Now I've always considered myself to be a fairly intelligent kind of fellow, but I'm here to tell you, France can grind you into a stupid state of humility before you know that it's happened.
Yes, yes, I know I don't speak the language all that well and yes that frequently bites me in the ass, but, it's more than just that. It's cultural but more. It's like there's the understanding of ways and things that I've developed over a lifetime and then there's the French way.
Everything will seem very similar at first, but, upon closer experience- it's always, always somehow a little different. And, for that moment, you're lost.
Let me show you what I mean by this.
My first two humbling experiences occourred during our first year at our new apartment. Both would involve our landlord, I'll call her Madame. Madame was the epitome of a modern French woman. She was attractive, trim and dressed impeccably.
During our first week in our apartment we had used our "telephone booth" shower daily with no issues other than it was the size of a phone booth. Week two and the water began to rise around the ankles. Uh-oh. I looked about for a plunger, but found none. And just where the hell do you buy a plunger in a little village like this. Morever, how do you say plunger in French? Out comes the Oxford Pocket French Dictionary- plunger- le plongee- there, I know what to ask for.
Pop upstairs to see if the landlord might have a plongee, I mean plunger. Oops, forgot, it's the middle of the day and they're both at work. Housekeeper answers the door and she doesn't speak a word of English. I fumble about with my inquiry- something, something about a plongee- puzzled look on her face. Me- making gestures and making stupid noises supposed to simulate a plunger- her more puzzled looking than ever. Then I hit on it! C'est pour la douche! It is for the shower. Aaaah- she gets it now, I think. Brilliant! Je suis desole- there is no plunger- damn- now what? Neither Sandy nor I can remember seeing a plunger in any of the stores- oh well we'll check with the landlords this evening.
Later that evening as we were prepping for dinner on the terrace- Madame pops out of the door and.... Keveen- you have problem wif zee doosh. Me stunned- oh... yes.. I mean, oui- je suis une problem avec le douche. Madam glides down the steps, onto the terrace and leads me into the apartment then back into the bathroom. Still in her impeccable atire, Madame kneels down before the "phone booth" and with her beautifully manicured nails pulls off the drain cover and pulls out a little plastic basket shaped object that I've never seen before. It's a strainer and it's full of hair. I knew the drains were small compared with the US, but, a strainer basket to catch the hair before it clogs the pipe, brilliant! She takes the little basket, empties it into the wastebin, and..... dips it into the toilet bowl to rinse it off.
Sandy and I both slackjawed by this point, watch as she goes back over to the "phone booth" kneels and replaces the basket and drain cover. Keveen, you weel need to do thees. How often? Oooh, I theenk once uh week. Oh Madame, merci beaucoup Madame.
I know my face had to be red with embarassment. I mean it was humiliating. me, a builder and licensed plumber even. Oh well. Who knew?
I think it was later on that week that our landlords had given us a bright shiny new charcoal grille, a bag of charbon (charcoal) and what looked like lighter fluid, naptha... something or another.
I had been dying to do a grilled cote du beouf or cote du porc, and tonight I would do just that. Pop by the boucherie and pick up the cote du beouf, some little fingerling potatoes and a salade from the market. A fresh baguette from the boulanger, a bottle of Bandol rouge- perfect!
So it's evening and time to do the manly thing and grille those lovely steaks. Open the charbon, and... wait a minute, it's just little pieces of charred wood, no briquettes let alone matchlight. What to do with this? Oh well, press on. Load up the grille, squirt on some of what I think is lighter fluid, and light with a match. Oh shit, no matches. Into the kitchen to light a piece of paper on the ceramic hob of the range (easier said than done, but that's another story) and about ten minutes later back out to the grille with the now smouldering paper and, viola! The grille is aflame... for a couple of minutes... and..nothing. Repeat this two or three more times with equally dismal results.
Deja vous. Madame pops out the door and... Keveen, you have uh problem? Yes, uhhh, oui Madame. C'est le phare (the fire). Once again down the steps and onto the terrace, the impeccably dressed madame now leading me about the jardin picking up little sticks, pine needles, leaves and such. back to the grille. Her beautifully manicured hands scoop out the charbon and she, like any good boyscout, begins to build a little campfire of leaves, needles and twigs in the grille. You have uh maatch Keveen? Uh... no Madame. Up the stairs and moments later back down with a tiny little Bic lighter. And viola! The little campfire is blazing. Now, Keveen, youz add ze charbon juste like theees. You build a fire to build a fire. Now why didn't I , the big strong intelligent man figure that one out? I'm now getting used to looking like a fool in front of her. She must think all Americans are idiots.
