Bloody Bises

We all know the French stereotype who rushes up, beret on head, baguette in hand, to plant a dramatic kiss on each cheek as a greeting. Mwah darling, mwah, mwah, mwah. But surely they don't really do that in France?! Surely that's as real as strings of garlic around necks and zee comedie accent? Except zee comedie accent does exist, and so do the kisses, or the 'bises' (pronounced 'bees' as in 'the bees' knees') as the French like to call them. To us English, with our strict unspoken rules of personal space, stiff upper-lip maintenance and hygiene, this habit of kissing one and all is somewhat alarming. Fantastic if it's a particularly attractive friend, but generally really rather awkward.

So far I've had several highly embarrassing moments with the bises, and I'm sure there will be more to come. As you can no doubt imagine, problems include:
- Who do you kiss?
- How many kisses?
- Which side do you go for?
- What if you're faced with someone's partner?
- What if the other person smells funny?
- What if you're about to sneeze?
- What if you've got a gobful of chocolate eclair?

And so the list continues.
Perhaps fortunately, Frenchies are generally a lot more spontaneous, so there's rarely time for more than one of these worries before someone's lunging towards you, lips a-pouting, moustache a-quivering. If only I were equally spontaneous and could just embrace the intimacy and plant a smacker on a stranger's cheek. Unfortunately, years of training in British neutrality have resulted in the instinctive reaction of revulsion. My whole body leans backwards, my hands come out to push the other person away, and my face apparently resembles someone who just saw a naked Gordon Brown dancing The Birdie Song, nipple tassels a-twirling. For some reason, this tends to offend the prospective 'biseur' and has probably ruined many a potential friendship.

Other times, I don't realise what is going on and conduct a merry dance around a room, with a Frenchie lunging towards me, and me nervously edging backwards, until finally, cornered against a wall, I have to give in. It's not that I don't want to do it - I think it's much nicer than a distant handshake. It's just not a built-in instinct. It would be fine with friends, but with colleagues and strangers it really goes against some deep-grained instinct.

The worst times are when I should be taking the initiative, but bumble along in my own little fuzz of ignorance and slight offense that everyone else is ignoring me. Once, on a climbing trip, we stopped at a car park to organise lift-sharing. The woman who was taking me got out of the car, enthusiastically greeted everyone and started kissing them all. It was all lovely: hugs, embraces, laughter. I stood there like a lemon waiting for her to introduce me to all her friends. We all got back in our cars. I tried not to be offended that I hadn't been introduced, reassuring myself that I'd never have remembered all their names anyway.
"I can't believe you didn't do the bise with them" said the woman.
"Oh...well, I don't know any of them. In England the person who knows both parties usually introduces them to each other," I said, half expecting an apology.
"Oh, I've never met them in my life!" she said. "That's how you introduce yourself".
"By kissing as if you're long-lost friends?"
"Of course!".

Of course.
The conversation continued and she very helpfully explained the importance of doing the bise at the right time.
"But what if you're leaving a party and there are 50 people to say goodbye to?" I asked, thinking I'd finally found a reasonable occasion to duck out of the lip action.
"Then you kiss every person goodbye, or you publicly announce why you're not going to," she said.
"But doesn't that take forever?"
"Well, I suppose it does, but it's normal for us."

The woman was very friendly and had spent time in the UK, where she had suffered the opposite problem of offending female friends upon kissing their boyfriends, and was frequently seen as an overaffectionate lesbian. She ended with a description of her American friend who had come to France a few years ago:
"She met my French friend for the first time, and the French friend went in to kiss her. My American friend stopped her at the last minute and said she wouldn't do the bises because she had an awful cold and didn't want to give it to the French lady."
"Well, that's fair enough," I said, busily concocting plans to 'have a cold' whenever meeting new people. "So what happened?"
"The French lady never spoke to the American woman again."
"Oh."

Bloody bises.

Wanks on Planks

For a long time I have been more than mildly confuzzled by the strange habit of some: to strap themselves to wooden planks and slide down a mountain. You know, those funny little things that tend to throw avalanches, storms and rockfall in our general direction...

