I have to mention some more about the comic book series Les Parisiens, because I was reminded about a certain joke the other day. I was waiting at Invalides RER station and was repeatedly asked in English and French if it was the right line for the Eiffel Tower (and it’s only February!)

It reminded me of a scene I saw whilst having a flick through the bandes dessinées (BD) at the Angoulême Comic Book Festival, in which a man is asked in different languages every few steps of his journey in the streets of Paris for directions to the Louvre. He utters the same, curt response each time (something like “straight ahead, then first left”) until a curvaceous young female backpacker in a revealing singlet and barely-there cut-off jeans asks the same question. His response, informative and courteous, reads like the Petit Larousse dictionary entry for the Louvre (ha, ha, ha).

Or take this for a scenario – a Parisian finds an unconscious body on the street. He takes out his phone to call for help, then the phone rings with an incoming call. The man chats on to his long-lost acquaintance over the inert body, and then strolls off as he plans to meet the guy for coffee.

Here’s another: a woman goes to a glorious outdoor marketplace. The scenario is typically provincial French, and she and the greengrocer wax lyrical over the qualities, colour and texture of a delectable organic aubergine. One hour later, after the crush of the crowd on the dark and dusty metro and the road rage of the traffic above ground, the woman returns home to realise she’s late, and her children are already waiting for their lunch. The scene ends with the children cheering over their meal: “Yum! Ravioli from a can! We love it when you go to the bio-market, Mum!”

Simple tastes, yes… but it makes me giggle!

I think it’s safe to write about the Angoulême International Comics Festival in terms of obsession. It’s a whole other artistic world out there – one that is prone to a little fanaticism, but I was just there to watch and learn.

I think perhaps I was hoping to pick up an understanding of bandes dessinées (BD) by osmosis, and to a certain extent this was true. With some of the comics I was lulled into appreciation by the vivid graphics and had a flick through without any real attempt to pick up the story. With others, I attempted to have a read where the French seemed simple enough – but this was mainly in BD with really obvious jokes and running gags, or simplistically illustrated biographies of 1920s libertines, like the account of Kiki de Montparnasse by Catel & Bocquet in the Festival’s Official Selection.

Catered for all tastes – from cooking manga and children’s Christian comics to the history of Rasputin and vampish gothic erotic – the festival prompted me to realisation of life’s big questions (i.e. that I much prefer the rugged, aesthetic histories of Hugo Pratt to the haggard exaggeration of Enki Bilal, for instance).

Of the comical BD, I laughed along purely because I could understand the jokes. Like the Bamboo comics Rugbymen parody of the Dieux du Stade calendar or the Fonctionnaires (public servants) edition entitled “Métro, Dodo, Dodo” (playing on the popular phrase “Métro, Boulot, Dodo” which describes the working life routine of transport, job, sleep). The one I could relate most to was the Parisiens. Being greeted by this cover certainly made me smile knowingly – for the image depicted a swearing and seething mass of cars, buses and motorbikes, all at an aggressive stand-still, ground to a halt by a sweet infirm of a grandmother crossing the road at a pedestrian crossing.

Actually – back to real life – there are all sorts of posters around Paris at the moment advertising the new film by the Coen brothers, No Country for Old Men. Obviously, they hadn’t been to Paris, because then the film would have been entitled No Place for Old Men and it would have been all about the perils of the elderly attempting to reverse park their cars and copping a mouthful and hornful from the rest of the traffic…

It’s a good question actually: what is BD? Who are these ominous-sounding bédéphiles? And why does there seem to be a delicate balance of hormones, red wine and bandes dessinées flowing through the veins of French males?

I decided to investigate.

Lucky for me, it didn’t require a mission any more taxing than a weekend back to Guillaume’s hometown, Angoulême, for the International Comic Book Festival. Yup, that’s right - bandes dessinées (BD) are comic books.

When I first arrived in France from Russia, a few years ago now, for a two-week summer vacation with Guillaume, I was a little stunned on seeing his childhood bedroom. Admittedly, he had left the place for his studies at about 15, but nevertheless, it was quite an eerie souvenir of his youth. What really shocked me was his massive collection of comic books – I mean honestly, what kind of guy was I dating? My fears were somewhat quelled when I visited his father’s house – and there was an even bigger collection of comics. If it was hereditary, there was nothing I could do about it. I then found out it was regional, and that BD provides Angoulême her lifeblood and even international recognition.

