Once upon a time, I had a Russian boyfriend who used “democratic” as an adjective to describe cafes and bars. In his opinion, it seemed that “civil” was its antonym, and as the native English speaker, who was I to beg to differ?

It’s taken a number of years now, but Vanya – I’m finally on your rave-length, I finally understand what you were rabbiting on about for all that time. It only took a weekend in Portugal, away from Paris, to have your ir-rationale finally dawn on me, clear as mud. I guess it’s all about context…

Because Guillaume and I have just spent the weekend away in Lisbon, and after a lethargic few beers in the sunshine, I found myself waxing lyrical about the marvel of “democratic” cafes.

The revelation goes something like this: in a democratic cafe, you can get whatever you want, whenever you want, at a price accessible to everyone. It’s the unpretentious point-and-choose domain of snack bars and kiosks, and I was instantly won over by it in Lisbon.

On one hand, there’s the liberty and equality of Paris, where everyone is free to purchase alcohol or soft drinks at an equal price – yet rest assured the patron has taken liberties with the prices. Budget travellers in Paris are confronted with a veritable minefield of seating arrangements and drink options – do you want that coffee enough to sit down for it, or are you happy to settle for standing at the counter with the old men and other 1€ espresso aficionados? Paris is best for those working on their poker faces, for you get very adept at not raising an eyebrow to a 4.50€ slurp of beer…

Lisbon, on the other hand, is coffee and cake pick-me-ups, snacks and sandwiches galore, and well-endowed bowls of fruit. All in the same sitting, if you’re that way inclined – but with prolific snack bars you may as well wander and graze.

When I see a hot chocolate flavour list reading like an ice-cream parlour menu (classic, dark, white, orange, mint, hazelnut, toffee, coffee, fruits or white & fruits – I kid you not!) tucked away in some corner of a cafe in Paris, maybe I’ll come around.

But for the meantime, I’ll have my taste buds nostalgic for some Portuguese “democratic” cafe culture…

I haven’t been back to the UK since the Russian Old New Year concert in Trafalgar Square. I’ve thought about it, but for no longer than fleetingly (as we’ve run out of baked beans…)

I’d been considering a bit of a social experiment on that trip though, because I’d been reading Watching the English: The hidden rules of English behaviour by Kate Fox, and with my metaphorical sociologist’s cap wedged firmly on my head, I thought I could partake in a little participant observation…

It was eye-opening, to say the least, but that wasn’t because of the behaviour as such, it was more a little bit of surprise at the abundance of Amy Winehouse eyes (I’m not talking glassy or bloodshot, but the exaggerated cat-eye makeup curl) after the French fashion conservatism (some would say refined, classic and sophisticated… but really, it all boils down to unambitious and uninspired).

But my quest was for appearances of another sort. Disillusioned with some previous rudeness in Paris, I was on the search for that legendary English politeness.

Like reserve, privacy humour, weather-talk, class-consciousness, anti-intellectualism and eccentricity – politeness is considered to be one of those essentially or stereotypical English characteristics.

Fox sums it up as irrational excesses of politeness, such as ‘Excuse me, I’m terribly sorry, but you seem to be standing on my foot’ or ‘With all due respect, the right honourable gentleman is being a bit economical with the truth.’ Only in England would you hear – or find yourself uttering – something like that!

My experiment didn’t get off to a good start. I wasn’t let out of my seat enclosure into the aisle by two men, and had to push through – apologising profusely – to continue my social experiment. We’d barely shuffled forward, but I thought this would be the perfect opportunity to test the willingness of the English to queue like sheep (quoting Hungarian humorist George Mikes, Fox writes that ‘an Englishman, even if he is alone, forms an orderly queue of one’). I was sorely disappointed as an exasperated shout echoed across the carriage:

‘Oh for f***’s sake, it’s only a train!’

Hmmm… and that was the point I abandoned that little ethnographic test (until I realised that Fox had also identified ‘hooliganism’ and ‘hypocrisy’ as quintessential English stereotypes, so I feel I had an academic victory!)

I’d like to share this newspaper article with you all; dedicated especially to anyone who happened to leave their office yesterday with a paper fish stuck to their back…

Calling Carla: Brown enlists first lady to give Britain style
Continental good taste and sophistication should be a birthright for all, says PM.

Hope you had a happy April Fool’s Day!

I’m back in Paris, only to find out that I’ve brought the Swiss alpine weather with me. There’s recently been quite a bit of hail, and I’ve just received word that it’s snowing out near Paris Orly airport. Needless to say, I have one eye on my computer screen and one eye out the window, but it doesn’t look like we’re going to get any of the white stuff in our ‘hood.

Not that there was any shortage of it in Switzerland. Even though the first few days were warm (and the melting wasn’t just confined to the plethora of fondue pots in Crans-Montana), there was a steady stream of heavy snow for the last few days of my Valais vacation.