Oh well, it was a lovely dinner.
One of the biggest mysteries here in village France is to figure out where to buy something. No really! A grocery store is a grocery store and a pharmacy is a pharmacy. Unlike in the states, you can't buy a bottle of aspirin in the grocery or a can of cat food in the pharmacy. The grocery does have a number of HBA items, but what do they do? I mean there's all these bottles with white creams in them. Is it shampoo, conditioner, skin cream, dipilitory- oops, don't want that one. The all look the same, all with seemingly nondescriptive French descriptions. I mean, it can get so desperate, Sandy once went into a pharmacy (these have lots of the really expensive beauty aids) and unknowingly bought a $19 bottle of body lotion because she couldn't figure out which one of the bottles on the grocery shelf it was.
And, me, with the bum stomach. Where's the Tums, Rollaids even? Nowhere to be found. So... down to one of the dozen or so pharmacies in town signified by the green cross out front. Typically good with English, the pharmacist listens to my malady and I hear something back that sounds like, "sour stomach". Yes. Yes. That's it, I think? Out comes a little cardboard box from inside one of the myriad of unmarked drawers in a floor to ceiling cabinet behind the counter. No, no, no. You don't help yourself, they get it from one of the little drawers and set it on the counter in front of you. At this point a number of customers standing near the counter have heard the description of the malady, the prognosis and are all nodding in agreement. She has perscribed the best cure for a "sour stomach". I'm not so sure. But madame, do you have any Tums? Puzzled look. Rolaids? Puzzled look. Monsieur, thees ees thee best! oh, well then, I'll take it. The little box is wrapped up in paper, just like you would a gift, the cash register rings, six euro fifty. Ye gods, that's like nine dollars for what I think are 16 tablets. Yiipes!! I have now encountered this conspicuous absence of antiacids several times all over Europe. What do they do? Don't they get an upset stomach? My solution became to pack one or two one pound zip loc bags of Tums in my baggage. I felt like I was smuggling contraband Tums onto the continent, sure that if I was caught that they would be confiscated.
I have heard that pharmacist in France function as first line doctors, diagnosing minor maladies and dispensing the appropriate perscription- how intelligent is that?
I have also heard of their prowess with wild mushrooms. Huh? Yes Frenchmen are downright potty about gathering, preparing and eating their wild mushrooms. Doesn't mean that they all know how to gather them though. So, part of a pharmacist training is to recognize not only what's not to be eaten but also the ones that are the best to eat. Good to know. Check!
Le Poste (post office) is another source of mystery/confusion to the uninitiated. You mail a letter, right? Well yes, but, there's more. You can pay your bills there. I don't know exactly what bills- I suspect utilities or something like that. In the days before everyone had cellphones or even long distance for that matter, there were phones you could use, still are in some places. You can send faxes, have your mail sent there, even if you don't live there. And, oh yes, there's a bank. Yep, the Poste Bank. Deposits, withdraws, ATM's just like any bank anywhere.
I think it was our second year at the apartment. We had rented bicycles, a mystery in a mystery itself. VTT's, VTC's, city bikes and road bikes. What did it all mean? Well I soldiered on and secured a couple of what we would call mountian bikes. They were wonderful and we now had virtually unlimited mobility to the surrounding villages, beaches, wherever. One morning as we were leaving for the beach I noticed that my rear tire was looking a little flat. I'd just stop by the petrol station along the way and fill it up. Guess what, only some petrol stations have air. Well finally one did, time to fill the tire. What the.... The chuck on the air hose wouldn't fit the tire valve. It was this spindly little affair that I hadn't seen before. Dammit! Does everything here have to be different? On down the street to a car garage, he'll figure this out. Monsieur, c'est non possible ( it's not possible).
I took one look at his hose and figured it out. His was just like the one at the petrol station. Monsieur, Qu est-ce-que vous recommandez? (what do you reccomend)He shakes his head. Me- the moto shop? (scooter shop) Aah, oui Monsieur, probablement (probably).
