hold on, I’ll check… Aw crap, they’re coming on Thursday! There’s no way I can make that. 

Manfredas: (Sad face)

Me: Oh well. Guess I’ll just have to wait until the next time they’re in town. (Sigh)

The next morning, I woke up to a Facebook message:

Manfredas: Do you fancy going to see Green Day in Paris? 

Me: ??? Mais oui, bien sûr! 

Within the next couple of hours, flights were booked, concert tickets were reserved and an AirBnB apartment in the centre of Paris was found. German efficiency. Stupidly early on the 3rd of February, we were off!

We got to Orly Airport and made our way outside to wait for the Orly Bus to the city. The first one was too full to get on, with passengers’ faces squished against the windows. We managed to squeeze onto the next one, where we stood like sardines the whole way into the city. There was no chance to validate our tickets so it would be a free journey back. Irish rule-shirking.

We navigated the Métro easily and were soon standing in front of our apartment building on a postcard-perfect, cobbled street in Saint-Michel.

PARIS!

We had been sent a list of quite detailed instructions by the owner of the apartment, Julien. Unfortunately, he had failed to include the correct code for the front door. Luckily, another resident was leaving just as we were punching in the wrong code for the fifth time so we finally managed to get in.

After that u have to cross the yard : dont climb the first stairs but the last. The flat is at the 4th floor (without elevator) and it’s the door in front of the stairs, the last possible.

The door is sometimes a bit hard to open.
The lock to open is the lower one. The tip to do it easily is to push the key until the end and to take it back a little. Then turn a quarter round unclockwise and it’s done ;).

I wisely let Manfredas grapple with that.

Please don’t throw anything anormal in the toilets, it’s getting blocked really easily. There is a bin under the bathroom sink.

Poor Manfredas would refuse to poo in the loo for the whole of our time there. He figured, using flawless German logic, that a lady poo would probably be OK but a manly poo might be too much for the delicate French plumbing. It was actually quite hilarious having a German in a French apartment; if he’d had his tool kit, I think he would have spent most of the weekend straightening the crooked shelves and replumbing the entire apartment.

French plumbing meets German disapproval

Thankfully he didn’t and it didn’t seem like Julien possessed anything remotely practical so we were able to leave the apartment and start exploring. The narrow, winding streets around the apartment were just so pretty and so French that I may have had a tiny orgasm. We certainly wouldn’t go hungry or thirsty as practically every second building was a bar, restaurant or café. The chances of going broke were far higher.

€21 for a lemon tart…

We managed to find a place that wouldn’t require taking out a loan and enjoyed our first croque monsieur and bottle of wine in Paris. We strolled around for a while, scoped out where the bus to the concert venue went from, and I exclaimed “Sacré bleu!” and “Oh là là” sporadically and for no apparent reason.

After a little rest (and some wine) in the apartment, we made our way to the bus stop. Upon overhearing our conversation on the bus, a lively debate sprang up among the locals about which stop we should get off at. Yeah, the French are soooo unfriendly…

We got off, got half-heartedly frisked on the way in, and made our way to our seats. Manfredas went and got us a couple of beers and then Green Day were on.

Billie Joe! It’s meeeee!

Having been a fan for quite a long time, my expectations were high. Green Day surpassed every one of them – they absolutely rocked the house. There was a lot of audience participation and one girl even got to keep the guitar that she played on stage. Manfredas had the added bonus of listening to me roaring along with the band for over two hours. Lucky devil.

We stumbled out of the stadium on a total high, jabbering on about how amazing it had been and how cool it was that we were actually in Paris and had seen Green Day. I wondered if I should hang around and wait for Billie Joe to come out so I could creepily stalk him but decided that a celebratory glass of wine was more important.

Coming across as a complete “Basket Case” probably wouldn’t have endeared me to him much anyway.

Adventures in Alsace (2)

I woke up the next morning to find Manfredas dancing around the room with a slice of raisin bread the size of my suitcase in his hand. It seemed it was market day. (And yes, you read that correctly – I slept through him showering, leaving, going for a coffee and exploring the market. This is thanks to a combination of German-early-risingitis and excellent earplugs.)

