petite anglaise

Well it’s “nice week” chez scaryduck and it has inspired me to (attempt to) sing the praises of things I love about Paris today. Looking back over the archives, many of my posts have been rants so far - so it is only fair. After all, I ‘m the one who chose to live here. Before laying eyes on the Frog. I must have had reasons?

*racks brains*

Here goes…

1. I confess I get a thrill out of the dddrrrriiiinnng noise that my navigo metro pass makes when I go through the ticketless turnstile without removing it from my bag. Occasionally the little green arrows light up without the noise sounding and I am left feeling very cheated indeed.

2. The sublime view from my balcony, across the rooftops of Paris. You should be able to see the glorified pylon that is the Eiffel Tower, but it is hidden behind an inconsiderate block of flats across the road. But I spy with my little eye Notre Dame cathedral and the Tour Montparnasse, and those funny coloured tubes on the inside out Pompidou centre.

3. Crèpes sold by street vendors in paper cones - with Nutella dripping out of the bottom, pains au chocolat from the bakers when they are warm and the chocolate is runny. Miam, as a French person would say.

4. The Marais: a backdrop of stately, ancient hôtels particuliers where you can imagine Dangerous Liaisons being played out by aristocrats in powdered wigs. And all that inaccessible modern day male eye candy.

5. Frequenting the kind of cinema that doesn’t sell popcorn and where people have been known to clap and cheer at the end of a particularly good film.

Five things. Not a bad start, but I don’t think I could keep it up all week…

I just noticed a sign on the door of my local Monoprix (urban supermarket chain - French version of Woolworths or Walmart) reminding the public that they are not permitted to enter the shop on roller skates.

Personally I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing*, but you’d be surprised how many Parisians do don rollerblades and all kinds of protective padding and take to the streets. I imagine they think they look cool. *Grudgingly* I suppose some of the more experienced rollerbladers do - as they glide nonchalantly in and out of traffic, hitching a ride on the back of a bus when they fancy a rest. A guy even grabbed the back of the Frog’s Vespa once. The Frog thought at first that it was my weight slowing him down.

Statistically though, you are more likely to see novices wobbling along the pavement who haven’t yet mastered the art of stopping by doing that nifty little semicircular manoeuvre, and desperately trying to come to a halt at a busy road where there is nothing to grab on to but a pedestrian like myself. I have reluctantly saved several lives this way.

While I am touching on the subject of Parisian pavements and their hazards, let me indulge my poo fixation pause for a moment to reflect on how delightful it must be to clean a crotte off those fancy blades with lots of little wheels on.

The most astonishing spectacle is the rollerblading meet which takes place on Friday evenings, assembling up to 15,000 people for a 30km skate through the streets of the capital. I have on several occasions been unable to cross the road for 15 minutes as they cruised past at a leisurely pace. It’s amusing to watch for about a minute, but I strongly advocate a sneaky beer to pass the time if you are nowhere near a metro station.

My (ahem) “research” for this post also yielded the following: if you are located in Nice you too can join Nice Roller Attitude. Another fine example of the French using the English language in a (vain) attempt to sound cool.

*although I did own some rollerboots when I was ten. I thought they were very fetching indeed: in yellow, blue and red suede with yellow wheels and a stopper thingy at the front. Which I needed, because I must confess I couldn’t execute that fancy stopping manoeuvre either.

I do not recommend spending a week in Brittany in the rain.

Under the circumstances I even found it difficult to get excited about the standing stones and dolmens (my “old stones” as the Frog calls them), which is not like me at all. The beach was out of the question. There are no indoor activities to speak of in Morbihan other than a butterfly farm and an aquarium. Once those thrilling possibilities had been explored (approx. 2 hours later), that left us with lots of driving around looking at things through misted up windows, occasionally risking a brief walk swaddled in thick cardigans and with waterproofs at the ready. Let me add that the Toddler detests being in the car and particularly being strapped into her car seat. A delightful holiday cocktail.

The sadistic weather hags on France3 and TF1 did nothing to help our predicament. Every evening we tuned in and felt a cautious stirring of optimism seeing the sunshine icon above our location on the weather map. I think they stuck it on in the wrong place. Or Brittany is not quite where I thought it was.

