French Letters: November 2002

Bonjour

Nothing like a weekend on the French Riviera enjoying the sun and eating like kings while the poor are at work.

I decided to pay a visit to France at pretty much the last minute as I was feeling a bit frustrated and not a little bit bored. I was starting to play paper-stone-scissors by myself.

After finding the cheapest direct flight to Nice (British Midlands, £93 return, including airport taxes) I left on a grey Friday afternoon. I arrived in Nice at about 19h30 (French time) and made for immigration. The nice thing about the French refusal to speak English to the Rosbifs, is that you don't get questioned much at immigration. I made my way to the arrivals hall and waited for M and F to collect me. I hadn’t seen M for four months and he still keeps me waiting.

M kindly delivered me to old Cape Town friends J and T who are staying in Cannes, about 15 minutes from Nice and a ten minute walk to the beach. We had an enormous supper, roast chicken and potatoes, followed by cheese and baguettes. Obviously legislation exists in France about the cheese-after-dinner story. We ate like pigs.

As T and J’s landlord does not permit overnight guests, I spent my first night sleeping above a restaurant across the road from their flat. It started out OK, but the next morning I was woken by what sounded like a truck being driven into the side of the building. I had visions of the building collapsing and me sliding across the floor into the road. It turned out to be the dustbin men emptying trash cans across the road. I learned that the French have a slightly distorted view of consideration. A theme that was to continue…

I had breakfast with T and J on Saturday morning and, after dropping their son A at the grandparents, we took a walk around town and looked at the yachts in the harbour. Huge four-story things with smaller boats on board and jet skis and I even saw a picture of one with a seaplane on the back. Aah. The idle rich.

I am half way there.

M and F arrived an hour late for the beach arrangements. We spent a very pleasant afternoon swimming in the warm and clear water of the Med. A bit different to Clifton. According to M, surfing is not big in the Med. A big swell usually measures about 8 inches. Although topless bathing is permitted in France, it really isn't that appealing. Before one can see a beautiful, firm pair of breasts, one has to pass ones eyes (quickly) across a whole lot of older women whose breasts are on a first name basis with their knees.

After the beach, we all went to the village square to play petanque. I think it is so called because that is the sound the balls, or boules, make when they knock together.  Usually, everyone gets three matching, patterned boules and plays an adult version of marbles. Because we played girls versus boys, we had a handicap system and the boys played with two boules each. I ended up playing with a rusty pair. Sounds like my sex life. There was a competition on that afternoon, and everyone was invited to enjoy some complimentary champagne and cassis. Very pleasant afternoon. As M says, petanque is just an organised way for people to do fuck all.

That night I went back to M and F’s flat in Vence (pronounced like France, but with a V and no R; actually, nothing like France at all then.) It is an old city on top of a mountain about 20 minutes from Cannes. It is absolutely magnificent. No cars allowed within the city walls. Lots of narrow streets filled with frommageries (cheese shops - very good), art galleries (not so good), boulangeries (bakeries - very good), charcuteries (cold meat delis - extremely good), dog shit (very bad) and hundreds of tiny restaurants. Very charming with a nice villagey feel. Everyone is friendly and there is a lot of bonjouring going on.

Saturday night M and F took me for a traditional French meal in Nice. We had Tex-Mex. It took about 20 minutes to drive there, and another twenty to find parking. Another example of French consideration was the guy who lit his cigar immediately before getting into a tiny crowded lift.

The unfortunate part of staying with M and F is their cat. Etta. As in Etta James. Very sweet and playful kitten. I wanted to play with her. Near a stream. With some rocks and a sack. The bloody thing would not leave me alone. Eventually, M locked it in the bathroom. It cried for about half an hour before M let it out. It went straight for me and sank its claws into my foot which was poking out below the sleeping bag.

M went to keep it company in the bathroom while I quietly bled to death. At about ten past twelve I experienced my third example of French consideration when we were woken by the screaming sound of a Vespa being revved at full throttle. M threw open the shutters and found a guy downstairs servicing his bike in the street, tools all neatly laid out. After a bit of to-ing and fro-ing and threats of police intervention, he eventually left.

Sunday. 07h00. The bastard fascist anti-Semite cat started crying in the bathroom. We decided to get up and have an early start anyway. The beauty of Vence is one can wake up, go downstairs to fetch fresh croissants and whatever for breakfast and be back in three minutes.

We met T and J and their children M and Al at a park for a picnic where we ate like pigs and played Frisbee. M managed to lose 5 neon coloured boules on the field in about 11 seconds. After a brief search, we all went back to Vence to play boules in the village square. We had quite a few people come and watch, but only because they had never seen petanque played the way we played it. A sort of “full contact” version. The children were getting a bit tetchy, so T and J left before infanticide set in. M, F and I went to a local bar for some Martini. In my best French accent, I said "Bonjour monsieur, trois Martini avec glacon, sil vous plais." The barman said in perfect English: "Red or white." Am I that obvious? We retired to chez M for a light supper and an early night, and a quick game with the cat which involved a ski pole, a box of matches and an open window.

Monday. 07h00. The goddamn Algerian terrorist pig cat started crying in the bathroom. We had to get up early to take F to work anyway. She works for an internet company in Sophia Antipolis. M and I met T and went to fetch M from school. Lunch break is two hours and parents are obliged to fetch the children for lunch if they are not at work. I bought lunch at a local café/deli. 50 Francs (about R50) bought a whole roast chicken, large piece of salami, two baguettes and some salad. Damn cheap, after being in London where the same thing would have cost double. And the food in France is SO good. Everything tastes great there. I didn't eat anything that was not fantastic.

After lunch we spent the rest of the afternoon on the beach and then collected F from work and rushed home to cook dinner for her and her best friend. M made roast pork. Anti-Semite. I made burger patties. I also chopped potatoes and the veggies for M ratatouille with his Carol Boyes carving knife which is very sharp. I realised this after I stuck the knife into the back of my hand. It is starting to heal nicely.

Tuesday 07h00. The cat. Had to get up early anyway as F was taking her friend to the airport for a nine o'clock flight. I had to go through at the same time. It took me a while to realise that she had dropped me at the wrong terminal building, but after that everything was fine. I am now back in Londres, and, have just eaten some revolting frozen fish and a baked potato.

I felt I had to have a Martini to remind me of my holiday.
Fat Al