I’m prepared to be about as open-minded as a traveller comes.* Sure I might have some gripes about France and Russia, but I hope it’s interpreted as all in the name of a laugh and a bit of tongue and cheek cultural insight. I’ll drink like a vodka-pickled fish or revert to teetotalism… I’ll have shoes off, shoes on, kitchen shoes, bathroom shoes, communal guest slippers… cover my arms, legs or head… not whistle indoors, refrain from blowing my nose, eat entrails… be charming, cordial, charismatic, reckless, relaxed or reverential. Anywhere I lay my head is my home. I’ll respect any cultural, religious or political atmosphere, more or less. BUT I will not live in a state of fear. I refuse to be scared just because the rest of the UK finds it profitable to maintain a level of panic. Give me France or Russia any day, I’d prefer not to be mollycoddled by the dulcet tones of reminder announcements, wrapped in a CCTV security blanket – or have my bag searched before boarding a train again.

This is where this post is going, as I had all my possessions rifled through before getting on the Eurostar back to Paris again. I didn’t realise I wasn’t allowed to have a knife/fork/spoon camping combo-set on a train. As all the contents were taken from my bag, a swab test taken (lucky I washed my backpack since lugging around all that bomb-making apparatus), and then the guy decided to make light of the situation by observing that “Ah, you like baked beans.”

Now baked beans are a bit of an in-joke between Guillaume and me. When we were travelling around in Australia, our gas cooker broke, and so we would just heat a can of beans on the engine of our van during a day’s 500km drive. Not that this was any of that guy’s business. I half muttered, half giggled an answer, tripping over my embarrassed words and fretting that I would miss my train – when really I should have tersely replied “Yes, I like black socks too, I’m glad we are now acquainted.”

I just don’t understand. I had plenty of time to stab someone with my knife/fork/spoon combo during my 48hrs in London… why would I wait until the homeward-bound last moment on the Eurostar? I was quite looking forward to getting back to Paris, but maybe the prospect of crossing the Channel makes some other Brits a bit cagey. Who knows?

Now Australians REALLY have something to be scared about!

*…but I won’t do that. There are some limits to my tolerance. I won’t smoke tobacco, drink coca-cola or put recyclables in the normal bin (or baguettes in the recycling, as some of my neighbours regularly do…)

To complete my “research on stressful shopping experiences”, we also tried to do our once-in-six-months mega-shop at a nearby Carrefour hypermarket on the afternoon of December 31st. Just as we started loading up our trolley, an announcement came over the loud speakers: ‘Today we have the special closing time of 6pm. Registers will close in 30 minutes.’ People subsequently went nuts and after ten frantic minutes trying to get everything we needed, Guillaume just headed for the checkout to wait.

I just thought I’d grab a few more items, but I got caught in the grocery gridlock. It was insane. No one was moving anywhere, and no one wanted to give any ground. It was just a stationary mash of bodies and trolleys. There were amazing displays of solidarity though; people were passing their items over the heads of others, including random strangers in the chain, to friends similarly waiting in line with the trolley. The lines went to the end of aisles, and I don’t see how anyone could have got out of there before midnight.

Caught in the crowds, I began visualising that everyone would still be there prior to the stroke of midnight. I envisaged that there would be a huge countdown, and then people would start kissing each other and cracking open warm bottles of champagne and eating whatever happened to be in their aisle for an hors d’oeuvre. We’d all be friends for the coming year, whereas back in 2007 we were just hostile bodies pushed together for two-for-one Christmas chocolates, washing detergent and orange juice.

In fact, every time (well… both times) we’ve been to Carrefour it’s been stressful. The first time was a Saturday morning following payday, and that was the second. Of course we should have gone earlier, but it was much nicer to spend the morning ice-skating!

Our strategy worked well though – I was able to backtrack and dash through an empty aisle, leap over a fire exit barrier, and land our extra items on the conveyor belt just as the cashier was serving Guillaume, who was in turn frazzled from his anxious wait.