So I’ll just have to remember fondly all the natural beauty of the slopes and the surgically enhanced “beauty” of the skiers…

It was also fun to people-watch at après-ski leisure activities, because Crans-Montana seemed to draw all sorts. From the adherents of mountain glam to the wild-eyed, ruddy cheeked alpine types, it was like an exhibition entitled ‘Mountain Mode: Over the Ages’, as there were still a lot of lurid 1970s jumpsuits being proudly modelled. I fell into the latter dishevelled category of course… through preference as much as necessity.

My main regret on returning to Paris is that I have to resume brushing my hair. I love ski (and surf) holidays for just being able to hand-sculpt your hair flat!

I can’t help but feel that my ski holiday has been scripted straight from a film. Not just any film, mind you, but a French cult classic. If you’re not on holidays, you may as well laugh at others who are. Move over Chevy Chase, it’s National Lampoon French-style…

Learn a few lines from Les Bronzés font du ski (1979) and you’ll be the life of any French party. Watch the film in its entirety and you’ll have an unnerving feeling of holidaying in one huge ski stereotype.

Les Bronzés font du ski is the second of the three Les Bronzés films, in which the characters take on the Val d’Isère Mountains in the late 1970s height of skiing vogue when any forecasts of global warming would have been greeted with a raised bottle of coconut oil and welcomed as a prospect of a year-round golden glow tan. The first, simply entitles Les Bronzés (1978), introduces the oddball acquaintances at an Ivory Coast Club Med and satirises resort vacations.

The recent third film Les Bronzés 3: Amis pour la vie (2006) reunites the characters after a 27 year absence in which they have all immersed themselves in civil life and are older, wealthier and with a change of tastes for the luxury Prunus Resort hotel, but still the same capacity for corny jokes.

The following clip from Les Bronzés font du ski is a bit of a joke about all those mandatory requirements of a ski holiday (thou shalt eat equal to an annual consumption of cheese, ham and potatoes in one week; thou shalt indulge in some potent local firewater; thou shalt engage with eccentric mountain folk… and all surrounding décor – everything – must be wooden and kitsch).

The group is seemingly stranded at a mountain-top refuge and obliged to sample some of the hospitality offered by their impromptu hosts. Unfortunately for them, it’s a knock-your-socks-off strength eau de vie, with a frog pickled in the bottle. The liquor is shallot-flavoured with garlic added “for taste”. Even if you don’t understand French, the gag is universally comprehendible…

On airing my croque-monsieur complaints or quote unquote constructive criticism to Guillaume, it seems that a few essential ingredients were missing on my first foray into the world of French toasted cheese sandwiches. Firstly, and most obviously, France – but I was sure that the Swiss equivalent would have been suitable cheesy. Secondly, it seems that my café was a bit tight with their dairy products. I only had one slice of cheese, but as Guillaume describes it, there possibly should have been more:

‘First bread, cheese, ham, cream, cheese, bread, cream, cheese… no, wait, bread, cheese, ham, cheese, bread, cream, cheese… or even bread, cream, cheese, ham, bread, cream, cheese… eh, whatever you do, just top it with cream then cheese and the ham-cheese-cream combo in the middle is up to you…’

Now is it just me (or is there a general consensus) – but with that type of precise culinary directions, is there a market for him to launch his own cookbook? Celebrity chef in the making, I just know it!

It reminds me of a recipe from a Finnish friend for “Fashion Lady Academic Soup” which is complete with all the study and leisure activities in which you need to partake whilst waiting for the soup to cook and in between adding all the necessary ingredients over something like an eight-hour academic day and aperitif hour(s). Here’s to slow food!

Have you ever had a feeling of semi-anticipation about a glorified and/or typical national foodstuff only to find out that you’ve got the same back home under a different name?

Enter stage right the protagonist of this sordid tale, Monsieur Croque a.k.a Mr. Toasted Ham & Cheese Sandwich.

I had high hopes for my first croque-monsieur. This is because this is all we were ever taught to order in my first ever French lessons. We had it explained to us – ham, cheese, bread – but the way our teacher’s eyes glazed over in fond recollection made me think there was really something more to it.

There’s not. Ham, cheese, bread. Not even the most fantastic cheese or bread either (both fields in which France excels). More like primary school lunch plastic cheese and 15p a loaf Tesco bread.

Now I know that she just realised we’d never be anything more than students or budget backpackers…

Anyway, I do appreciate the sense of humour in the name. Not exactly the male version, but I did have a chuckle the first time I heard about the female companion version, the croquet-madame. But what’s the difference?

Well unlike French nouns, this is a little easier to determine gender. The “Madame” has eggs…

I’m skiing in Switzerland at the moment, away from my desk, but this is not an out-of-office automated reply. To tell you the truth, I’m lapping it up. I love pretending I’m glamorous enough to have a chalet on the mountain-side and regular ski holidays, but it’s so far from the klutzty, ice-bruised, rag-tag, borrowed-garments truth that I think I have “accompanying au pair” written across my forehead.

Oh well, may as well make the most of it.