On a more positive note, many crèpes were devoured and I got very messy indeed trying to eat some grilled langoustines steeped in a fluorescent saffron sauce (to the horror of French onlookers). I had the hands of a 40-a-day gaulloise smoker for several days afterwards, but it was worth it.

I also marvelled at the dress sense of the French on holiday. I have never before seen quite so many non-seafaring people in nautical attire. It seems to be the bourgeois holiday uniform. Moccassins, yellow waxed jackets and navy and white horizontal striped t-shirts with ships steering wheel motifs. (Is there a special name for these? If there is, it escapes me). Accessorised with gold jewelry and perfect hair and make up of course. And a tan. Where did these people find sun? A ‘Point Soleil’ tanning parlour in Paris perhaps?

Anyway am now back in Paris and suffering from that horrible Sunday night feeling I remember from school. Back in the office tomorrow. At least this means that normal blogging service will be resumed, I think I’ve been suffering somewhat from not having an outlet…

I would have loved to regale today you with tales of life in the provinces, French chavs I have known and loved, and of course the latest antics of my evil in-laws.

Sadly I spent most of the day wrestling with an inconsiderate worm instead and now my energy is ebbing away.

This is why I favour blogging from ‘work’, where functioning computers abound and there is an (irritating but efficient) IT chap at my disposal. And the added benefit of not having a toddler trying to type things while I’m struggling put a stop to the annoying little clock ticking away twenty seconds to system meltdown.

So, off to Brittany tomorrow. Back in gay Paree next Saturday. I predict rain - it has followed me around both sides of the Channel for the past fortnight, so a safe bet - and teething will be my major preoccupations, along with eating as many crèpes with nutella as is humanly possible.

In the meantime, pay Vitriolica a visit …

No sooner back from Paris and I have to hop on a TGV this afternoon with Frog and Tadpole to travel to Besançon, home of the evil in-laws. The prospect of forecast rain and thunderstorms, coupled with no computer/internet access/cable tv is less than enchanting. Remind me never to commit to spending any part of my precious summer holidays doing this ever again.

If you can bear with me until Friday, I’m sure they will give me plenty to rant and rave write about…

I am still seething.

Left the family home at approx 11.30 am with toddler, pushchair and several items of baggage to fly to Charles de Gaulle airport (where this happened).

6pm. Baggage taking an eternity to arrive on the conveyer belt. Toddler on the other end of a strap attached to wrist in vain attempt to prevent her from leaving the premises. Toddler finds it amusing to run around in anti-clockwise circles, mummifying me with the strap, so have to spin around in an anti-clockwise direction to free myself. Am feeling rather dizzy. And tired. And hot. Feel I am showing remarkable patience and good humour, all things considered.

Toddler’s hand strays for a nanosecond onto the conveyor belt before I yank sharply on the strap.

French woman behind me, to her husband: “These people, no control over their children, fancy letting the child play on the conveyor belt. I can see how these terrible accidents you read about happen now. What can she be thinking of….”

These were the same people who had watched me struggle to carry toddler and two bags off the plane, without offering assistance, then watched me bend to pick up the folded pushchair and add it to my load and haul it all onto the bus, still without offering assistance. People who, as a matter of fact, had pushed past me to get onto the bus first, thereby taking up the last available seats.

Of course they didn’t expect yours truly to understand/speak French.

Alternative endings:

1. *petite anglaise smiles sweetly* “I know, I’m a menace to society. Don’t worry, I have an appointment booked to have my tubes tied next week so there’s no danger that I’ll be bringing any more children into the world.”

2. *talking to toddler, loudly* “These people. Badmouthing a complete stranger when she is 30 cm away. No manners whatsoever. And very bad dress sense.”

3. *snaps* “I’ve got everything under control, no thanks to you, you supercilious bitch.”

Of course, this being a blog, you can’t be sure that I used any of the above. I may have just seethed to myself while going rather red in the face. But you’ll never know, will you?