However, despite my initial dubiositiness (which was probably similar to yours upon reading that word), I have indulged in this form of madness in the past with varying degrees of terror and adrenalin-filled bemusement. Last year's efforts proved particularly disastrous, with my movements frequently resembling Bambi on speed. Why people can't stick to normal sports like ice-climbing is beyond me.

Nevertheless, it's a good giggle, so this year is going to be my year of improvement. I had intended to await the New Year with free lessons from the alpine club, but when Beth's teacher offered us her parents' chalet for the weekend, we thought it would be rude to decline. All in all, it was quite a success with no deaths or fatal injuries. I only fell over 3 times the first day, each time when I was standing completely still and having a natter. The second day was a tad on the blowy side and I remembered mountains are scary places, so slowed my speed down to perhaps 1km/day. Hardcore.





Next plan: to try cross-country skiing on a proper circuit (rather than at the snowboarding championships in Grenoble). It sounds much less scary, but a little too much like hard work...On verra.

Lessons in anglais

One of the great benefits of the assistantship is meeting fellow francophiles from around the world who have chosen to inflict their mother tongue on French children. This has led to some curious cultural comparisons and diverse discoveries...

Lessons learnt

- In Trinidad, it is too hot to ever need to use a duvet, hence confusion all round when our friend from said country was faced with fitting a duvet cover for the first time.

This lead to the dicovery of...

- Words and phrases that don't exist in America:

Duvet day - this is a matter of quite some urgency and must be rectified as soon as possible. Duvet day missionaries shall be sent to spread the word about these most necessary of days.

Grotty

Dalek - although this shouldn't really exist in English either. (Interpret that as you will...)

Full stop - I still don't think our American friend believes that we actually use this apparently hilarious phrase.


- Fun new words learnt in French:

Cocooner - to stay in at home. Awwww.

Baguette magique - magic wand! Guaranteed to conjure amusing images of a wrinkled little wizard brandishing his stick of bread.

Aller dans le sens des aiguilles d'un montre - clockwise. Talk about the long way round!


- We had a clearout of the house fridge last week. With a regular turnover of occupants, there's quite a high rate of abandoned nosh. Nobody knows its owner has long since departed, merrily oblivious to the mould and stench left behind. As we were retrieving various entrails, strings of brown slime and furry fruit, our Dutch housemate commented that the English have an astonishing variety of words for 'disgusting'. I recoiled a moment, unsure whether to take this as an insult to our people or a compliment to our literary range. The temptation proved too much and we discovered the following lists to the envy of Eskimos and their many words for snow:

Disgusting
Minging
Foul
Rank
Mank
Awful
Grotesque
Dire

Good
Excellent
Brilliant
Super
Fantastic
Wonderful
Spigging
Awesome
Wicked
Good
Cracking
Phat

It's raining
Spitting
Drizzling
Pouring
Chucking it down
Pissing it down
Raining cats and dogs
Damp

Disclaimer: Some of these phrases are not 'phat'. Some are actually quite foul. But it was pissing it down and we were bored, so voila: nos efforts.

Beaurocratic Bumblings

To receive my housing benefit, I need a social security number, or so the increasingly arsey letters keep telling me. I quite like free money, so decide to make the trek in the pouring rain to the social security office.

The woman at the desk seems friendly and is having an animated conversation with another woman. I wait my turn then turn on my beaming 'anglaise un peu perdue' smile and explain my problem. The woman is distinctly unimpressed. "Are you sure you 'ave got zee right place?" She stares at my soggy jeans and dripping Gore-tex. I stand my ground, determined to stay in the dry.

She grunts and points at a complicated looking machine. "You'll 'av to zee a conseilleur".
"Er...how does it work?" I ask, meaning the whole system of meeting someone. Surely 'conseilleur' isn't the word for the machine? Is it really that simple to get a social security number? I start wondering who I could get one for...if only Bas and Pom were still with me...
"Ze green button," she snarls, somehow managing to combine two doses of withering pity with a shot of disdain.

Well, it can't be that bad. Everyone knows it's the red buttons you have to watch out for.
I hit it.
A little slip of paper shoots out: You are number 166. There are 5 people in the queue.
Only in France do they have to turn the most elegant of British institutions into a butchery of Argos-style individualism. I fume in a corner, my indignation and sanity slowly being eroded away by Kate Bush's persistent warblings of Wuthering Heights on repeat.
Eventually, I'm summoned into a room.

