Props

The Parisian metro is very..... unique.  You are forced into a very tight space with people of all walks of life, all going different places.  Where you generally try to avoid getting thisclose to the person next to you, during les heures de pointes (rush hour), it is generally inevitable that you will be soclose to someone that you will not only be able to smell them, but you will also be able to inspect their dandruff and see if they clean their ears on a regular basis.  I dry heave sometimes.

It is advisable to try and forget about all of the microbes (germs) roaming around the metro - the three-year-old sitting across from you who has visibly peed her pants, the SDF (sans domicile fixe - homeless) guy with his scary dog, the alcoholic lady who asked you about sugar at the grocery store last week and didn't believe you when you told her that the Daddy brand was not diet...

It's best to forget these things because otherwise you would never wear a pair of pants twice and you would probably get your coat dry cleaned every other day.  All you can really do is obsessively wash your hands (check!), try not to touch your face too much (check!) and carry obscene amounts of antibacterial gel in your handbag (check!).

In addition to these basics, I have tactics for avoiding the peeps who are clearly spreading around more than their fair share of the microbes: 

- I observe the quai (platform) as I wait for the metro to arrive.  If any sketchy peeps are around, I avoid avoid avoid and move down the quai.

- I do a once over of the metro cars before even getting inside - any scary dogs? anyone carrying an open beer can? new car! pronto!

- I try to place myself somewhere that allows me to get out quickly if I need to (I avoid window seats where I would be trapped if a weirdo sat next to me). 

- I try not to think about the nast that is so clearly surrounding me.

- The very first thing I do when I get to work or when I get home is wash my hands - I now have cracking knuckles and alligator skin, but d*amnit, I'm germ free.

Beyond the cleanliness of the metro, I have also noticed a microcosm of the French socialist system at work.  This is how it generally goes down:

We all load into the metro car.  As soon as the metro starts moving, someone in the metro begins their speech (sometimes these people look homeless and sometimes they really don't at all- it's very mysterious). This is how the speech goes (delivered with a monotone voice, every time):

Bonjour Messieurs dames, I am sorry to bother you this morning.  I am currently sans abri (without a home) with no income.  (enter personal sob story here...wife, kids, sleeping in the street, no food, no government aid etc etc).  If you have a petite pièce (coin) or a ticket resto (restaurant coupon) to give me, I would be very grateful.  Just so I can eat tonight and wash myself and have a warm bed to sleep in....Merci messieurs dames and bonne journée.  

And yes, people actually reach into their purses and wallets and give these people money! It baffles me every time.  I'm imagine that these people are French because they obviously understood the speech. It's like, instead of (or in addition to?) going to the Pole Emploi (unemployment office) or the CAF (family allocation office), they go to the metro.  

Now, if it wasn't delivered in the monotone style and if they all didn't sound exactly the same, then I would actually feel bad for these people (I'm not as heartless as I may sound). But as it is, they sound like they memorized a speech and that they work for some dude called the PMP - parisian metro pimp. When this happens, I employ my "avoid" face - stare off into space, check my watch or read something. 

I was just about to bust out my avoid face on Thursday when one of the PMP's men started his speech - only guess what he did? He explained that he wasn't there for money, but instead to divertir - entertain - us.  He opened a French classic, presented the chapter and began to read.  He read about amour and he read it with such passion that one by one, the Parisian metro-goers turned their heads. Some of them even smiled (against Parisian metro code!).  I did too.  And at that very moment I thought - props. Props to the guy for creatively begging and for providing the Parisians with a reason to smile on a run-of-the-mill Thursday on their way to work.  

Out went the thoughts of microbes, out went the annoyance of the metro as unemployment and family allocation office alternative.  For just a minute, on line 11, between République and Rambuteau, we all felt a little connected in anonymous Paris, we all felt the amour...

And if I hadn't had to get off the metro before the end of the chapter, I may have thrown him a petite pièce or two...

Pauvre Marthe (and poor me!)