I’m not sure what possessed me (maybe it was seeing ‘Cutting It’ on BBC Prime), but I decided to brave an English hairdressing salon for a change. Whenever I have found a decent hairdresser in Paris in the past, he/she emigrated shortly afterwards, so I found myself constantly testing new hairdressers with often distressing results. This despite having revised my French hairdressing vocabulary - although I suspect that my dictionary is guilty of misinformation. It led me to believe that ‘dégradé’ meant ‘layered’. In my opinion a better translation would be ’something suitably degrading’. The haircut inflicted on me prior to the birth of my daughter was so vile (think raccoon with mange) that I have edited myself out of her photo album/the first six months of her life.

The salon that my sister recommended in York seemed professional enough, but the prices quoted over the phone were worryingly inexpensive. I looked up their website, which featured lots of pictures of asymmetric fringes and spoke of branches in Thirsk, Scunthorpe, Ilkley, Brussels and Shanghai. Oddly this was not a source of comfort.

Thankfully the ordeal is now over and I don’t have any regrets. Yet. But I must say that a lot of things have changed since my last visit to a hairdressers in the UK.

First of all, I got one of those lovely head massages I have grown to expect in France and it made me groan out loud (hastily followed by a fake fit of coughing to cover up my embarrassment). Secondly, I accepted the offer of coffee, expecting a little espresso to revive me from my head massage torpor. When it arrived, it was a frothy latte in a tall glass with cinnamon sprinkles on top. If only the hairdresser had stopped snipping for just a second so I could drink it before it got cold. It was like having a haircut in Starbucks.

On a less positive note, the salon apparently opens seven days a week. Is this a good thing? A hairdresser complete with raging hangover on a Sunday morning is surely not the most cheerful/skillful of creatures? I don’t think I’d push my luck that far.

Browsing on amazon.fr for a present for the Frog (shhh!), I was struck by the rather random titling policy which applies when English language films are released in France.

For some films, inexplicably, translation of the title is not considered necessary: e.g. Seven, Pretty Woman, Kill Bill. Of course the pronunciation leaves something to be desired. ‘Speeeederman 2′ is showing at the moment.

Others are translated, but end up sounding unspeakably naff in French. Case in point: “Eh mec, elle est où ma caisse?” for “Dude, where’s my car?”

The French don’t seem to tolerate films named after their protagonist, so they add a by-line to give a flavour of who the character is, or what they are up to. Erin Brokovich was ’seule contre tous‘ (alone against the world); ‘Alfie’ became ‘Alfie: le dragueur‘ (the chat-up artist). Place names receive a similar treatment, as in ‘Coup de foudre � Notting Hill‘ (Love at first sight in Notting Hill). You must admit that the French title does capture the inherent cheesiness of the film rather nicely, n’est ce pas?

Then of course there are names which are changed beyond all recognition, for no apparent reason: Die Hard = ‘The Crystal Trap’. Die Hard 2 = ‘58 minutes to live’. I couldn’t understand why the Frog had never heard of ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’ and accused him of being a philistine, until one day I realised that this film is known as ‘Diamants sur canapé’. So there are mitigating circumstances (although I suspect he may still be none the wiser).

My favourite French translation of a flilm title was a by-line spotted on the poster for ‘Finding Nemo’, which included a clin d’oeil to Jaws – ‘Les Dents de la Mer’ (Teeth of the Sea).

‘Némo: Les Dents de Lait de la Mer’, the milk teeth of the sea. Aww.

Mr Frog, if you are reading, can you check out this link and see if you object to my applying for the position mentioned therein? I quite fancy myself as Lady of the Château, provided it comes with a cellar full of claret and a butler. And someone to do the ironing. And washing up. And …

Apologies. Getting a bit carried away.

Today’s Le Parisien is rather enjoying the story about Brits being asked to adopt a gloomy expression for their passport photos, so that terrorists can be spotted more easily by face recognition software when the new e-passports are phased in from 2005.

Who on earth smiled on their passport photo in the first place? Hardly a natural thing to do in one of those nasty automated booths designed to spring into action as soon as you decide to blink, grimace, pick your nose or flick back your fringe.

Today’s quiz - as there is still a prize up for grabs:

One of the passport mug shots below belongs to a world famous actor and bridge player who head-butted a French police officer in a casino last year.

The other belongs to a terrorist. Face recognition software is thrown by smiling faces. Are you?

Will be airborne in a couple of hours with screaming, wriggling toddler strapped to me and fellow passengers wishing that BMI baby provided complimentary earplugs.