As we left, there was an angry man arguing with the shop security. “But you didn’t advertise on the radio that you were closing earlier!” We shook our heads wistfully, that man didn’t realise how lucky he was to be spared the inferno within…

Shortly after Christmas, trying to describe our feast in a telephone call to my parents, I used some throwaway line like ‘we ate like pigs… if only pigs ate their own kind…’

There was a brief moment of contemplative silence as the comment sunk in, both on their end and mine, then I revised it to ‘well, actually, we ate exactly like pigs that happened to have access to oysters and ducks…’

This got me thinking about the significant amount of pork in the French diet, which in turn reminded me of an article I read last year about pork soup in French homeless shelters.

Does anyone else remember this story? Apparently the group SDF (Solidarité des Français or Solidarity of the French), who is associated with the far-right Bloc Identitaire, has been handing out the soupe au cochon dubbed “Identity soup” to homeless people (or Sans Domicile Fixe - also SDF) since 2004. The issue only received extensive media coverage after it was banned in Strasbourg in January 2006. A year later, however, a Paris judge ruled that the organisation could not be accused of discrimination as there wasn’t any evidence that they had refused to serve Jews and Muslims (despite both not being able to eat pork for religious reasons).

Here is an excerpt from The Guardian article of January 3, 2007:

…However, the SDF website leaves no doubt about the group’s intentions. As well as the recipe for pork soup it advises how it should be served - with bread and wine - in a “Gallic atmosphere” with no queues. “The only condition to eat with us: to eat pig,” it reads, concluding: “Attention, cheese, dessert, coffee, clothes, snacks go with the pig soup: no pig soup, no dessert - the only rule of our action: our own before the others”…

They’re still at it, I see, meeting at Montparnasse on a weekly basis during the winter. Reading about it again makes me feel distinctly uncomfortable as it seems that pork soup is the essential ingredient for some sort of deluded Gallic pastoral myth of creation. Of course they can’t write about exclusion, but instead they write about inclusion in such epic nationalistic terms. Such a load of tripe… although according to this blog, it marks a return to medieval rhetoric correlating pork with Christianity.

Who says that history doesn’t repeat itself?

On a happier note – a Chinese stamp that celebrates the Year of the Pig with a sweet-and-sour pork flavoured stamp. Scratch the front or lick the back for a taste!

With true last-minute aplomb, it seems that everyone in Paris had just realised that the legendary art nouveau boulevard Haussmann department stores were decorated for Christmas. However, we found ourselves amongst the pack at Printemps and Galeries Lafayette the other day for an entirely other (but far more dubious) pretext.

I’m glad we went though (but I’d already seen the decorations pre-Christmas in surprisingly far less of a crowd), as these 9ème arrondissement grands magasins are a sight worth seeing. Graced by stained glass and cupolas, they date back to the era of the rebuilding and modernisation of Paris by civic planner Georges-Eugène Haussmann in the mid- to late-nineteenth century.

I’m surprised Guillaume and I didn’t get stopped by visa control on entering the ostentatious upper levels of Galeries Lafayette though. We were obviously illegal aliens, entering foreign territory, but I had to hiss whisper to Guillaume “we can’t scoff too much, we’re in their designer world now…”

But this is like complaining of a chill in Antarctica, what was I honestly expecting?

Just as I was getting a bit antsy in the crush of people, Guillaume pulled me from the chaos on into a subterranean arcade to show me a shop he had discovered a few days earlier. It turned out to be the retail space of an “As seen on TV” shop, masquerading as a chic Paris boutique. It was awful. Guillaume wandered through shop, entranced by the bad taste and marvels of mail-order inventions, whilst I stood outside on the verge of a hissy fit.

In revenge, I took a catalogue to add to our collection of toilet reading magazines. It lasted only a few days at our place before Guillaume banished it to the recycling bin on the charge of bad grammar and ridiculous claims about a set of kitchen carving knives ‘used in aeronautics and surgery.’