When I hear about new TV shows in the US, I know that if I'm patient enough they will ultimately come to the land of wine and cheese. This was the case for Friends, American Idol (perhaps not so cool anymore?), Greys Anatomy, How I Met Your Mother, Who Wants to be a Millionaire etc etc. While the French dubbing makes me want to tear my eyes out (French Ross Gellar anyone??) with time I can generally get over it and enjoy the wonderfulness that is American TV  (and sometimes Copain figures out how to watch the shows in English!!! Merci Copain!!).

So when I heard that Dancing with the Stars (Danse avec les Stars) was headed to La France I was excited to watch some new American genius.

Only- dude. Dubble-you-tee-eff.  Les Stars Français CANNOT DANCE.  Was this the case for Jennie Garth? Brandy? Bristol? Kelly Osbourne (or was she just in the UK)?  And who decided it was a good idea to do a paso doble to the song "Pretty Woman"??!!!

Do the Americans cast the equivalent of the 82 year-old Frenchie Marthe Mercadier (who was oh-so-sweet but who could have broken a poor little French hip)? Don't get me wrong, I totally dug her Celine Dion searching searching face during her Titanic performance but well, oh dear, pauvre Marthe. The headlines today in the French press said that she had  "fait naufrage" (was shipwrecked!) after Saturday's performance.

Is the show this lame-o-rific in the states too? Are the Frenchies doing something wrong? Isn't it fairly easy to follow a program format?  oh. la. la. - and not in a good way.

Numéro Cent

Oh la la! Messieurs, Madames - this post marks my 100th blog on French Cannes Cannes. C'est fou non?!


In honor of blog post number 100 (and as a precursor to the 30 Days of Lists challenge I am going to attempt starting March 1st), why not start with 100 reasons why I love France? (soon to be followed by the 101st blog post of why France drives me nuts).


Ready? On y va! (in no particular order)


1. French reportage - Frenchified documentaries on American gangs, American Spring Break, American Universities and American Obesity - they suck you in faster than you can say fromage.

2. Walking - always - anywhere (in Paris that is).

3. Millefeuille pastries - I can eat two in one sitting. (seriously)

4. Marchés - open air markets with lots of yelling about cheap fruits and veggies.

5. So many things are "ancien" - which leads me to number six:

6. Inherent charm

7. Arrogance - The French all think they are Hot Ish ...and they're not embarrassed to make you aware of that fact.

8. UHT milk - I know we may have this in the states but I had no idea what the strange bottle of unrefrigerated white stuff  was when I was handed a bag of "welcome snacks" by my university program coordinator in Toulouse, 2004. Now it makes me so happy to buy a six pack of milk - one goes in the fridge, five in the cupboard. I NEVER run out of milk people!

9. Public transportation - Somehow the French, who have made prolonging red tape some kind of an art form, are all on top of the public transportation...while Americans are chillin... in their Fords.

10. Cobble stones (though I am considering asking my shoe repairman if he has some sort of fidelity card).

11. Almond flavoring - the French love it, and so do I....almond soap, almond tarts, almond slivers on croissants, almond powder (I sprinkle it in yogurt!), almond lotion. It's a mini-almond heaven.

12. Health care. Now, I almost wrote free health care, but that would be a bit fat mensonge seeing as how a big chunk of my salary goes to taxes and those taxes pay for health care. BUT, I do appreciate not having to worry about say - getting hit by a Velib while crossing the street, losing my arm and then not getting treated for it :-) Merci La France (and merci to me for paying taxes).

sad Velib

13. Oh la la - mais oui, I like France for this expression (and so does Olivier Giraud).

14. Merde - again, a favorite. Nothing wraps France up more than the word merde - dog merde on the ground, merde on your shoes, merde I missed the metro!, this show is de la merde. See - so useful!

15. Yogurts - you know how in America there is Yoplait or...Yoplait?  Well, in France the yogurt section takes up an ENTIRE AISLE at the grocery store. I could do an entire year's worth of blogs just about taste testing the different yogurts: soy yogurt, goat's milk yogurt, almond yogurt, plain yogurt, whole fat, low fat, non-fat yogurts, small, medium and large yogurts...and the list goes on and on...