I hopped (sort of) out of bed, pulled on my slippers (that Manfredas had packed for me) and put on the kettle to make a cup of tea (with one of the tea bags he’d also packed). German men just keep on giving…

Manfredas: I texted the owner for the wifi code. 

Me: What did she say? 

Manfredas: (showing me his phone) Sur le meuble dehors dans le couloir ou se trouve les livres!!!

Me: She forgot an accent. “Où” is where; “ou” is or. And three exclamation marks is excessive. 

Yes, I’m even a grammar nazi in languages I barely speak. We located the code, which was so long and complicated that even a German would be impressed. I simply gave up. Instead, I made my way to our sun-dappled petit jardin with my tea and hunk of bread.

Imagine breakfasting here every morning…

We discussed our plan for the day which was basically no plan at all. Perfect. After surviving the bathroom, we made our way down the main street to the market. They’d closed the street to traffic because of it – it seems that being able to buy cheese, meat and wine is far more important than being able to get from A to B in these parts. Gotta love the French for that.

Cheeeese…

A little kid came running up to us with a basket of fresh bread which we nibbled on as we strolled around the gorgeous streets.

Mountain in the background, Latvian in the foreground

Really, with a name like that, how could you not get into wine?

As we walked, I thanked my lucky stars that it hadn’t been one of these that had shat on me the night before…

Special delivery…

After a couple of hours of meandering, and with the sky starting to look a bit threatening, we stopped off for a bite to eat and the first (but certainly not the last) glass of wine of the day. 

Eek!

The heavens opened just after we sat down and, around half an hour later, we got to see a man drenched as the awning collapsed under the weight of the water. It was time for another carafe of wine to celebrate that it hadn’t been us.

Once the sun came out again, we made our way to the tourist information office where I picked up enough leaflets to open my own office. We also learned about the Petit Train Touristique and, as luck would have it, it was leaving in around ten minutes. We strolled over to the pretty park at the edge of town, paid our fares and got on.

Me looking ecstatic

The tour would take us through the steep, winding streets of the town, out into the rolling hills and vineyards beyond, through the town of Hunawihr, and give us a panoramic view of the three castles that dominate the landscape. All in just 50 minutes. Who could ask for more?

Le petit train!

There was an audio guide in eight different languages so we popped on our headsets and off we bumped. It was so much fun taking up the entire street and just praying that we wouldn’t meet anything coming the other way. Pedestrians scattered and I gleefully gave them the royal wave as we passed. The scenery in this part of the world is just breath-taking.

Going round the bend

Not even the English twat doing the commentary and pronouncing “Riesling” as “Rise-ling” could dampen my spirits. Back in town, I discovered that the French take shit just as seriously as the Germans do.

Ha ha ha!

Having recovered myself somewhat, we decided that it was time for a little dégustation. We headed for one of the many options dotting the main street.

More wine!

We tried the Rise-ling, which was lovely, but the Pinot Blanc was the clear winner for both of us. Obviously, they do sort of expect you to buy something at these places so we picked up a bottle for a little nap-cap. It had been an exhausting day, after all…

By the time we were ready to hit the town again, the town had all but shut down. A couple of places we tried had already closed their kitchens – at 9pm. We persevered and finally found somewhere. The evening was a bit chilly so I had a hearty, traditional beef stew. (It did not photograph well.)

Cute Alsatian wine glasses. Of very little practical use.

After realising we were the only two people left, we paid up and let the wait staff go home to bed. Even though Ribeauvillé is far enough removed from Berlin so as to appear to be on another planet, old habits die hard. Going home at 10.30 on a Saturday night? NEIN!

Thankfully, we found the rather German-sounding Bar Streng up a side street. After a couple of minutes, I got chatting to Caroline – part-time waitress, part-time vineyard worker.

Moi: Oh my god! That would be my dream job! 

Caro: Well, I start at 6am on Monday – you’re more than welcome to come along. 

Moi: Maybe another time…

I’m probably far better at drinking wine than I would be at making it – but I guess we’ll never know for sure.

Stay tuned for Part 3 – coming soon!