May 2012 in France: a country in microcosm

I've written before about how the month of May in this fair patch of earth is more orientated towards work avoidance than anything else, and this particular edition could well take the proverbial biscuit, still made in France by Lu, probably.

May hosts a slew of public holidays: the 1st, the Fête du Tavail when no-one works (go figure; this is how they define labour), the 8th, Armistice Day, 1945 (Fête de la Victoire, like they had any hand in THAT, right?), where Fritz gets his nose rubbed in it yet again, despite now being Jacques' best friend, sort of a thing; the 17th, Ascension Day and the 28th, Pentecost. Church and State are seperate in France, remember. Do keep up. All these days off are just to get the French in training for the big summer holidays, where three or four weeks away from the desk are usual, so May is their dress rehearsal, their dummy run for greater things to come. May plays out differently every year, depending on when the public holidays fall. Invariably there's at least one 'pont', a bridge where a work day is just basically forgotten as it had the misfortune to lie between a public holiday and a weekend. 'Doing the bridge' is actively encouraged and is as legitimate a lifestyle statement as a lifetime spent on benefits is a respectable career choice in this most divinely self-deluded of nations.

The Fingernails' school recently informed us that Monday, April 30th and Friday, May 18th would be tuition-free; the days being made up on the Wednesday afternoons of those respective weeks; Wednesday being a day where there's normally no school after 11.30am. No doubt they would say that this is to counteract parent-driven mass absenteeism due to the public holidays neighbouring these and the resulting departures for four-day long weekends. Whatever the reasoning, I find it absolutely mind-blowing. In Germany, the parents would be fined if their children did not attend school on those days. Here in France, they just say 'What the hell; have a four-day weekend, even if you do lose a few hours tuition in the process' (The lost half-day is not made up). Who can be surprised when French children grow up with, shall we say, a rather 'relaxed' attitude towards the importance of work when, from a very early age, the state tells them it's not really that big a deal? This year, it just so happens to be a motherfucker of a deal, as the country will probably wake up on May 7th with a new 'socialist' president who seems to have a rather individual approach to budget deficits and public spending, one which is sending shivers down the spines of many other centre-right European leaders. François Hollande, or 'Flanby' - a brand of industrial crème caramel - as one of his party colleagues christened him, alluding to his spinelessness and general lack of substance, is completely untried in the hothouse of ruling politics, having only ever led his party (in opposition) and been a functionary since graduating from ENA, the Ecole Nationale d'Administration, the elite civil-service training school in Paris. Not even having held a ministerial post under Mitterand (when everyone else - probably even Chairman Mao - did), he has no experience of actually being part of a body that runs a country. Seeing as his alleged policies contradict those of Frau Merkel on virtually every front, we're in for quite a ride. I say 'alleged' policies because no-one, neither here in France or anywhere in the political world, has been privy to his thoughts. He has run an entire campaign on the 'Vote for me; I'm not Sarkozy' ticket, and it appears to have been sufficient to smooth his way to the Elysée Palace. Oh world. If only Sarko were not so disliked; a great percentage of the rancour aimed towards him is due to what people consider his dirtying of the presidential position: too bling-bling, a lack of gravitas, too parvenu, in short. For a country that got rid of their monarchy over 200 years ago they're still much more traditional, up-tight and stuffy than we are. Maybe because they got rid of their monarchy…They love to overlook the good impression that Sarko has made abroad, but Chirac suffered the same fate back in 2007. That wasn't surprising, though; that man did NOTHING at home at all. I tend to think it was because of his inertia that the French voted in 2000 to reduce the presidential term of office from seven years to five.

Hollande's ex-common law wife and mother of his four children, Ségolène Royal, failed spectacularly against Sarkozy in 2007. The current party leader, Martine Aubry, daughter of one-time European Commisioner Jacques Delors, is also mayor of Lille, where she's installed a rather unique way of using the city's swimming pools. You can see these two babes with their guru below. The Cock au Vin in the pot belongs to Dominique Strauss-Kahn, ex-IMF President and serial womaniser (to put it, er, politely), whose political career was severed at the root in the Sofitel Hotel, Times Square a year ago. Goodness only knows how it didn't catch up with him before. Well we know, actually: those highly placed in French public life just love to protect their own…

So, this merry month of May, we'll see if France really can impose a new economic model on Europe or whether their election will be just another round of delusional navel-gazing, all the while blaming everyone else for their woes. It wouldn't be the first time, so don't bother holding your breath; that smacks of too much work.