16. Quality not quantity.  In some ways this is not always true (you'll always be able to find a kilo of cheap chocolate or 5 tank tops for 25 Euros) BUT most of the time France is about quality, not quantity. Boxes of chocolates are small but oh so tasty, clothes are expensive but are meant to last.  I'm still battling my inner-American who just wants a cheap thrill on this one(except for Target - don't worry, I still love you), but the French have got this one right.

17. Paris - how could I make a list of things I love about France and NOT list Paris?!

18. l'Art de vivre - we take time to walk, we take time to eat, we take time to talk, we take time to relax.

19. La Ville en Rose - Toulouse will always be my first French city.

20. Bastille - anytime I walk home, the moment I see Bastille, I feel better. It means I'm almost there, it's full of life and movement and just the sight of it makes me happy.

21. Copain - France wouldn't be France and my life would not be complete without my uber Frenchified, radin Copain. I'm not even sure I would be sitting on my Conforama couch in the middle of Paris typing this if it wasn't for him.

 22. Art de la table - I make fun of it, but oh my dog do I love the energy the French put into decorating their tables: fancy place settings, silver cutlery, water glass, white wine glass, red wine glass, cloth napkins, center piece! And no table is complete without some sparkly table confetti! Behold the Belle Mère's Christmas table:

23. Champagne - never in my life have I had more champagne than during my years in France. How did I not know about its greatness earlier???!!!

24. Which brings me to - Foie gras. Again, I'm in love. Add some sea salt (perhaps a little bit of fig chutney) and I'm in FCC paradis.

25. Mi-bas and sockettes. I know, I know, you're thinking what the heck is a mi-bas?! Just ask my mom and she'll tell you of the wonders.


26. Vacances : 5 weeks, paid, yearly. How is that not amazeballs?

27. A love for cahiers - the French are biiiiig fans of the cahier (notebook) - especially Copain.  The school supply section at BHV makes me want to be 7 again and have my "liste pour la rentrée". (Yes, the teachers actually give parents a list of all the cahiers, pens and different colored folders they need to buy their kids before the first day of school...to the tune of a lot of Euros per enfant).

28. I know it's cliché but...baguettes. Who doesn't love hot, crispy, yet perfectly soft and chewy bread with cheese???

29. An unwavering attachment to tradition (see baguettes, health care, vacation).

30. La buvette - the cheapest bar on the planet which can be found at the classy "Board Games Festival" (this is where French nerds walk around playing board and strategy games all day) and the "Foire aux Celibataires" (Singles Festival - where those over 60 and single speed date, line dance and plus si affinité). Hey, people get thirsty.

31. Franglais - le weekend, ok, le basket, un t-shirt, un jean - we win.

32. Obsession with all that is "bio" (organic)...though maybe this is not just France?? I've totally caught the bug...except for those wafer cookies I just bought and inhaled. merde.

33. Expats - France is so fun to make fun of ... and even more fun with expats!

100. Overachieving is not always admired - in fact, they may think you are trying too hard and that if you have to try that hard, you must have some issues to work through...which is why I am going to stop there and go to bed. Désolée mes amis ....but this FCC needs to dormir.

Bonne nuit la France - je t'aime, even if I can't make it to 100 ce soir.

Peaches and Coconuts

The making fun of and ridiculing continues for Charlotte at work today....and it made me think of this:

Before moving to France I read lots of books written by American/French teams who tried to "figure out" the French and then write a book about it.  I loved these books and would devour them thinking to myself, I won't be one of those Americans.

I had a new appreciation for these books after having lived in France for awhile. (I like to re-read books a lot strangely enough).  I noticed all the times the authors were right and all the times I thought they were completely exagerating. 

Of all of the things that I read in those books, here is what I remember the most:

The French are like coconuts: hard on the outside, soft and sweet on the inside.  It's hard to get to know them and they will probably give off what Americans would perceive to be a gruff exterior - unfriendly- when you first meet them.  But with time (and a lot of hitting your head against the wall), the French soften up and can ultimately become your friend for life. As Americans, we don't understand this and think that French people are just rude. We often don't take the time to get to know them having been so put off by our first encounters.

