This summer’s World Cup tournament allowed fans from around the world to show off their national pride. Who can forget the Scots in their kilts, or the Norwegians with their endless rowing? Personally, I was partial to the glorious orange outfits of the Dutch fans (if you wonder why, check out my last name.)
But did you know that the tradition of the Dutch wearing orange can be traced back to France? It’s an interesting tale that you can read about in My French Life!
It was early March nearly 20 years ago, when Val and I were just starting our three-month stays in Provence. We had taken a direct flight from San Francisco to Frankfurt, then drove from there, because we were taking our dog Lucca and didn’t want him to change planes.
We picked up our rental car and began the long drive south. We were jet-lagged and didn’t want to drive too far, so after a few hours we stopped in the little French town of Montbéliard, arriving late in the afternoon.
After a quick shower we drove downtown and parked in the town’s main parking lot, an underground structure. Unfortunately, we forgot that it was still winter and we were in northern France, so we only had on light jackets. As soon as the sun went down it turned freezing cold, so we headed for a café to warm up. After some hot coffee, we went to see if there was any place that would serve us at the ungodly early hour of 6pm.
We went to a casual bar/restaurant nearby and asked if we could order a meal. After the barmaid finished laughing, we were reminded that this was France and the answer was “non.” But we were invited to have a drink and wait until food service started at 7pm. Not a bad idea, so we settled in with a couple of glasses of wine.
Things Start to Go Wrong
After a few minutes I excused myself to use the restroom. It was a typical French setup, with separate bathrooms for men and women and a shared sink. For security reasons, the women’s bathroom could only be accessed by a key from the bar.
I did my business, washed my hands and, because there were no towels, dried them with the air dryer. When I came out Val said, “Wow, that dryer is loud, it sounds like a leaf blower. You could hear it all over the bar!”
We were finishing our drinks and thinking about what to order when we saw a woman wearing an apron and clutching a key walk to the restrooms. Clearly, the cook.
A few minutes later she walked back. I asked Val, “Did you hear the air dryer?” Uh, no. And it was so loud it was impossible to miss. The cook must not have washed her hands…I guess we weren’t hungry after all!
We braved the cold again to search out another restaurant. We found a nice little place, had a quick meal and headed back to our car. The timing was perfect because we were getting tired and bed sounded good.
But when we got to the parking lot we found it shut tight behind a huge metal gate. What the…? Then we saw a sign that said the lot closes at 8pm. 8pm?! Who ever heard of such a thing?
A Visit to the Gendarmerie
We found another sign that said to see the police if you need to get your car after 8pm, so we trudged off through the cold to the police station. We explained the situation and were told that it would be “deux minutes” and that we should wait in the unheated hallway. We reluctantly sat down and waited for a half hour, but nothing happened.
Finally, we went back in and glared at the officers (politely, of course – they had guns.) We were again told it would be “deux minutes” and this time it was. Turns out there had been a shift change in progress and the old shift wanted to stick the new shift with our problem.
The new officers were friendly and gave us a card that would open a door into the parking lot. All we had to do was look for it next to the video store, which was next to the supermarket.
Things Are Not As They Seem
No problem, we had seen the video store already. So we plunged back into the cold, which was well below freezing at this point. Grocery store? Check. Video store next to it? Check. Entry door into the parking garage? Non. We asked a few passersby and even the video store owner, but nobody knew what we were talking about. So off we went once again, back to the police station.
Luckily, there were no crimes in progress because the next thing we knew we were in a squad car with three of Montbéliard’s finest. They took a roundabout route, so we had a chance to chat in French with one of them.
He asked where we were from and when Val said “La Californie” he asked if we knew where Sacramento was. Why yes, I said, I was born there. Did I know about the Sacramento Kings, the pro basketball team? Why, yes I did, and Chris Webber used to be their best player. Alas, said the officer, he’s not the player he used to be, too old now.
We agreed on that and, having exhausted our common interests, spent the rest of the ride peering suspiciously out into the dark streets of Montbéliard, where criminal masterminds were undoubtedly plotting away.