Cheap booze and cigs, if that's what rocks your world.

Just a quick thought : the French can often be very critical of the Brits who head over to Calais on day trips and fill up their vehicules with cheaper booze and cigs than they find at home, but they’re no better down on the Spanish border. I looked at pretty much every trolley our fellow shoppers were pushing, and I think ours was about the only one with rice, fruit and vegetables in it. Four-litre bottles (yes) of whiskey, vodka, pastis and the like rubbed packaging with doorstep-sized cartons of cans of beer, enormous bottles of Rioja and ten-packs of chocolate bars, party-sized boxes of sweets and biscuits…I could go on, but you’ve already got the picture.

The bottom line is that we’re probably going to do exactly the same every month or so. Les and Bossost are an easy two-hour drive from Toulouse, so we can go for the day, stock up on essentials, have a good lunch out and head back. After all, doing things like that is one of the main reasons I bought the car.

Border-hopping

I can’t believe it’s only Wednesday ; it seems like we’ve been here for a month, and I don’t mean that in a bad way. I woke up this morning in Toulouse around 8am, checked my mails and a few prepaid mobile phone offers, got dressed, phoned my nearest and dearest and got the show on the road : a few books dropped off at the library, a croissant bought from one of our local bakers, a Virgin Mobile Sim card and this month’s copy of Opéra Magazine from the tobacconist and newsagent (I still find it strange not to buy Golden Virginia and Rizlas from him ; I’m amazed he’s still in business with the loss of trade that that means). After that, it was back to the Audi (which must be in seventh heaven with the amount of outings it’s been getting these last few days), radio on and off to the motorway, next stop Maison de la Haute Garonne (look it up) in the foothills of the Pyrenees for an espresso, another croissant and a fight with our Iron Age mobile phone to insert its new Sim card, just as a benevolent proctologist would seek to comfort his patient. As it happened, the patient managed to keep its underpants on. Not having violated a cellular communications appliance since 1997 I was incapable of getting the back off the phone so its honour remained intact until we reached Intermarché, where the entrance hall Figaro, responsible for returns, USB keys, iPod batteries and pretty much every else which can’t be vacuously scanned and dropped into a trolley next to the six-pack of dreadful local beer, passable baguette and two gallon canister of engine coolant, proceeded to defile my ancient Nokia with the expertise of a San Fernando Valley porn pro. Ever the perfectionist, he made me repeat his moves before his eagle eye, anxious that I should demonstrate my new-found knowledge and independence to his satisfaction. Top man, seriously. Within ten minutes I’d topped up my wiper fluid (One gallon = €4 !) and was up and running and, as is the custom with mobile phones, had placed a completely gratuitous and overtly-expensive call to my divine spouse who had, in lifting the receiver in our chalet, confirmed what I didn’t honestly need to know : that she was still alive and well and had not been ravaged either by Slovenian bears or hunky Pyrenean park rangers, although I’m not so sure about the latter, such has been her upbeat mood, today. As long as it makes her happy, eh ? Half an hour and a thousand metres northwards later, I found her and the Fingernails ambling on the GR10, the snow now having completely melted. When we went for a walk there yesterday morning, the snow was a foot deep. Such is April, or so they tell me. We didn’t see any bears, but the Fingernails saw a baby fox.