Americans are like peaches.  We are soft and sweet on the outside but you may run into the hard pit on the inside.  Basically, Americans are easy to get to know, we are friendly and open with new people.  We may even be considered too friendly which leads people to believe that we want to be their good friend.  However, we don't see it that way. To us, we were just "being nice."  This is confusing to French people because they may unexpectedly encounter the pit later. The messages are incoherent to them.  This is when we Americans regret having been so nice to start out with...

I have come to realize that Charlotte goes against her French grain...she acts like an American - like a peach.  And the Frenchies in my office don't know what to make of her! How do we handle this nice person who smiles all day?  They are utterly lost.  I, like a good American, follow along, smile back and reciprocate her niceness (which I admit is a little over-the-top - even for me).  But she doesn't deserve the verbal coconuts that they seem to be throwing at her all day...vraiment.

Good People

Do you ever happen upon genuinely good people that just make your heart smile?  I know this post is already sounding gushy and cheesy beyond words but sometimes it's good to have a there are good people out there reminder every once and awhile.

I have had two good people reminders in the past three months - both times correlating to my visits home to see family - and strangly enough, both have to do with airplanes and airports which are two of my most dreaded locations on earth (since I've lived in France).

When I went home in December, I cried my eyes out along with my mom and my dad as I inched through the security line.  It was time to say see you later (never goodbye before getting on a plane!) and what can I say...all three of us were falling apart.  I didn't even notice when the metal detector guy asked me to walk through the machine.  He had to ask me THREE times before I got it. I sobbed my shoeless self through the machine and then through to the end of the conveyor belt to wait for my things.  "Have a good day," the man said, looking me directly in the eye and shooting me a huge white smile. "Thanks," I half smiled back. "Don't be sad," he said, "you'll be back. This just means that you have people you love to come back to." 

He was right - and he made me feel a lot better just by being kind in a moment when I really needed it.  I admit that I at first thought he was a weirdo when he shot me the big smiley face, but he was right to insist because he got through to me and my pathetic tears.

I just recently went home again in March and on my way back to Cannes I was blown away by the KLM staff.  I know that sounds ridiculous but they could not have been nicer flight staff!  I contemplated writing a thank you letter to KLM - that's how great they were.  No bad attitudes, always trying to be accommodating, witty jokes for all passengers, smiles - you name it.  They were on top of their game. Normally I would say that they were just well trained (this training obviously did not happen in France!) but these people were different.  They seemed really genuinely nice.  I loved them.  I didn't even care that the TV in my aisle didn't work.

There are really good people out there...sometimes we just forget.

I Got Nothin

Ever just not connected with someone on so many levels it was astounding?  It doesn't happen to me often.  I can normally scrap up some witty rapport finding some connection with the random stranger even if it is a common love for chewing gum or a mutual annoyance for French administration.  There's always something you just have to find it.

Except when you are face to face with Anastasia*.

It all started so innocently. Anastasia was working as a cloak room hostess for my event at one of the Croisette hotels. She was polite - so polite that she tipped her head forward while placing her hand over her heart (Pledge of Allegiance style!) when guests thanked her for their coat ticket.  She was that gracious. She Madamed and Monsieured everyone and when I told her she could sit down and relax, she said that by principal she simply couldn't.

Once guests were seated and the bulk of our welcome wagon was done, Anastasia and I began the kind of chit chat one normally does with staff on an event.  Of course the big question Where are you from? came up right away.  I don't know why we went there, but we did.  Anastasia thought I was Canadian or English, but not American.  Once she learned that I was the stories of her adventures as an aupair for a Fremont family poured out of her.  We franglaised our way through the conversation as she emphasized parts in my native tongue.  Oh non les enfants, zat geeves me a ead-ache. a rheel ead-ache!

I asked how she got into hostessing and she told me all about her sales managing job where she covered French regions in their entirety- 500 people under her - 15000 kilometers a year on her little voiture.  Her dog Minty* came with her on her missions and is still her petit bébé. But as luck would have it, all of that being amazing affected her health and she had to stop.  So she started hostessing.  It was almost as if she was saying, I'm not really a hostess, I'm a manager in hostess' clothing...and then the cutting tag line - and you are nothing but an event organizer.  I got the message loud and clear and I bowed my head and put my hand over my heart in recognition of her choice to respect her health and a lower-grade CV.