Resolution
Eventually we made it to the center of town, where they showed us where we should have gone the first time. Supermarket? Check. A different video store, not next to the market as described but rather down the block and around the corner? Uh, check. Well-hidden door at the bottom of a dark staircase on the other side of the street? Check again (really, who taught these guys how to give directions?)
At this point we thanked the police and shook their hands, while each group was silently thinking of the other, “What a bunch of dopes!”
We got to our car and drove back to our hotel. The only good part of the whole adventure was that the parking was free, because we didn’t have to pay for the card!
Lots of French towns have traffic lights. But have you ever heard of a part-time light? Yes, my little town of St-Rémy has one that only works one day a week, and then only in the morning. And it takes a long vacation where it doesn’t work at all!
Is my local traffic light lazy, or clever, or what? Learn all about it in Perfectly Provence!
Top Ten lists are always fun, so I decided to make one of my own: the greatest French people of all time.
Of course, there is no way to really decide. Is Marie Curie more important than Louis Pasteur? Is Victor Hugo the most important French writer, or is it Flaubert, or Proust? And how do you rank all those monarchs and emperors?
Be that as it may, I made my list. Who do you think I missed?
Read all about it in France Today!
Today is a big day in France. First, it’s the Fête Nationale, what we call Bastille Day, which commemorates the beginning of the French Revolution. It’s also the day France plays in the semifinals of the World Cup–allez les Bleus !
One of the highlights of the Fête Nationale is the giant parade down the Champs Élysées. My favorite part is the Republican Guard, respondent in their uniforms as they ride along on horseback.
The Republican Guard is one of those quirky institutions that France is so good at. They protect the presidential palace, greet foreign dignitaries, put on precision marching shows and historical reenactments, and even provide security for the oyster farms of Normandy! You might have seen their marching band playing (and swaying) behind Aya Nakamura during the opening ceremony of the Paris Olympics.
Learn more about the oh-so-French Republican Guard in Bonjour Paris!
I thought you might enjoy Val and I sharing our perspectives on something quite unique: the French bathroom.
Val
You know that Keith and I have been living part-time in France for quite some time. I enjoy the differences in the lifestyle between the US and France. Each has its strengths and weaknesses, but I try to focus on and enjoy the great sides of each culture.
And then, there is bathroom design.
A while ago we were in the lovely town of Rennes, sitting in the warm sunshine, on a charming cafe terrace, surrounded by half-timbered houses. Before moving on to explore the town, Keith suggested we follow the age-old advice: never pass up an opportunity to visit the facilities.
Keith went first, carrying out his husbandly duties to check them out to make sure they met, well, my standards. He reported that they passed muster and indicated that all I needed to do was walk inside and go down the stairs to find the bathroom.
Following his advice, when I made it down the narrow staircase I found myself in a very small space. Sinks on the right, a urinoir on the left (I think it is pretty clear what this French word means) and an enclosed bathroom straight ahead, as had been described.
But what had NOT been described was that there was a man on said left… in process.
Not knowing what to do, I rushed past him, mumbling pardon monsieur, moving into the bathroom and locking the door as quickly as I could.
Wow, that was awkward!
I am looking forward to the day when urinoir doors become fashionable in France.
Keith
Take a look at this photo of our hotel room bathroom from a recent trip. It looks nice, right? But something is missing.
Look hard and you will notice…there is no shower curtain.
We find this all the time in France, a shower without a door or a curtain. Which means that when we use it, we get water everywhere. It’s a mess.
So why don’t the French use shower curtains, that’s what I want to know. Do they have special hydraulics that cause the water to bend in non-splashy ways? Do they contort themselves like circus performers, so the water only bounces back into the shower? Do their bodies absorb water in a way that causes it not to splash?
Maybe it’s like the way French people can eat croissants without getting crumbs all over. Or the way they instinctively know how to tie their scarves.
It’s a mystery.
Val and I spend part of the year in France, mostly in St-Rémy-de-Provence, but we also travel around the country from time to time. I thought I would share of a few stories of what our life here is like.