The next 10 minutes are without doubt the most confusing 10 minutes of my time in France, if not my time on Earth.
Once I've asked the woman to slow down, repeat herself, slow down again, and eventually write some of what she's saying down, the conversation goes something like this:
Incredibly irritating old bat: What is your number?
Me: Well, see, that's the problem. I don't have one yet.
IIOB: I need zee number!!
Me: Well, yes, so do I!
IIOB: You cannot see me without a number.
Me: *many English profanities under my breath*...I need a number. Please.
IIOB: Are you or are you not number 166?
Me: Oh. Yes.
[She takes my number and promptly throws it into the bin. I'm sure the one person after me in the queue was incredibly grateful that she checked in case I'd cheated the system.]

IIOB: Alors, what eez ze problem?
Me: I don't have a social security number and I need one for my hou-
IIOB: Well I can't give you one.
Me: Where do I have to go to get one?
IIOB: Here.
Me: Er...well, here I am. How do I get one?
IIOB: You need to talk to a conseilleur.
Me: I thought that's what I was doing now.
IIOB: [Sigh]. Do you have a payslip?
Me: No, I can't get a payslip until I've got a number.
IIOB: Well, you can't have a number until we've got a copy of your payslip.

Take the last three sentences, add a background beat of decreasingly polite noises to indicate irritation, throw in a constant crescendo, a modulation on each repeat to a slightly higher key, and an increase in tempo. Repeat until exhausted.

Voila: la beaurocracie francaise.

Vive les pompiers!

The other week, there I was sat at my desk trying to phone those who so lovingly brought me into this world. The usual battle was underway; a tangle of headphone wires resembling my après-tornado hair (a look I frequently sport) and the internet phoneline fireworks had just launched an unnecessarily aggressive offensive against my patience. A particularly persistent Catherine wheel crackle had just interrupted my flowing description of a 6c I'd been working on.

Oooh...Aaaah.

Mother dear: Why are you cooing?
Me: Oh, was I? sorry, it's just the pretty blue lights flashing outside.

Hang on - blue lights flashing outside?

Me: Er...I'll be right back...

A quick goggle outside revealed most of the French fire brigade rushing around outside my house, with a few police cars thrown in for good measure. I ran to get Beth.
"Do you think the house is on fire?"
"Ooh, er, maybe we should go and see."
"Well, they'd probably have told us if it was. I don't want to interrupt them if they're doing something important. [Pause] Especially not in French..."

An excited flap with our French housemate later and we were outside, apparently in the middle of some Buffy-style apocalypse. Fire engines lined the roads, smoke billowed from the lane beside out house, water was pouring down the street, and teams of men in full breathing equipment were dashing around heroically. A van of men with clipboards was parked outside my bedroom window, with two official-looking chaps hurriedly erecting a 10 foot pole on the top.
It was all a bit E.T.

Further investigation revealed that it was in fact all an elaborate training exercise, completely with smoke machines, pretend victims and closed roads. A fanastic show nonetheless, with front-row seats on my balcony, despite the giant pole wobbling past my window in search of signals from space, or some such endeavour.

As I was wallowing in the glorious drama of it all, my computer bleeped at me.
"Darling, are you alright? Is your house on fire?"

Back to normality...

Choc, horreur...!

Twice or thrice a week, I do something that seems to cause a mild epileptic fit in everyone who witnesses it. People gesticulate, twitch and shout at me, eyes a-boggling, hands a-flapping. Admittedly, this is far from a rare occurence with me in England, but there's a subtle difference: back home it's usually people inside the car.

Yes, my shocking action is to drive...with...wait for it...the steering wheel on THE WRONG SIDE!!

The scandal.

I have actually been stopped by people kindly informing me that my steering wheel is on the wrong side. Oh gosh! How on earth did that happen?! Thank goodness someone pointed that out before I felt too normal here.

It's not without its benefits, though. Sometimes I feel I've achieved celebrity status. On a mountainbiking jaunt in the hills a couple of weeks ago, a group of road workers cheered and waved as I went past on the way, on my way home, on my scenic, if slightly unintentional detour back up the hill, and again as I finally headed home. There's nothing like it for that warm, fuzzy feeling of familiarity, combined with slight embarrassment.