Anastasia went on to tell me how she never smokes in front of clients; she reminded me of how she asked before using her cell phone; then she showed me her running shoes that she was going to use for a midnight run home after her shift.  She followed it up by explaining that the hostess agency trusted her to choose her own professional uniform for the night. The cherry on top was when she told me that she never drinks soda and only eats healthy food.  She couldn't wait to run home to Minty who, according to Anastasia, gives her energy.

I was at a loss. I hate dogs, I hate running, I hate smoking, I don't bow or ask to use my cell phone.

I tried again: how did you like the staff meal Anastasia - how about that dessert?!

Well, it was a little poisseux.

Poisseux?, I asked.


Oh, she chuckled, right, I must try to use words zat are a leetle more seemple in French.

Simple? Is that what she just said? simple?

I bowed my head so she wouldn't see me roll my eyes and wished a silent curse of doggy diarrhea on Minty.

*names have been changed to protect the non-sensical

Which Faux is Worse?

After every French driving Code lesson I call Copain.  And during every conversation this is how it goes:

"Hi, it's me.  I just finished the Code."

"How many?"

"36!"

"Faux??!!!"

"No! Bon!"

"Oh great! So you only missed 4! Almost there!"

It always strikes me as strange that he asks me how many, expecting that I will tell him  how many I got wrong.  But then, I had this conversation with F, Copain's colleague and friend who came over to our house after making it to the semi-finals at the Féstival International des Jeux in Cannes (it's a nerd-fest of card and strategy game-players, more on that later...):

"Salut F, ca va?"

"Oui, ca va - et toi, what did you do today?"

"Oh, I just got back from the stupid Code."

"How many?"

"35."

Then Copain piped in lest F misunderstand - she means 35 bon réponses - not faux.

And then, it hit me - why do the French always focus on the negative or the faux? Why do they expect me to tell them how many I got wrong instead of how many I got right (which is more exciting to hear anyways right?!).  Who spat in their camembert so many years ago to give them such a dire outlook on life? 

Funnily enough, I know that they accuse us Americans of being too bubble gum happy all the time à la Hello my name is KimberlyandI'mgoingtobeyourservertoday! They call us "faux" - or fake- not "incorrect" like the other French meaning of faux. But I think they've got it all faux. I'll take the faux American mega-watt smile over the French grimace, glare and exasperated soufle anyday.  We may be a faux that they find hard to swallow- but they focus on the faux all too often.

Rick Steves, I Beg to Differ

After studying abroad in 2004 I became a tried and true fan of Rick Steves.  Rick writes travel guides for Europe that make you feel like you're getting sound advice from an old neighbor with a twist of bathroom humour and no American higher-than-thou-ness that we often get stereotyped for. I made fun of my co-American studying abroad who was IN LOVE with Rick at the time, but once I got a taste of the wonderfulness that is the Rick Steves travel guide - I too, was smitten. 

Rick and I have been buds ever since - I have a collection of his guides for countries I haven't even visited yet and others that have been torn and cut and read to death for places I have visited.  They are all in a row on my mantle - blue and yellow Rick Steves books...

If you ever see a traveler with a Rick Steves guide - you can bet your Eurorail pass they're American. Take your guide to any restaurant listed in Rick's book and you are bound to run into another group of Ammurricannes who will undoubtedly strike up a conversation with you whether you wanted to gab whilst enjoying your amazing Italian pasta or not.

When I moved to Cannes, I decided to consult Rick - he had given me such solid advice in the past - what did he have to say about the Cote d'Azur?  Where were the places to go and see?  If my memory is correct, Rick dedicated about two pages to Cannes, maybe. He goes on to say that beyond the Croisette which is superficial and flashy (ok, yes, I hear ya Rick), there was nothing else to see except maybe the Suquet which is what they call the old town round these parts.  I think that he even advises people to skip it if they are on a short time frame.  Now after having lived in Cannes for two years, I would tend to agree with good ol' Rick - there is very little to see and/or do here so best to carry on to Antibes or Nice for some culture and character.  BUT I think that Rick left out one charming place that is very close to Cannes (I would even consider it Cannes because I can walk there!) - Le Cannet.  I know the French would say it's a completely different village but being an American from California which means that new cities actually have to be within driving distance, Le Cannet does not count as a "ville à part" for me.

