A few years ago, I was in Belize during election time. It was something quite different for me, with election slogans accompanied by steel drums, and the opposition party had a sausage sizzle on the beach, surrounded by the milky blue waters of the Caribbean. Quite the political party, I remember chuckling to myself…

Last weekend topped all that. I went to see a host of French and international bands (along with a crush of thousands of others, so it was hardly an intimate encounter) at La Fête de l’Humanité. Held in the outskirts of Paris at La Courneuve, the Fête de l’Huma (as it’s affectionately known) is an annual music festival organised by the Communist newspaper L’Humanité. This year the festival promised three-days of sensational music, with the leathery torso of Iggy Pop (+ Stooges) providing an intriguing headlining draw card.

I only, unfortunately, managed two late nights of it, because I had to work on both Friday and Saturday during the afternoons. A little over-indulgence on Saturday night, wrote off Sunday for me, and instead of the final sun-drenched day of the festival, I enjoyed the… umm… vistas of my bedroom. Ahem… it happens…

But aside from the music, the festival was something else. An installation of bars and restaurants on a phenomenally enormous site rendered a grid-like maze of white-tarpaulined havens of indulgence, frivolity and ruin. There were many times I had to stop and marvel at how “French” it all was, for in which other country could you find festival food venues offering 32€ menu packages, containing six courses, and paper-clothed tables with serviettes and wine glasses? Each regional communist party had a tent serving specialities of their region, which admittedly contributed directly to my downfall on Saturday night. More about that one later… with photos…

As a child, I used to fancy myself as some sort of a gumshoe girl detective, as if I could emulate Nancy Drew or Trixie Belden (I think for a whole year I even signed all my school assignments as “Trixie”… but the only thing with the whiff of mystery about that would have been for my teacher, who had to figure out who this “Trixie” was, and what exactly she had done to Bettina*)

But now, in France, I’ve found a case worthy of my perceived abilities of detection: where has all the fresh milk gone? Writing about French cheese really made me ponder this one, because I thought that in France there would be no question of the quality of taste over the quality of health. Look, I’ve got to make a contentious statement early on, set the stage and what not, but UHT sucks. I can’t think of any more eloquent way to put it.

I’ve got a contact in the milk industry here. I’ll investigate. But please leave your houses and don’t remain white-knuckled on your computer chair for the next 24 hours. Go enjoy a nice cuppa, splash it liberally with fresh milk, and I’ll be back with the answers to the hard-hitting questions soon…

* Actually growing up outside of a German-speaking country with a name like Bettina was always traumatic for me, so I would invent all sorts of nicknames, and long to have been called Rebecca or Rachael. For instance, throughout high school I was known as “Fred”, which would always result in hilarity and confusion whenever a friend called my home, spoke to my parents, and inevitably forgot what was my real name. (For the record, I like my name now).