Lessons learnt
Not many Brits make it down this far in the car.

Bodging avec Baptiste

Shortly after Paris I spent a spiffing weekend with a Frenchie called Baptiste who lives in a nearby town. The aim was two days of local multipitch climbing.

Friday night

Baptiste and friends: Salut Flick!
Moi: Salut!
Baptiste and friends: Alors....leveryquickfrenchthatsimpossibletounderstand...hein?
Moi: Er...oui...*nervous laugh*
Baptiste and friends: Bof...wearenotspeakinganylanguageinexistencebutjustmakingnoisestoconfuseyou...n'est-ce pas?
Moi: Le mm-hmm.
*Confused stares*
Moi: Eh...ben...bof...alors...quoi! *big smile*

That seems to do the trick!

Saturday morning

10:30am: Wake up. Panic about excessive lie-in. Reach near hyperventilation stage but decide it's too cold for such a big panic and retreat further under duvet.
10:35am: Baptiste leaps into his living room in a similar panic.
Midday: Reach parking spot in time to eat chocolate eclair. (No point in carrying excessive weight up the route...). The road is a bit icy.
12:10pm: Both realise we've forgotten our big, warm, snowproof mountaineering boots for the approach.
12:30pm: Cold! The snow on the approach walk-in is rather deeper than anticipated. We keep losing the path. This is fine for Baptiste, who glides around effortlessly, but not so good for me. My feet appear to be magnets for everything interesting under the snow. Several times in a row I put my foot through a big hole into a stream or a cowpat. Yum.
1pm: Decide we haven't got time to do the intended route if we want to drive back alive, as the snow on the road will turn to ice as soon as the evening cold sets in. Spot a feasible cliff up a slope and set up an ab rope for toproping. Very fun abseil!

The route turns out to be rather hard (in the 7s I think!), not helped by the water on half of it and my snow-soaked climbing shoes. French ethics are employed to scale the cliff, the rope, and various trees at the top.

Sunday
Lovely multipitch in the sun with gorgeous views and only one case of elbow-crippling rockfall.
Spiffing.

Le 'Vin' novembre

Yes, I know, I'm very behind in my blogging. I frantically scribble things on the train, late at night, in the staffroom and on the rare occasion when one of my classes is busy working, but I have an inconvenient habit of then losing my scribblings. Let's hope they're lost in my room and not scattered around France causing offense all over the place!

So, some exciting things that have happened recently:

- The 20th November was 'Beaujolais Nouveau' day. Some marketing genius has managed to get the entire country in a multicoloured fuzz of excitement about the arrival of this year's version of Beaujolais wine. It's a pretty impressive publicity feat and has become something of a tradition, with cafes, restaurants and even some patisseries stocking the new glug.

Apparently rich Brits race their swanky cars to France and back in an attempt to be the first to crack open a bottle this side of the Channel. Why they can't just pop over on a night ferry and drink in the middle of the sea beats me.

Naturally, we felt it appropriate to participate in this French tradition, and it seemed right to do this at lunchtime, when the rest of the country vanishes into restaurants. The wine was okay and came in a fantastically colourful bottle which has joined the other objects in my room attempting to hide the giant TV. Sadly, I missed the tasting session at my school. Oh well, there are still all the bottles of spirits in the staffroom for 50 cents a pop...and that's in the nicest school!

In other news...
I'm sorry to announce the untimely death of Bas and Pom. Bas unfortunately succumbed to the fatal drought of The Weekend When Flick Went Climbing and Forgot to Water Him, and was finished off by The Week When Flick Kept Looking At Him And Worrying But Still Never Got Round to Watering Him. Very tragic times, and seemingly completely unavoidable.

Pom held out a little longer, but at the grand old age of 2 months, he sadly turned a rather funny shade of crimson, wrinkled his berries in disgust and with a melodramatic thud, departed from his earthly realm...
After a suitably dramatic panic, I scooped him up, but all to no avail.
His memory shall live on.


I don't want to end on a sad note, so...
Here's a picture of a lovely little piglet at the market. Panic not - he's there for a fundraising stall, not for Sunday roast.


Awwwww....