On Sunday, Copain convinced me to get off of the couch, put down my coffee and go for a walk.  It's usually virtually impossible to get me off the couch on Sunday, but something about the sun shining and the eagerness in Copain's voice convinced me to get off my a**.  And we started walking....and walking....and walking...until we came upon the cutest little village at the top of Boulevard Carnot - a village that until now I had no idea existed (guess I need to get out more???).  How could Rick have missed this????!

A day in the Cannet followed by the Christmas market with vin chaud and chestnuts literally roasted on an open fire?? - perfect day plan for a guide book. Rick, are you taking notes?

Cannes - you're not so bad. I got your back.

Feu!

It's funny what words become your favorite when you learn a foreign language.  Generally it has nothing to do with what the words actually mean and everything to do with the way they sound when you say them or the shape your mouth makes when you are forming the word.

Copain says that his favorite words are McDonalds, burgers, whiskey and sprite. Somehow I don't think this goes along with my theory at all as he does tend to worship the god-like status of fast food in the United States like I worship Monoprix and Target for their amazing shopping opportunities. (Last time he visited he lived on Big Gulps and toured the West by taste-testing his way up the coastline and then inland to Vegas).

K at My Riviera Wedding likes words that end with "able" - formidable (marvelous, tremendous), incroyable (incredible) and also genial (brilliant - for kerry, great - for Amerricannes).  I have to say I am completely onboard with incroyable as it is also in my top ten French favorites. If something is formidable, incroyable or genial it must have been pretty friggin amazing to merit such adjectives. Imagine a fine slice of homemade foie gras served with a glass of rich red wine - the only word to decribe the wonderfulness of that delicious combination on your pallette is formidable!  How was your Christmas dinner cherie? Formidable! Simplement incroyable!

As for me, I have always loved the words fabuleux (fabulous) and feu (fire).  I love the way your lips make a little pursed shape when you say these words and I especially love that you can say them both with gusto.  If something is wonderful you can exclaim, "Fabuleux!".  And if you ever feel like firing a canon, you can yell "Feu!".

I've been thinking of the word feu all day today. And yesterday and the day before that come to think of it. My stomach is utterly and completely on FEU. After the ridiculous back incident of 2009 my chiropractor prescribed an anti-inflammatory by the name of Bi Profenid.  He said that that Advil I was taking was to "doux" or soft.  I needed the hard stuff - and boy did he give it to me. The only positive aspect to this Bi Profenid is that it was free because that's how France rolls - and I didnt have to wait in line at the pharmacy AND no old French ladies with attitude problems cut in front of me.  At least I didn't have to fight for the hard stuff - they basically just gave it to me. Normally this would make me appreciate it more - covet it and taunt my friends with my lucky find.  Little did I know I could use it more like a threatening device - screw with me and I'll spike your drink with my pills!!!

The doc said to take one pill twice a day and to make sure to take it with a meal because it could cause some stomach problems.  Seeing as how I already have stomach issues, I made sure to eat A LOT before taking one of those suckers - bread, potatoes, starter, main dish, dessert, tea, snack, pill. So you can imagine my consternation when I was woken at 4am with gut wrenching spasms - the kind that make you cry out in pain to get through it.  (I have no idea how I will handle child birth).  Copain was worried, I was writhing, and the neighbor who shares our bedroom wall was probably wondering if he shouldn't call in a domestic violence case to the Gendarmerie. Genial.

A cup of coffee when it was a normal hour to face the world did help some but I kept feeling the feu all day long at work and no amount of toast, pizza, water, yogurt, applesauce, or cheese could calm it down.  My thought was that the fuller my stomach was of things that "tide you over" as my mom used to say when speaking of oatmeal, the better I would feel.  Errrrr not so much.

That night I followed my Advil-loving mother's advice to "only take half a pill and then if that doesn't work, just Advil, or maybe some Aleve" which has become her new favorite.  I tried the half pill after a very copious raclette dinner at K's and this morning - 5am spasms. Turns out half a pill only spares you one hour of pain.