Oh come off it! (or as the French would say, n’importe quoi – my new favourite expression, especially when pronounced as if the four syllables were distinctly emphasised individual words).

Whenever I’ve quaffed a few 1664s and am heading home afterwards, I always find myself sitting near the door of the metro, caught up in an SMS dialogue – or even metaphorically scribbling notes for this blog in a typical “I’ve forgotten pen and paper, better converse with my saved text messages” fashion.

I catch myself mid-conversation and realise that this is something done against all better judgement. But then I remind myself where I am, hope that it hasn’t caught on yet, and resume… though in the back of my mind I’m expecting a St. Petersburg-style karate chop to relieve me of my property.

What on earth am I talking about? It’s as clear as mud – the stolen mobile phone seat – obviously!

I was warned about this in Russia only the day before I actually saw it happen. Don’t have your phone out if you’re sitting near the door of the metro, the timely advice went, because just as “Attention, doors closing” is announced, someone will leap towards the door, deliver you a swift blow to the forearm on the way, and before you realise what has happened, they’ll be safe on the platform with your mobile and you’ll be halfway to the next station.

I thought it was an exaggeration, but then witnessed the move being carried out against a stunned young girl. In fact, everyone was shaken from their public transport stupor, drew a sharp intake of breath, was momentarily indignant, but then resumed their previous listlessness when it became clear that there was nothing that could be done.

I haven’t heard of it happening in Paris yet though…

There’s one other thing about behaviour on the Paris metro though – holding the doors open at the exit. It’s a quirky sociological ritual. Everyone feigns surprised excessive gratitude when another holds the door open for them, even running up the last few stairs so not to inconvenience the door-holder. If you make the mistake of not holding the doors however (accidentally learned this one the hard way), the virulence and hostility of the following commuter cannot be masked. If it’s expected behaviour – why the ritual of astonishment? Don’t get me wrong, I like this courteous interaction a lot, but we all play the game…

For every Englishman, there is the Irishman. For every Russian, an Estonian. For the French – there are the Belgians.

But French humour doesn’t deserve such a bad rap. It’s not all jokes about the Belgians (although here’s one: “The train to Milan will leave at 7:45; the train to Berlin will leave at 8:20; the train to Brussels will leave when the big hand is on the five and…”).

Take, for instance, one of the most deliciously bizarre black comedies I’ve seen in the last few years – Serial Lover. In this off-beat comedy, an attractive young Parisian accidentally knocks off all her suitors in an evening of morbid mishap. You’ll never be able to look at an ice-skate in the same way again…

Having a poke around in the way of “research”, I also see that French actress Isabelle Nanty also played in this film. Name doesn’t ring a bell? Well the face will. Nanty is best known to an English-language audience as the insufferable hypochondriac, Georgette, who works behind the tabac counter in Amelie (or Amelie of Montmartre or Le Fabuleux destin d’Amélie Poulain, however you know it). She also plays Itinéris (a pun on a mobile phone company, thus translated as Vodafonis) in Asterix & Obelix: Mission Cleopatra.


Meet Georgette…

Isabelle Nanty is also our only brush with fame in Paris so far. Having a coffee one day near Montparnasse, I butted in when Guillaume was talking about something, to observe: “She looks just like the woman from Amelie and Asterix.”

Indignant about the interruption, Guillaume continued and concluded what he was saying, and then began to berate me for my inability to listen to a stream of conversation without adding my off-the-topic two cents.

“Which woman?” he added, “I don’t even know who you’re talking about.”

I sulked, and argued that it wasn’t such a big deal for him to turn his head mid-monologue, and explained in no uncertain terms her role in Amelie, and with a lot of uncertain terms a bit of… “you know, in that A-Z comedian special we saw, which fortunately we only saw around the M’s, she was on it. From Asterix, the bzzt-upt-bzzst mobile phone woman with bad reception… well, you know, she’s just sitting a couple of tables… you’ll see.”

And sure enough, it was her. Our heated discussion immediately cooled to silence as Guillaume turned to gawk and I began to blush and concentrate intently on my coffee.