It’s national too. In my essential dictionary of all things French, Pardon my French, Charles Timoney writes that if you ‘walk around any French bookshop – known as ‘une librarie’ – despite the fact that this might make you think of a library – and you will spot a huge range of cartoon books in quantities far greater than you would ever see in the UK.’

Further “research” on the topic revealed (ok, ok, it was just me chuckling away whilst flicking through Stephen Clarke’s Talk to the Snail) that ‘these days the most inventive French artists are much more interested in comic books, or BD (”bay-day”, an abbreviation of bande dessinée), than straight art. But these should never be called ‘comic books’. They are the neuvième art, and must be taken very seriously. And it is definitely not polite to say that the best BD artists are Belgian.’

Keeping all that in mind, I was ready to brave the festival.

But enough of gossip, smut and blury tabloid pictures of shot stars… Here are some of my photos! Because it looked a bit bleak in the fields surrounding Angoulême over the weekend:

I thought I’d include some of my images from the summer!

Another interesting thing is that Angoulême and the Charente region has a long affiliation with England, and there is apparently a town consisting entirely of resident English-speakers somewhere nearby.

This, I’m told, is due to some link between Richard Coeur-de-Lion, the county of Angoulême, the fourteenth century Treaty of Brétigny… and not just cheap airlines Easyjet and Ryanair bringing a transient population from London, East Midlands and Liverpool in their droves, as I had first assumed.

So it came as no surprise that the hot gossip last summer was that Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie were in the Charente not to buy babies,* but a castle. Well… it came as a surprise to my French companions, and the gossip picked up in both intensity and implausibility as the hours passed.

“Buying a castle in the Charente…

…just outside of Angoulême…

…in La Couronne.”

It came as no surprise to me, as Angoulême is reported to have the highest square-footage of supermarket coverage for population density in all of France, and the location of the alleged “castle”, La Couronne, is particularly “blessed” with an abundance of hamburger restaurants and colossal chain outlets.

I just thought they wanted a little bit of the United States just next to their castle – although I have no idea where they would find a castle around there!

It turned out to be all hyped-up fallacy. Yes, they were in France, quite possibly even ten-pin bowling in Angoulême at some stage, but no, their castle isn’t between the Carrefour, McDonalds and Decathlon in La Couronne. I can’t remember where they were, but honestly, don’t really care.

…

*Ironically, La Couronne would also have been an ideal place for this. Recently, some Romanian gang members were caught trying to sell a two-month-old girl from a car boot in a hypermarket car park near Angoulême. Guillaume and I are not sure exactly where this was… but we have our suspicions that it just might have been La Couronne!

We went back to Angoulême last weekend to kick off the festive season gluttony with a birthday party for Guillaume’s grandmother. I’m still trying to metaphorically patch up where I burst at the seams, and my girth has considerably expanded… but really, I’m just creating health and fitness resolutions to be made and broken for 2008.

It’s high time I mentioned a little more about Angoulême though, as it’s a nice enough place with the unique oddity of being France’s self-crowned “comic book capital”. If I were to elaborate on the French obsession with BD (from bande dessinée, the French term for comic strip), I’d be here all day… so I think it’s sufficient to recommend that you have a look in a French bookshop, marvel and the quantity and variety of BD available, and then come back to me if you have any further questions.

Central Angoulême is surrounded by the city wall ramparts. These ancient fortifications give the old town a strange, elevated feel – from the Charente River below it almost looks like a castle in the sky, levitating above the rest of the urbanscape. From the ramparts, the view stretches on, as far as the eye can see, over the river, train station, industrial areas and then fields. Come mid-September, the usually serene character of this setting changes completely, as Angoulême hosts the historic Circuit des Remparts race, which is, incidentally, the world’s largest gathering of pre-war Bugattis and British vintage cars… (save that one for the local pub trivia night!)