Down the street and over to the moto shop. Not so busy, everyone inside is sitting about the showroom shootin' the breeze, in French of course. I roll the bike into the shop, all eyes are on me. I point to my rear tire, c'est possible? "Yeah, no problem man" in perfect english. You need an adapter chuck. Out comes the adapter chuck from his tool box and, voila, the tire is inflated in less than 20 seconds.
There now. Only 45 minutes to fill up a low tire. Brilliant!!
Food in France is often a souce of constant confusion and humiliation. You know what you know. You know where you would normally buy what ingredient, what it is called and even what it looks like. In France c'est une mystrie (it's a mystery). You might not find that something something here. Get over it. Improvise or even try a different recipe. Use what they have!!!
At the wonderful, sumptous, morning market- the sights, the smells- you just want to buy it all. You want to pick it up, smell it, give it a little squeeze--- NO MONSIEUR! No moleest le prahduze!! Oh shit, busted for touching, no worse, squeezing the tomatoes. But how am I supposed to know if they're ripe? Monsieur, I weel azist you. Pour aujourd'hui? Pardon? Pour aujourd'hui Monsieur? Oh- I get it- for today?
Oui Monsieur, pour aujourd'hui. He pick's up the most beautiful cour-du-beouf tomatoes, at the peak of their ripeness, bags them and hands them to me. Once again I experience French customer service first hand. In the traditional shops and markets you don't help yourself. The shopkeeper prides themself on their selection and their ability to match them with your request. And you know, they always do.
Last year my wife Sandy who has been struggling here in the land of poisson (fish) to become a fish eater herself, suggested we have fish for lunch at our favorite cafe. My ears pricked at this, sure... I jumped on the opportunity. The menu listed poissons friture and I was sure that this translated into fried fish. You'll love this I said. You don't often find fish fried on the coast of France and fried is her preference. Order placed- order arrives and...... oh shit!!! A big ole heaping plate of little fried fishes, heads tails and all with a little pot of garlic aioli to dip them in. My face was devoid of color and of course I offered to get her something else, but she's a trooper and she proceeded to eat about half of the little fishy buggers. I'm sure that the two or three beers didn't hurt either. I gladly finished them off and she said that she probably wouldn't order them again, but that they really weren't all that bad. Amazing!! Bet that was the beer talkin'.
Finally, this year at that same cafe of the little fishes, we had the pleasure of befriending the most likable of waiters, he was awesome. I always like to tip the waitstaff generously, even if that is not the custom here in France. Servis-compris?
Well the generous tipping at this, our favorite cafe does not go unnoticed. The general affect being awesome service and very generous pours.
One day on a nearby beach we encounter our friend, the awesome waiter, it is his morning off and he's meeting a female friend here on the beach. We're introduced as "old friends" and a bit later he shows up with a couble of beers for me and Sandy. He's not drinking. Merci, I say, what about you? Oh, I just wanted to thank you and Sandy, you've been so nice. Me- oh.. merci beaucoup. Later that day at the cafe, we opt for an afternoon cocktail and settle in for a good "people watch". Our favorite waiter is there and of course recognizing us is quick to service. One drink leads to two, maybe three, but it is now time to leave. I leave a more than usually generous tip remembering this mornings encounter and wanting to thank him for his generousity.
We're just about out of the front and down the sidewalk when our waiter chases us down-- agitated and calling Keveen, Keveen! I figure we've left something under the table, but no.. he is visably upset. Keveen- it ees too much I cannot. But you were so nice to us this morning, I just wanted to say thank you. No Keveen. Eet ees not possible. Ees too much. Eef you want to thank mee, you see mee somewheres, you buy mee a drink, dacord (ok)? Yes, I think I understand. I would never want to offend him, but too much tip, I haven't heard that one before. A couple of days later at the cafe and all's well. Bonne!
You know, all these little diferences, the mysteries, can be a bit maddening at times. But.. this is part of the experience. You know what you already know and you learn what you don't know. That's it! When you learn from these little mysteries, you become more and more connected to the place in which you are. And it into you.
You slip deeper and deeper into the blue.
Now, isn't that what you're here for?
A bientot
Cousin
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