However, it will all be worth it when I get to my destination and unwrap my fish, chips, mushy peas and scraps. ‘Scraps’ would appear to be a Northern delicacy only, as when I lived south of Watford, no-one I met was willing to believe that eating fish shop cupboard scrapings was legal. Southerners have some far stranger practices of their own: curry sauce on the chips, and mushy peas which are the wrong colour (not nearly fluorescent enough). I used to bring the odd can of Bachelors ‘chip shop style’ mushy peas over in my hand luggage, but I have to say that crispy, skinny little French fries just don’t do them justice.

Aahh. I can almost smell them already.

Or maybe the Tadple needs a nappy change?

NB - this bizarre spellchecker integrated into blogger just tried to replace ‘earplugs’ with ‘warbles’? What is a ‘warble’ when it’s at home?

I feel I must share this small ad found in the fusac (France USA contacts) magazine:

Wanted section, page 40:

Frenchman with depression living with his cousin seeks English tongue people for English afternoon session 15€, no previous experience needed, non homophobic people welcome. diction@wanadoo.fr

Must start a moblog…

…if only to show you the size of the mosquito bite on my heel - sustained while minding my own business on the metro on the way to work this morning.

*scratch*

And now the one on my hand from yesterday’s journey is itching again too.

*scratch scratch*

The line 7bis metro runs in a little loop around the Buttes Chaumont park. Once upon a time, fact fans, this area used to be a quarry, so the metro tunnels here are deeper underground than elsewhere in Paris. It’s cool and moist and local mosquitoes love it (and me), so I am plagued all year round.

Evidently they have mutated into an especially evil breed equipped with razor-sharp proboscises. I can see no other explanation for how Madame Moustique (know your enemy: the female sucks blood, the male eats plants) managed to bore through the skin on my heel. Let’s just say a pedicure wouldn’t go amiss, so she must have been motivated.

So, if you are planning a trip to Paris, don’t forget to pack one of these. I’m told there are alternative uses, so you are unlikely to regret this purchase.

My local park temporarily belongs to the axis of evil in the summertime. Parisians tend to live in miniscule shoeboxes with plastic red geraniums on the windowsill instead of gardens, so the park is a back yard I share with a few thousand neighbours, plus some tourists thrown in for good measure. Finding a patch of grass to sit on is almost as challenging as spreading your towel on a Côte d’Azur beach.

So, picture the scene: after half an hour of pushing a grizzly toddler around while searching for a some unoccupied territory, I finally find a shady spot, take a (medicinal) swig from my hipflask, unstrap toddler, unpack toys…

…and as if by magic, the shopkeeper park warden appears, whistle blowing angrily. He stands over me, hands on hips, brimming with self-importance, giving me plenty of time to admire his carefully ironed uniform, should I wish to.

“Can’t you read, Madame? This grass is out of bounds! It’s au repos.”

I couldn’t help but wonder: when he was a little boy, did he daydream about becoming a defender of the nation’s lawns? Did he fantasise about owning that uniform?

I’m familiar with the concept of a sports car, a throbbing motorcycle or an electric guitar as an extension of manhood. But a whistle?

The French language has the ability to make even hideous things sound divine, or at any rate a little more palatable than they do in English.

Take “déjections canines”. Anyone who has visited Paris will be aware of the perils of allowing one’s eyes to stray above pavement-level to take in the sights. The oft-quoted statistic is that 200,000 Paris-dwelling dogs (1 for every 10 Parisians), despite their deceptively ornamental outward appearance, produce 16 tonnes of excrement every day. As most Parisians refuse to scoop, and the number of dog-squad officers imposing spot fines is woefully inadequate, street cleaners armed with high-tech vacuuming devices do the city’s dirty work.

All people not being equal (contrary to the republican motto), neighbourhoods are vacuumed more or less frequently according to the affluence of the local population. The pavements of the 7th arrondissement, home to government departments and MP’s townhouses, are enviably pristine. Motocrottes are often to be seen gliding along the Champs Elysées. But I’ve yet to see one in my modest neck of the woods.