Today my friends, my stomach is on grève - strike! (This happens to be a word that I hate in French, but more on that later). I've been nice to it - I've tried the opposite of yesterday and eaten healthy foods, stayed hydrated and tried not to snack too much.  But the feu is in full force! I almost had to stop my perusing at Zara because I thought the feu was going to cause me to pass out in the middle of the new collection. My days of Bi-Profenid are over.  It's incroyable how my insides have been significantly brulé and I can't take it anymore. 

This is just friggin fabuleux. Formidable you might say.

Off the Riviera Beaten Path...There's Grasse

The only good thing I've heard about Grasse is what the Grasse Tourism Office representative told me and that's really her just doing her job. Other than that ask almost any Frenchie here on the Riviera and they'll make a face when you mention Grasse (if they are nice, they might mention that there is ok perfume there).

Grasse is not known for the star studded qualities of Cannes nor the luxe and glamour of Monaco. Grasse is down home, Grasse is perfumerie-ville, Grasse is colder and grayer. So they say. The snobby French will talk about Grasse as where the non-French live and will even call it "dangereux". Grasse - dangerous? I was skeptical.

Copain and I arrived on scoot (scooter, for those of you not privy to the French tendancy to shorten words...I'll throw them in every once in awhile for your learning experience :-) ) Where in Cannes I was dying of heat in my coat, upon arrival in Grasse I was happy to have it.  So colder, yes. The main street in Grasse was decorated with holiday lights, palm trees (obviously planted to spruce up the main drag), and brightly colored buildings that you could call charming.  What was bothersome, however, was that this main drag seemed "done up," like an old woman trying too hard with caked on makeup, a line under her chin where the beige foundation stops and the white translucent skin begins.  It's presentable but fake, and you know that if you skimmed off the first layer of cover-up, the jig would be up.

We decided to venture into the old village and my first thought was, "how about I never walk alone here at night." The odd thing about Grasse is that street is cute boutiques and the next is dilapitated housing with laundry hanging out the window.  One minute you are looking at artinsanal soaps and fancy cakes in a boulangerie and the next minute you're facing a rubbish bin overflowing with crap and a mangy dog leaving a present next to it.  Whaaa????  Grasse is a dichotomy that I have yet to understand.

(scary)

After some perusing and some daring each other to venture into alleys and stairwells that were dark, scary  and smelly for lack of better adjectives, we decided to take a tour of the Fragonard museum (open on Sundays! Go Grasse!).  Our thought was you can't go wrong in a perfume museum with a gift shop at the end of the tour!  We were right...very cute museum, very awkward tour from a German lady who made Copain laugh everytime she prounouced "cedre" like "zedre" and ample gift shop time for us to come out smelling like the Fragonard naturals collection - freesia and fleur d'oranger.

When our eyes began having allergic reactions to perfume overload, we ventured back out into the wild of Grasse, determined to find a cozy café for a hot chocolate or nutella crèpe.  And after some searching, Grasse redeemed itself - we found Daneli's AND a real Grassois square that didn't seem overdone (no palm trees, no fancy colors) - this was the Grasse I was hoping for. 

(Grassois square)

It wasn't dangereux - it was relaxing, authentic - and we enjoyed it all over a chocolat viennois before heading back down to our little seaside village called Cannes.

(happiness)

The Brits Just Don't Get It

If you had asked me what I thought about French work ethic when I first arrived in Toulouse, I would have given you a mouthful.  Ok, let's be honest, I could still give you a mouthful - but I've come to expect and (almost) accept the fact that one cannot go through life without at least five coffee breaks a day, a 1.5 to 2 hour lunch and a good amount of procrastinating and French sighing in exasperation inbetween.

The French have mastered the art of being "débordé" all of the time.  Ask them to turn in a report by lunch - ooooh non! Je suis débordé!  (I'm overwhelmed - I'm up to my elbows - or as my Oxford mini-dictionary says, I'm "brimming over with" work!) In other words, their cups are full.  As my mom would say, "Everyone has different sized cups."  (This is not a reference to bra sizes or jock straps). Some people can deal with a mug-sized work load, some people a pint of beer-sized work load.  But the French - their cups are smaller than the espresso shots they use for their daily café breaks.