Getting Sneaky
Rennes is a beautiful town, full of half-timbered houses, and also the former capital of Brittany. We stopped over for a night on the way to see some friends, and we were advised not to miss the Brittany Parliament building, which is quite beautiful inside. Unfortunately, it now houses an appeals court and when we entered, a scary armed guard informed us quite firmly that only guided tours were allowed.
We slunk outside and researched these tours, only to find there were none that day. While we were searching on our phones to decide what to do next, a lady nearby asked us where we were from. She had come outside from the parliament building to have a smoke, and we had a nice chat. Then Val and I went back to checking our phones.
While Val scrolled away, I decided to be a little sneaky and told the lady it was a shame we couldn’t see the inside, as we had come all the way to Rennes and would be leaving soon. “No problem” she said, “come in with me.”
She the proceeded to breeze past the scary armed guard (“They’re with me”) and give us a tour of the place. It was so nice! It’s good to be a little sneaky sometimes.
Cocorico!
Our place in St-Rémy is across the street from a Catholic elementary school. Every weekday, we hear kids playing outside during lunch and recess. And sometimes there are school events for the parents where we hear music and laughter and raffle numbers being called out. It’s all quite charming
We learned last year that the priest lives in an apartment attached to the school. Aha, we thought, that explains all the chickens in the yard. I guess the priest likes eggs.
This year we discovered a new resident, a rooster. I say “discovered” because we heard him before we saw him. And heard him. And heard him! This is one enthusiastic rooster. It’s cocorico all day long, which is the French equivalent of cockadoodledoo. Even our friends who live two blocks away can hear him.
But he must be a happy rooster, the only male among a bunch of hens. I imagine he wakes up every morning and says to himself, “Baby, I’m going to go forth and multiply!”
A Provençal Bottleneck
We were driving to a nearby town when we suddenly found ourselves in a long line of cars, all stopped for some reason. The road bent about 20 cars ahead so we couldn’t see what the problem was. Road work? An accident? An alien sighting?
We checked Google Maps to see how far ahead the blockage was, but it said everything was fine. That meant that whatever happened was so recent that Google hadn’t yet caught up. This ruled out road work, and we didn’t hear any sirens that would indicate an accident, so I was really hoping for that alien.
Then traffic started to move and when we got around the bend, we saw what had caused the slowdown: a shepherd had moved his flock from one side of the road to the other. But of course! This happens regularly.
Maybe we need some sheep-crossing signs.
There’s a blood drive coming to St-Rémy, which reminds me of my failed attempts to donate blood in France.
The last time I tried, I ended up with the world’s meanest nurse. I had filled out all the correct forms and was ready for her questions but she was so aggressive that she made me nervous. As in terrified. This caused my normally-placid blood pressure to shoot up so high that I was disqualified. When I told my neighbor about this she said, “Oh, you got her? Bad luck, she’s a well-known connasse.” (= rude French word)
The time before this, I was rejected for insufficient command of the French language. Yes, you have to speak decent French before you can donate blood! Read my story here to find out why.
This year’s program at Les Baux’s Carrières des Lumières features the Spanish master Pablo Picasso, perhaps the most influential artist of the 20th century. For those who haven’t been to the Carrières, it’s a must-see if you are in the area: the world’s greatest sound-and-light show, held inside a giant cavern. It’s like nothing else on earth.
The short program features Frida Kahlo, the brilliant Mexican artist, and on certain days there is also a special program dedicated to The Little Prince. Something for the whole family!
Read all about it in Perfectly Provence!
France has a lot of literary awards, and the most prestigious is the Prix Goncourt, much like the Booker in the UK or the National Book Award in the US.
The Prix Goncourt has kind of branched out over the years, creating a second award for a book chosen by high school students. I knew this, but was still surprised to find out that there is now a third award, for a book selected by inmates in France’s prison system.
It’s an inspiring story, and the reading standards of the inmates is very high. During the process of selecting their book, they have meetings with some of the authors (in the prisons, imagine that.) One author says she loves these meetings because the inmates are such serious readers, so the meetings are of a “rare intensity.”
You can learn more about this very interesting program in France Today!