A centre of printing and paper-making since the fourteenth century, Angoulême is now associated with the graphic arts of animation and illustration. Home to the national comic book museum, the Musée de la Bande Dessinée, the town also hosts the annual Angoulême International Comics Festival. Even on a day-to-day basis, you can’t ignore Angoulême’s connection with comics, as the town is decorated by murs peints or comic-book fresco painted walls, which makes for a great wander through the picturesque and pedestrianised old town centre.

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.”

The unofficial “Over 60s” social club for the men of Angoulême meets on daily basis, just outside of house we lived in for the summer. They are a resilient bunch, with no need for any sort of a club house. The only structures they require is a decorative fence and something of a rectangle, but this could all be tossed by the wayside as long as they have a small carry bag, packed with arsenal for the day’s leisure activity.

We lived opposite the boules “playing fields”.

Every morning, as I walked to the local market (we never had the foresight, or need, to shop for anything more than one day at a time), I would pass these men – although I think they were oblivious to it, so intent was the concentration on the game. At first I thought it was sweet – a relaxing pastime – but then I soon came to realise that this was an intense competition, a running battle. Day in, day out these gaulish gladiators would either attempt to use the same old dirty tricks, or accuse each other of cheating. Comme d’habitude.

What was even funnier is that they formed such a formidable force, that any younger-generation boules aspirants were forced from the field until late afternoon or early evening. Even if there was an empty playing pitch, no one seemed brave enough to show off their skill – or flout their lack of – when the boules brigade were around.

However, it was of a totally different character as families with children or young people with six packs of beer assumed the stage. Of an evening, there was to be no measuring with string, but more approximation, a little bit more swearing, and a lot more whooping with glee.

There is a corny postcard available for purchase in Guillaume’s hometown. In fact, it’s sold across the region, but as we never actually bought one, I can’t precisely convey its sublime poetry… but it goes something along the lines of wanting healthy regularly, love – occasionally, work – infrequently… and pineau – every day!

In my last post I mentioned something about regional specialities, so I’d like to elaborate on this a little. Throughout France, regional specialities can be food, drink or both. In the Charente region, it’s pineau.

For the record, pineau is an aperitif alcohol made from a blend of grapes and eau de vie. Try to imagine the sweet cousin of wine and cognac, and you’re in the vicinity. It’s not alcoholic enough to send you reeling, not sweet enough for your teeth to fall out, but very refreshing nonetheless.

Being a sweet-toothed fan of cooking, and prone to having a flick through glossy-paged cookbooks, I was once checking to see the kinds of desserts that were particularly Charentais. Two struck me as particularly notable – Melon Charentais (cut up a rock melon, drench it in pineau, serve) and Fraises Charentaises (same thing, but with strawberries).

I’ve got a friend of a friend who makes his own – but as this is actually illegal in France, I’m not going to either mention their name… or open up a mail order service!

Just a cautionary word for any French going to England and any British coming to France – don’t make first-time assumptions according to window dressings.

It’s a small cultural difference, but one that was a source of confusion for me the first time I visited France… but just because the shutters are closed doesn’t mean the inhabitants have fled to Mexico. Just letting you all know…

French window shutters are an invention both magnificent aesthetically and practically. How else can fellow light sleepers have a few more hours in bed of a morning? Plus, they must be a far more efficient way of conserving energy and regulating temperature than curtains. However, I couldn’t shake the distinct feeling on my first visit(s) to France that either no one was home, or they wanted to create the impression that this was the case. I felt almost claustrophobic being on the street when everything was shut, like I was surrounded by walls rather than dwellings. I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that the shutters were strange, despite their obvious rustically “French” appeal.

Similarly, and here is where it gets funny, Guillaume never felt quite right on his first visit to England. It wasn’t anything that he could clearly put his finger on, but just that equal awkwardness about the windows – that somehow a more open impression was created somewhere through the psychology of curtains. He felt that English windows lacked privacy as the eye is brazenly invited to wander in to the familial intimacy of the living room.

During the summer holidays, we went hiking in the Pyrenees. On passing through a thermal mineral water town which was abandoned after its 19th century heydays, it was pointed out to me that it was practically a ghost town, that no one really lived there anymore. I saw my chance…“But how can you tell?”

“Well, the shutters are closed”.

I couldn’t help but suppress a smile.