A recent TV ad for the Le Parisien newspaper neatly summed up the attitude of Parisians to this issue (and to fellow Parisians):

A smartly dressed businessman is seen carefully wiping a velvety crotte from the heel of his expensive shoe onto a ‘welcome’ doormat. The camera pulls back as he turns to open the front door of his appartment…revealing the soiled doormat belongs to his next door neighbour.

Le Parisien. Il vaut mieux l’avoir en journal.

“Red top” newspapers don’t exist in France, but if they did, they wouldn’t concern themselves with the extra-conjugal/sex messaging antics of the Svens and Beckhams of this world. The French thankfully know where to draw the line between things professional and personal, and do not consider a person’s abilities diminished/reputation irreparably damaged when guilty of succumbing to the charms of some pneumatic female. Quite the opposite: this kind of behaviour actually inspires respect. And someone who manages not to get caught trousers around ankles = a hero, because the real reason that French sensibilities are not offended by this sort of thing is that playing away from home is something of a national sport.

The mother in law of a friend of mine had the following words of wisdom to impart (in the context of a pre-marital pep talk): “…and the mistresses, well, they’re a fact of life. Nothing one can do about it but turn a blind eye”.

The Frog ‘works late’ every night. Allegedly.

As a Brit abroad, I see BBC Prime as something of a misnomer lifeline. I keep in touch with my “British side” by watching Eastenders religiously four times a week (although I never did so when living in the UK), and happily it is broadcast only three days later than at home. But that is the only good thing I can bring myself to say on this subject.

Extract from the official website:

BBC Prime brings great British entertainment into your home 24 hours a day.

International viewers can watch a diverse mix of the very best from the BBC - from award-winning comedy and drama to ground-breaking documentaries and BBC Learning, plus music, lifestyle and children’s programmes, not forgetting the wealth of celebrity interviews.

Today’s schedule features a wealth of great British entertainment: Bargain Hunt, Changing Rooms, Big Strong Girls and S Club Seven in Hollywood. All shown twice , once in the morning and again in the afternoon. Mildly irritating when you have taken a sick day and planned to spend it horizontal in front of the TV.

Programmes other than Eastenders appear to be caught in a time warp. The Office finally made it to France in May 2004. The big celeb interview on Parkinson tonight is with Emma Thompson, talking about her role in Love Actually. A little past its sell by date I fear.

And then there are the re-runs of re-runs of re-runs, apparently a frequent source of expat discontent, to which the website has the following (defensive) response:

We present a balance of contemporary and classic programmes, something our audience appreciates and as a commercially-funded channel we must respond to. Some of our highest rating programmes have been the classic series such as ‘Some Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em’ and these “old” programmes remain very popular.

This explains why Last of the Summer Wine is being aired every evening. Twice.

One programme on today’s schedule does sound rather intriguing, so much so that I may even tune in at 6.45 am tomorrow:

Salut Serge - Children`s language series featuring Serge le Singe, an animated cheeky monkey who can only speak French and his sidekick Pascale, a know-it-all prim-and-proper parrot who can only speak English. For 5 to 10 year-olds.

Watch this space.

There was me lamenting that Paris is no place to be in August, but I’d rather be in the metropolis than trapped in an overheating, non air-conditioned car on a French motorway…

Weekends in July and August are colour coded (orange, red, black) by the bison futé (literally the “crafty buffalo”, and no, I have no idea why a government traffic observatory would choose a name like that) so that you can plan ahead and know how many hours you can expect to spend gridlocked in traffic jams on the nation’s motorways. Yesterday was rated orange, but there were still 300 km of bouchons.

Holiday rentals in France tend to run from Saturday to Saturday, and in peak season many hotels operate the same system. So whether you like it or not, there is no escape from this motorway purgatory. Imagine if you will the queue for the toilets in ‘service’ stations (think petrol station with a small shop) up and down the country.

Over two thirds of French people choose to holiday in France, many staying with family or friends, or in their residence secondaire. Not particularly adventurous I grant you, but I can see the logic: if all you want out of your holiday is farniente and skin fried until � point, there is little point paying more to go further afield. The thing I have never been able to understand is why people who live in blocks of flats choose to go and stay in resorts in the South of France in an identical block of flats with (or without) a sea view.

I’ll keep you in suspense about my plans for this summer, but it’s safe to assume it won’t involve Palavas Les Flots.