“Stop… looking… you’re… being… too… obvious” I hissed into my saucer, but Guillaume was overjoyed at our first star spotting. It was funny though, when we finally relaxed and resumed with our drinks, to watch the some of the passers-by as recognition also slowly dawned for them. People would slow their stride, half-turn their head as their jaw simultaneously dropped, and then regathering their gait, would wander away with a smile and a quick double-check as they passed.

I went on a round-about roadtrip to Amsterdam the other week. Because the transport strike was still on in full-force in France, I thought I would avoid it all and arrange a rideshare. For 25€ and a five hour drive, I thought I had found the ultimate solution to my travel predicament.

Now… if I believed in omens, I would have avoided a whole lot of trouble for myself. The morning didn’t get off to a very good start. I almost thought I wouldn’t make it. There wasn’t a vélib’ rental bicycle in sight. The formerly erratic metro service had reached some consistency – in that it was consistently NOT arriving. Above ground, I found a bicycle only to have someone else rent it on the sly from under my nose. Back underground, still no metro… back to the street, where I saw a vélib’ arrive and with my elbows out I muscled on in to rent it and ride like the wind to the pick-up point. My panic was unfounded. The driver was an hour late.

When I got into the car, frozen through and trying to defrost my hands with a scalding cup of coffee offered by the driver, he revealed that we were going via Boulogne.

“Boulogne?” I queried, silently groaning on the inside, as the Bois de Boulogne was just near my travel point of origin.

“Not the Bois de Boulogne” he replied, uncannily reading my mind, “that’s what I first thought. But it’s Boulogne-sur-Mer. On the coast. Near Calais.”

Oh.

“And what time do you think we’ll arrive in Amsterdam?”

“At five, or six, let’s see how we go.”

We drove and drove across the northern French countryside, only stopping for petrol and to check out some sort of crop in a field because the driver didn’t recognise the leaves. I think it was some sort of delay-planted or growth-stunted sugar beet (if the surrounding harvests were of any indication) but the debate is still open.

By 5pm we were only just arriving to Boulogne to pick up the two desperate Australian backpackers stranded by the strike. Then – “well, as we’ve come this far” – we went to see the sea and took the 29km scenic coastal route to Calais.

And yes… I’ll admit it… it was very scenic and beautiful. I’m (grudgingly) glad to have seen it, but why couldn’t this trip have been at any other time – or just when I wasn’t in such a pressing rush to get to Amsterdam?

The story didn’t end there however (thankfully), and the ride continued arduously. Click here to have a read of the next little detour on our adventure…

As they say in real estate, it’s all about location, location, location. And I think I have been lucky enough to be the recipient of a pretty choice piece of property.

Out on a stroll the other day (I’ll try and imagine it was to go and have a coffee whilst gazing at the Eiffel Tower, although it was probably something less romantic, like trying to find a vélib’ rental bicycle or begrudgingly walking to a metro station not affected by strike action), I discovered I am living a mere stone throw away from the Fédération Française de Scrabble. I stopped, double-took, and stood in front of the sign for a little while, pondering for good measure.

It got me wondering about this trivia-laden game.

Did you know that point allocation changes for each letter according to international context? It makes total sense when you think about it.

For instance, Z is worth only one point in the Polish-language version, but is missing altogether in the Welsh-language version (along with Q and X). However, Y and W, both common Welsh letters are only worth one point, as are “LL” and “DD”. On the other end of the co-habiting spectrum, “NG” or “RH” appearing together on the same tile score a bumper ten points!

Apparently the point of contention in French Scrabble rules is whether or not you are allowed to use conjugated forms or just infinitive verbs. In English [to have: I have, you have, he/she has, we have, they have] is not an issue. But for the French [avoir: j’ai, tu as, il/elle a, nous avons, vous avez, ils/elles ont] it’s a totally different kettle of fish!

There are also many quirky variations on the rules. For instance, when I’m au pairing, rules are bent to play bilingual English/French with the children, even though I’m the only one not capable of playing both competently. I read that one of the favourite tour bus activities of American rapper Ludacris is “Hip-Hop Scrabble”, where only words such as “bling” and “hizzo” are permitted in the game.

I think a version of “common misspellings” or “words that should have made it into the English language” would be right up my alley… But speaking of my alley, maybe I’ll just go and have a word with my neighbours at the Federation.

I love a little collective hysteria. I think it can be quite a bonding experience, and to tell the truth, I even get a bit of a kick out of the hearsay-taken-as-fact about the transport strike. Everyone has a little titbit of (mis)information that is taken as gospel and traded on the street for other bits of groundless gossip about when we will actually be able to catch a metro again.

The only “scare” that I don’t like is anything involving lice. I don’t think this is overly prudish of me. One of the children that I work with came home from a school camp recently with a note in hand, warning about the outbreak of headlice amongst the campers. I’m not squeamish about blood or any other goo, but on that announcement, I noticed myself backing away slowly.

Because headlice are a pain. Especially when you don’t have your own mother around to painstakingly comb out the clinging eggs. I can say this with absolute authority and clarity of memory, because the first time I came back home from Russia I was accompanied by a stowaway headfull of lice.

I had been staying just outside a town called Yaroslavl, in a barrak (a sort of a storage unit on the outskirts of town, mainly used for converting into garages to store and tinker with old cars) that had been converted into a squat. There were two double beds, and up to thirteen people sleeping there of a night. The long-term residents were mainly boys; their female companions lived with their parents and visited during the day to run errands like bringing jam to mix with tea, and washing the boys’ clothes (!) After four days making street busking fire-shows and visiting the golden sites of Yaroslavl, I left, never to return. Unfortunately a little slice of Yaroslavl was to remain with me…

Back home again, it took a determined effort on the part of both my mum and I to expel the headlice. A colleague of my mother’s was also going through the same lice problem at the time, and they found themselves chatting about it.

“Oh really”, my mum said, “and how old is your daughter?”

“Six”, was the reply.

I think mum rapidly changed the topic rather than reveal that I was twenty-two…

It makes my head itch just thinking about it.

Dear Régie Autonome des Transports Parisiens (RATP),

I’m sending this open letter to prepare you for the far more venomous one you will receive when I find someone to undertake the task of translating my vitriolic rant.

I have accepted the fact that I can no longer live with my boyfriend, because he is unable to commute to work from where we live and instead is residing with his grandmother. We have telephones, email, weekend visits… really, it’s like quite a benevolent jail sentence, so I thank you for at least allowing us that much contact.

I’m lucky in that I work close to home, and am not reliant on either the trains or the discarded vélib’ rental bicycles which taunt you from a distance with seeming availability, only to have a previous reservation or a flat tire. I’ve accepted that it’s no longer the best idea to have my bicycle on the street, because “bike-theft season” goes hand in hand with “transit-strike season” (the complementary colours of autumn).

The thing is, those of us with no other option were hoping for the bare minimum coverage to be maintained. One metro per hour isn’t too much to ask, why halt this at 7.30 on a Monday evening? I don’t think that anyone at the negotiating table between the workers, unions and government actually depends on public transport to get to work. Sure it’s convenient, but everyone in Paris seems to have a car tucked away somewhere – I mean, why work in the capital if a company car isn’t included in the perks?

Please find enclosed (well you will), our two tickets for the eclectic Balkan musicians, Emir Kusturica & the No Smoking Orchestra. I’ve heard you are refunding all pre-purchased tickets rendered invalid due to strike action, so I thought I would add these to the account.

Instead of an energetic evening, dancing as if possessed by a merlot devil to the crash of cymbals and expressive gypsy melodies played out on piano accordions, I’m sitting at home, alone, in my pyjamas, with only a ‘très très chocolat’ cake from Brittany to keep me company.

Lucky I’m not from the United States, otherwise I’d be suing for damages as well.

Yours in all sincerity,

Bettina