Really, don’t bother to do anything in France on a Sunday – except perhaps buying a bouquet of flowers. The very first time I arrived in Angoulême, I was shocked to find that it was somewhat of a very aesthetically-pleasing ghost town. I could marvel at the window displays, but that was about it.

“That’s because it’s Saturday afternoon”, Guillaume patiently explained to me.

The next day, the same thing.

“Well that’s because it’s Sunday”, words of consoling wisdom once again.

The next day, the same thing.

I’m sure you can guess the response.

“Well that’s because it’s Monday.”

No, no, this was really not going to cut it. They’re not at work because it’s Monday? This I really didn’t understand!

I have now learned that the shops closed on Mondays are open on Sundays or vice-versa. It just seems that I had the misfortune to stumble upon all the closed shops.

When I finally found an operational shop, and dared to cross the threshold to enter, I found I was confronted by a thing unprecedented, and quickly back-tracked and fled. It was simply a greeting, a shout of “Bonjour!” but as this was on a holiday from Russia, I felt an instant fright of surprise when a shopkeeper didn’t ignore the presence of the customer.

By the by, there was a French restaurant on our street in Sydney. Guillaume and I often cycled past it, and stopped once to check the menu, just to see if was really French or just vaguely inspired by the French. Guillaume was the first to notice: “Yep, they’re authentic.”

“How do you know?” I asked, thinking he had found the name of the proprietor.

“Well they are only open three and a half days per week, must be the real deal.”