Don't even attempt to call any form of French administration between the sacred hours of 12.00 and 14.00 - no one will answer the phone.  Don't frustrate yourself further by calling after 16.30.  You must aim for the hours of 09.00 to 12.00 and 14.00 to 16.00.  That's it - don't yell, don't sigh, don't get snotty with them.  You must understand that they are débordé and c'est la vie.

So now that you comprends the French très bien, you will understand that where I am not yet French myself and I still maintain my American work ethic - or shall we say anglophone work ethic, I am still annoyed when my hours or days off are disrespected.  The offenders - the Brits.  Now don't get me wrong - I have British friends who are the best! They use the loo, they say things like "Dost thou want a brew," and they punctuate their happiness with sentences like "That's brilliant!," which I secretly love about them. But they do NOT understand the sacred wonderfullness of the French bank holiday (or least the Brits who don't live here).

Today, Wednesday 11 November 2009 is a French bank holiday.  It is the celebration of the end of WWI - and it is a day off in France. Now when my British clients requested a visit today I told them that locations may not be open due to the bank holiday and that they may wish to consider another day.  But the location to be visited is a restaurant and restaurants are the exception to this little day off rule. And so, the Brits are coming with little regard for the fact that today is a bank holiday for me too. I would maybe be less irritated if they had said, "oh, but I guess that means you have the day off too right?"  I would have told them how nice it was to consider that and then accepted to meet them anyways.  But no, not even that.

So where I appreciate a good anglophone worker, I still have to say that I respect that the French work to live and not the other way around.

Too Much Oui Oui

I went swimming in the Med for the first time this year....actual swimming, not just a dip of the toes which is all I had mustered before that. I'm out there, floating, enjoying some relief from the sun when Copain's friend starts telling us a story about a little kid whose grandpa splashed so much water in his face that it made him barf in the water. Barf in the water. I could feel the drops of salt water dripping down my face and all I could imagine were the nasty chunks that were probably accompanying them.

Now I realize that it was the grandpa's fault and that on top of that, pretty much everyone has peed in the water at one time or another, but France (and perhaps all Latin countries in general) has an entirely different politic when it comes to public barfing and urination.

Now I realize that the reason for all this is that public bathrooms are not easily accessible - even in McDonalds you have to buy something in order to use their bathrooms (I was actually chased up the stairs by a security guard who saw me head straight for the bathrooms before stopping at the counter for a coke!). I also realize that kids can't "just hold it," and parents have to find solutions. Hence, peeing in the street, peeing in the parking lot, peeing on the beach - not just in the water, but flat out ON THE BEACH.

Let's take a walk down memory lane to my experience in San Sebastien. I'm hanging on the Playa de la Concha....reading my book, enjoying my vacay, and here comes little Johny (or Juan or whatever) with his Daddy. They lay out their towels and prepare to change little Juan into his bathing suit. Little Juan is in the buff and signals to Daddy that he has to go pee pee - and what does Daddy do?!! He digs a shallow hole in the sand - right next to my towel and directs his kid to pee in it!!!!!! I get that the kid had to pee right then - but couldn't the Dad have taken him away from the major walking traffic on the beach? (or in this case, up to the bathrooms that were right ON the beach??)

Another recent anecdote: I had just finished lunch in Cannes and was walking back to work with my colleagues, when off to the right I noticed a guy standing in the middle of the street with his SHABAOW (use your imagination) hanging out - taking a pee in the middle of the road. Seriously. Granted, it was a homeless guy who probably has massive psychological problems as many of the homeless people in Cannes do (right?!), but still - GROSS. I caught him doing it AGAIN the next day on the steps across the street from my office, and then he came over to my friends and I during a dinner and asked for money with his nasty, SHABAOW germy hand! I seriously can't deal.

These are just two stories, but I probably see this or see the results of this (ie: streams of yellow running out of the corners of buildings) at least five times a day.

I say, bring in the public toilets people! The streets and people of France will thank you.

(especially me.)