The slopes I’ve had several very close, powder-biting encounters with are Crans-Montana, in the Swiss canton of Valais. I wasn’t familiar with the region previously, so I’ve been trying to do some research at the locally tourist bureau. This is difficult when, judging by the available literature, everyone else’s interested in the area hinge on skiing, golfing, Dolce & Gabbana puffy parkas, Omega watches, Cartier watches, Dior watches (oh yeah… Switzerland… it took me a little while to catch on!)

But anyway – here it goes – five things you possibly didn’t know about Valais.

• Geographically, it seems to be pretty simple to navigate your way to Crans-Montana via Sierre. From France, just follow the Rhône valley up from Chamonix-Mont-Blanc and you could keep on until Milan, Italy, if you didn’t feel inclined to stop.
• Valais is two-thirds French-speaking, plus really “talks the talk” by being the largest wine-making canton in Switzerland.
• Raclette (the cheese) for raclette (the cheesy melting moments dish) originated from Valais. Not that you can forget that fact in Crans village. Every dining establishment seems to want to wow the passing trade with their raclette and the other famous Swiss staple, fondue.
• After his somewhat orchestrating role in blowing up the despised Vendôme Column during the final stages of the 1871 Paris Commune, renowned French Realist movement painter Gustave Courbet spent some of his final years of exile in Valais. While in my humble opinion he was lucky to have escaped the firing squad and with plenty of worse places in which to find himself displaced, Courbet apparently disagreed and essentially drank himself to death.
• And Wikipedia tells me that the canton’s central Rhône valley is one of the drier parts of Switzerland, but paradoxically receives some of the highest levels of precipitation. But that’s all due to the large amount of snow and rain on the peaks.

Well there you go!

News just in: now in the really important, ground-breaking news of world significance, I’m going away on holidays! I’m so excited (just can’t hide it, about to lose control and I think I like it) so I’ll post my March-April “to do” list online.

First, Switzerland. This isn’t so great as it isn’t exactly independent travel (rather, I’m going away skiing with the family I’m au-pairing for) but at least it’s subsidised! (Insert wicked self-interested laugh here).

I’ll be back in Paris for less time than it takes to nurse a hangover (not that that activity is on my itinerary, I was being figurative with time expressions), and then off to Lisbon for the weekend. I’m not such a jetsetter, it’s just that Guillaume’s sister is living there at the moment, and directly after the Switzerland trip is the only time I can take off work. I’m looking forward to it because I’ve never been to Portugal before (which shares a spot on the “Never been to in Europe” list with Iceland, Norway, Cyprus, Albania, Macedonia, Belarus, Moldova and the Ukraine).

During the school holidays in April, I’m going to Seville and Grenada. It will also be my first time in Andalusia, so I’ve been doing some research. Well… I’ve just been checking out a heap of other blogs about living in Spain.

My favourite is www.morethansunandpaella.com by a lass named Naranja, especially when she manages to snap choice photos like this frog roadkill shot. Not that I’m harbouring any anti-frog tendencies by including it in my blog but it makes me wonder… Do you think that it means that foul play is suspected? Perhaps the cause of death of the frog will be released after a police investigation? Who knows?

When I was living in Russia, I started to take ballet classes. This was pretty remarkable in itself, one of those momentous taming of the tomboy life developments. It got pretty embarrassing at times (for more gory details, check out my Europe Trotter post and have an artistically-appreciative perve at the Farukh Ruzimatov video I rustled up from YouTube!), but the most embarrassing instance in my “ballet career” actually happened in France.

This is hard to believe, as most of the time in my St. Petersburg class I was pirouetting on thin ice in terms of the stuff-up stakes. It didn’t get off to a good start. I turned up to the first lesson with pink slippers (perhaps the Grishko sales assistants were trying to offload this unpopular shade of baby-bum on unsuspecting foreigners and dance novices), only to have it announced by our militaristic teacher that our “uniform” would have to match the colour of our slippers. I balked at this prospect, and instead wore all black for the duration of the course. She never mentioned anything, and if she did, I would have feigned a convenient language incomprehension.

But the worst was in France, in a little town called Hyères on the Côte d’Azur. I had just arrived there from St. Petes on a gust of icy Siberian winds, fresh from my ballet classes, and seeking a little respite in the sun. Guillaume, who was living there at the time, suggested that we find a ballet class for me, which I thought sounded like a great idea (I was thoroughly enjoying ballet at the time). We found a dance studio with an instructor who, ‘no problem at all, I can speak English’ announced that he had the perfect class for me when I told him that I had been only dancing for six months in Russia.

I went to the class, and to my surprise I found myself surrounded by lithe 15-year-olds, and not the frumpy, tracky-dacked adult learners I had been expecting. We started and then I realise what was wrong. He thought that I had been in Russia for six months to dance, not the actuality of only starting six months previously when I happened to be in Russia.

Merde! It was deeply, shamefully humiliating, to describe it in the best possible terms. On his encouragement I tried to stick it out for the whole class, but in the end I held my head high (and tears in) and made what I hope was a graceful exit. I packed my bag, ran home in tears, and never went back there!


My worse-for-wear Grishko ballet slippers (version II, in black). They’ve taken a battering since being converted to everyday house slippers!