what’s not to like?
Wednesday, July 29th, 2009by Rachael, caught by surprise
Uzerche, France
I didn’t think we’d find much to say about France. I didn’t particularly want to come here (well, not unless I could spend A Whole Year living in Provence, learning to be a real farmer’s wife and make cheese and garden organically), but we couldn’t skip over this country if we wanted to get from England to Italy. Which we did.
I envisioned driving straight across, buying baguettes and camembert, and escaping as fast as possible. I mean, the French are supposed to be entirely frogcentric, and as I arrived mixing up bonjour and merci, there did not appear to be much hope of friendly interactions for this flailing foreigner.
So I was happy to say, “Pardon” and be off.
But I like it.
My vocabulary is already approaching one hundred words and the baguettes are unlike anything sold in kiwiland. The outside is crusty – super crusty. And the inside, oh the inside. The light and fluffy dough melts in your mouth like candyfloss. Never mind the camembert. The bread will suffice. But, of course, there IS camembert. We are in France, you know. Plus there are hundreds of other cheeses besides.
And a farmer drives by the camping-car-spot in the late evening, when the bell across the river has already tolled eight times, yet the air is still warm, indeed even the breeze is warm….and Monsieur Organic Farmer opens up the back of his little Citroen to reveal tomatoes the size of cricket balls, freshly dug potatoes with brown earth still clinging to them, marrows big enough to feed Napoleon’s army and cucumbers. Does that not sound like a feast delivered right to our door? No need to wonder about food miles! Or freshness.
The sun shines, the roads are smooth and the people are friendly. Yes, these people, who apparently are not aware they are supposed to look down their noses at the likes of me and mine, smile broadly at us, and if our eyes get close to meeting, they say, “Bonjour, Madame”. Not just Bonjour, certainly not just a smile or a nod of the head – BONJOUR MADAME. This is a very easy custom to like!
The retired couple parked just along from us stopped to “chat” this afternoon. Actually, they were arguing about whether we were from New Zealand or Berlin (I might not speak French, but I could work that out), so I hung out the back window and with the help of fingers rubbed together to indicate money and pointing at our flag, managed to convey that we come from New Zealand and bought the vans in Berlin. They wanted to know how long we were here.
“Oh no only two weeks. But you have come so far. It’s so much money. Only two weeks. Oh no.” (or something like that). To allay their evident horror, it seemed important to explain we would be in Europe for longer, but mentioning Italy was most certainly a faux pas – complete and utter horror now registered on their faces and they warned about Italians – pickpockets they are, all of them <wink> Would we take our vans back to New Zealand? Non. Deutschland – somewhere along the conversation Monsieur had thrown in a couple of German words, so that helped enormously; as did Grandpa turning up to parlez some francois. At that point I was able to bail out, leaving the mother-father-grandfather-eight-children-oui-oui-eight translations to the knowledgeable, and contemplate how unfairly the French have been stereotyped as superior standoffish sorts. The ones we have met have been excessively friendly, grateful at our meagre efforts to parlez and most generous. They have given gifts (le petite souvenir), given the thumbs up (don’t know why) and made sure we knew who Monsieur Farmer was and that he had arrived so we could buy fresh produce. Tomorrow they’ll be showing us their prize potatoes grown in their own garden (600g for one, over a kilogram for the best two) and they’ll be giving us a bottle of wine and a jar of homemade blueberry jam, all because Jgirl14 copies some grateful phrases out of the French phrasebook and watercolours the vista from our camping car site in thanks for their souvenir. Monsieur will give us his address so we can send a letter from New Zealand – actually, it’s the stamp he wants; he collects them. We’ll get out our pictures of our garden, our preserves, our homemade bread, our house. They’ll play ball with the children. We’ll exchange greetings on the walk to purchase baguettes. “Obligitage,” (or something that sounds like that) Monsieur will smile at me.
here’s our favourite couple, who had six children
(but two have died; one of sickness, one in an accident)
~aren’t they so romantically in love~
Makes a place very likeable.
And that’s without even mentioning the actual place we are in. But that will have to wait for tomorrow.
Time on the road: none
Distance covered: 0km
rayres