The weather was so fabulous we had lunch on the terrace. The sky was completely blue, not a cloud to be seen. OK, this was 1.14pm ; we knew all would be different by 1.17, so we grabbed our chance while we could. Then we trotted off down to the car and headed off for Spain, the idea being we’d just pop in and get a jeroboam of olive oil. Right…

The French-Spanish border is a bit like San Diego-Tijuana, but with less crime and far less deodorant. Everything is cheaper where they speak the language of Cervantes, so the barbaric northerners head south for their pleasure. In California it’s stag nights (bachelor parties), sex, drugs and alcohol ; in short, everything that really matters in life. Over here, it’s France and Spain, so different rules apply : the French head south for cheap food and petrol. Not a cat house in sight ; this part of the world rocks to discounted Serrano and Jabugo hams, excellent Riojas and cut-price just about anything else you can think of. We left our shops with more for less than we could ever have got in France and crowned the trip by filling up at 15 cents a litre less than the cheapest petrol station in France ; and that in a place which fleeces French price-tourists as much as it can before they realise it’d be cheaper to shop at home. Imagine how much it would cost in the Spanish boondocks…

We popped into a bakery for the Fingernails to have their tea. My condition was that Fingernail I do all the talking. In the event, she didn’t have to, but we got a genuine taste of the country. Check this out : Mrs. F is of Spanish descent, so she speaks it like a native. Fingernail I heard nothing else until she was 2 ; I started learning it in Los Angeles in 1997 so as not to be left behind in Mexican territory and Fingernail II has just started Spanish lessons in Toulouse. Bottom line : we all speak and/or understand castellano. As we sat in this little bakery, an older man  came in and, not even making the slightest effort to communicate in the language of his hosts, ordered a couple of cakes and bought some bread. The owner, knowing on which side her bread was buttered, replied in exemplary French. Sorry, but I find this insulting and incredibly rude. If you’re coming for the first time, at least ask if the person behind the counter speaks your language. If you’re a regular, then make the fucking effort, particularly as you’re the one profiting from the situation. Arsehole (trou de cul in French). There’s no excuse ; I’m nearly fifty, but I want to carry on learning.

OK, back to shagging tarts. Don’t get me wrong. There are many cat houses on the Franco-Iberican border, but they’re to be found in La Jonquera (including Europe’s largest), so book now to avoid disappointment. You can also get seriously discounted booze and cigs there, so go for it : Serious quaffing, smoking and shagging between Voltaire and Cervantes : you can always tell your WAGS (Wives and Girlfriends) you were on a cultural tour of Europe (Tip : the Salvador Dalì museum is in Figueras, just a bit further south of this particular Shangri-La) and that you spent most of your time visiting the Sagrada Familia (Gaudì’s Barcelona cathedral) while you were, in fact, getting a blowie off some Croatian drug addict. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the glory of Europe. Move to Patagonia if you can. But take a bottle of border-discounted cheap whiskey with you.

Bears in the Pyrenees

I phoned Mrs. Fingers from Toulouse this afternoon once I'd got straight, put a load of washing on (God, how fucking boring one's life becomes) and she said she'd had a visit from a big, tall park ranger. Right! Cat's away, mice will play 'n' all that; so what was this about? When we all set off to the car this afternoon there was a state ranger van parked up near the house and, yes, it was his. He'd knocked on the door and asked if Mrs. F had seen any unusual tracks in the snow, an unlikely chat-up line if ever I'd heard one. Anyway, he just wanted to inform us that there were bears about and to keep everything locked at night. By the summer there'd be fifteen in that part of the mountains, all Slovenian I'd imagine since the brainless hunters around here have 'inadvertently' killed off the entire indigenous stock (as well as quite a few humans, including a friend's father) and Mitteleuropa became south-west France's only hope of continuing an oursine tradition in their mountains. Anyhow, I'm here in Toulouse, lying in bed, listening to Wagner on iTunes and typing this post whilst wild bears encircle my family and hunky park rangers have their sordid way with my fragrant spouse 100 miles away, 3000 feet up a snow-clad mountain. Nice feeling. Work really does get in the way of life - or at least holidays - doesn't it? On reflection, I have absolutely no cause for complaint: since mid-December I've had a month completely free of work commitments and the next time my cast-iron presence is required is May 15th. A month later I'm off to Germany for ten weeks, so you won't hear me wailing any time soon. All I'm hoping is that I get tenure before austerity measures truly hit France, but that's another post entirely. Here's a Pyrenean brown bear, presumably just before it goes through our bins: