Le Franco Phoney

I saw this sign on a toilet when I attended a book launch in Switzerland recently. I know the Swiss are quite strict on things like noise pollution and residential car parking spaces and, well, just about everything else, but surely a man is allowed to stand up to pee! Okay, I’m not a guy, and maybe it doesn’t bother guys. So I asked some male friends what they thought. Responses ranged from “It’s unmanly,” to “It’s a luxury after a big night out when you can’t be bothered to stand,” and everything imaginable in between. One friend suggested it was for noise-related reasons, which does make sense given the bookshop location.

So, what is the purpose of this sign? To emasculate men? To make them feel special? Or to shame them into not splashing the seat?

More questions. Do men actually abide by such signs, or do they ignore the sign until they’re finished, then wipe away any tell-tale signs so nobody knows? Or do they deliberately leave a mess to show the sign who really is the boss?

Given that this is Switzerland, I wouldn’t have been surprised if I’d seen a surveillance camera pointing at the toilet seat. However, this was at an English book shop, so they’re obviously far too polite to go to such measures.

Now, the actual book launch…

In case you’re wondering what book was being launched, it was Mucho Caliente by Francesca Prescott. The book launch was great fun, with some really interesting questions asked of the author and some very amusing segments of the book recited. The story revolves around a woman who tries her hardest not to fall in love with a Latino superstar who happens to be on the same Spanish island as her and her friends. That’s about all I can tell you as I haven’t started reading my copy yet. I’ve been too busy thinking about toilet sign symbolism.

Following the previous weekend’s theme of shiny loud things in La Clusaz, a car rally arrived on Friday night and hung around all weekend. There were loads of lovely old cars ranging from old convertible Truimphs to big old Volvos, plus Fords, Jaguars, Ferraris, Porsches, Renaults, Mercedes, Peugots and a whole swag of other lovely curvy cars. You can kind of see four of them in this photo, along with the La Clusaz church.

With all these shows in La Clusaz, plus the opening of the chairlifts for mountain biking and other sports this weekend, La Clusaz is once again busy. Yet many of the bakeries and fast food places in town remain closed. I think, perhaps, that I’m a bit too used to this laid back lifestyle because a recent visit to Switzerland to see a movie in English opened up a whole part of my memory that had laid dormant. The cinema, in Geneva, is situated on the top floor of a shopping centre, which has all the things you expect in a shopping centre: lots of commercial clothes shops; at least one supermarket; a variety of restaurants; and some cash outlets, all on a number of floors indoors. Annecy, the closest big town to La Clusaz, has nothing like this. Nothing. There’s the Courier Centre which does have a supermarket, a few commercial clothes shops and two bakeries/cafés. There’s even a cinema next door (with all filmes dubbed in French). But it’s not really a shopping center. There are lounges to sit on, but you are not allowed to eat or drink on them. Security guards check constantly. People sit down to use the free wifi (pronounced “whiffy” in French). It’s a great multifunctional centre, but it’s not set up for a serious shopper. And deep down, I’m a serious shopper. It’s only when I have these realisations that I wonder why I’m living in La Clusaz, with the cow bells the only noise at night. And then I remember the lifestyle: the ski run across the road in winter; the walking tracks in summer; the wildlife; the shopkeepers who know my name; the close community; the fresh air, and so many other things. And that’s when I realise that shopping isn’t that great. And if that realisation doesn’t kick in, Geneva is only fifty minutes away.

Harley Davidsons and a whole range of two-, three- and four-wheel modes of transport invaded La Clusaz last weekend under the festival name Viva La Clusaz. Now, I’m a bit lost about this. La Clusaz is a sleepy farming village between summer and winter, a family summer holiday destination in the warmer months, and a snow-lovers’ playground in winter. When I think of La Clusaz, I think of typically Savoyarde things: cheese, cows, green grass, snow, more cheese, the French word ‘bof’, farmers and a general disdain for outsiders. So, why call a festival of American transport ‘Long Live La Clusaz’? I truly don’t understand. Surely ‘Viva la Harley’ or ‘Viva les Autoroutes’ would be more appropriate.

All sorts of bizarre motorbikes were on display, along with some very old cars and some brand new Hummers. Nothing about the weekend seemed to make sense except perhaps that it’s a chance for the tourist office to kick of the summer season before the hot weather brings the summer tourists.

Paperwork in France seems to be endless, and although I’ve never really felt homesick for Australia in my ten years of living overseas, I find myself sometimes wishing I lived there just for the simplicity of living. Don’t get me wrong: I love the French lifestyle of long lunch breaks, shops closed on Sundays, and local bakeries still flourishing despite cheaper supermarket alternatives. However, I don’t get to live this lifestyle because my days are bogged down with filling out forms, chasing up correspondence and trying to get to the post office during their out-of-season reduced opening times to post the piles of paperwork.

Yesterday, for example, I received two letters. The first was a newsletter from my home insurance company. This would be great if I still used them for home insurance, but I don’t. The same thing happened with my car insurance last year, where I was advised that I had the right to vote for the members of the board or something because I was ‘a valued client’. Okay, this sort of mail isn’t really a problem, but it does mean I’m wasting my time opening crud instead of dealing with the real mail.

My second letter was indeed real mail. It was a bill for more than €3,000! What on earth could the bill be for? Apparently, it’s the cost of having a healthcare card for six months, and you must pay in advance of course. The health care card is the infamous Carte Vitale, which I applied for (and wrote about months ago). I still don’t have it. So, they’re trying to bill me for a service that I’m already paying for on the spot. They’re estimating how much it should cost, and if I’ve overpaid, I’ll see my money two years on.

In fact, while we’re talking about ridiculous billing, my landlord also qualifies. For three years, I’ve been a good tenant and we have a great relationship. He then decided to send me a bill for rent increases backdated for the past two years. Not just one increase, but two, as he is legally allowed, apparently, to up the rent by a government-specified amount each year. He forgot, and now he wants the money. So, whether I think the apartment is worth the upped rent or not, I have to pay it. How do I know this? Phone calls to various institutions to ask about my rights.

So, back to the Carte Vitale. Yesterday, I called the place who sent me the bill, but to ‘improve customer service’, they’re only open three days per week. Surely they could improve customer service by adding more people to their call centre to answer the phones while they’re off improving customer service. I called another number and they told me to call the first number. They’re open today, so I called them back, and after the usual long wait with client-calming hold music, a woman finally told me to call the company who had told me to call her. She at least gave me a different number. The number worked, and another woman told me that the Carte Vitale would take some time and that it was impossible to say how long. She also said I should have received a form for the Carte Vitale before the bill. She can’t send me one (it’s not done by the company she works for), so I have to wait until I get it, but she can send me a temporary Carte Vitale which I can use in the same way. This is apparently not an automatic thing.

Now, I’d really love to go outside and enjoy this beautiful sunny day, but I’ll be spending it checking my mail, writing letters and making phone calls instead. Oh, and looking for extra work to pay all these bills.

Ahhh, I have such fond memories of the Easter Bunny leaving me chocolate treats when I was a kid. I remember heading out into the garden in my jim-jams and trying to find just a few Easter eggs before my siblings found them all. Each egg was wrapped in foil of a solid colour: blue; red; yellow; green; purple; orange and pink, but never more than one colour per egg. The foil would glisten in the morning sun, soon revealing every egg’s hiding place to us chocolate-hungry kids. The eggs were lucky to exist beyond a week. The last dozen would go from one kid’s room to another as each child wanted to top up their own diminishing supply. We never admitted it, and for us, it was a game of stealth to locate and take the chocolaty goodness without anyone noticing.

Maybe it’s the same for French kids, but I can’t help feeling a bit sorry for them. For starters, egg-shaped chocolates for Easter are hard to track down: the French prefer bunnies or chicks. And when the odd multi-pack of egg-shaped chocolate is found, French kids may well be confused over whether it’s Christmas or Easter. As you can see from the photo I took of my last few remaining eggs (I had a lot), the one in the middle is clearly an Easter bunny image on an egg-shaped chocolate. But look closer at this egg. The foil is not shiny: it won’t glisten in the sun for an Easter egg hunt. Nor is it just one colour, making it harder to spot straight away. I suspect many a French Easter egg has melted with the heat of the Spring sun long after the hunt for eggs ended. The impact? Hungry, disappointed French kids with not much Easter booty. But maybe this is just a change with the passing of time and I’m clinging onto the past. But wait, there’s more.

What’s with those other two ‘eggs’? Are they really Easter eggs? Fine, they’re the shape of an Easter egg, but it’s obvious that they’re just left-over Christmas tree decorations! Several things give this away:

1. the colours are typically festive Christmas red and green;
2. they’re the shape of a bauble — or an upside-down egg;
3. there are gold strings hanging from the tops of the ‘eggs’ where they are meant to be hung up; and,
4. I remember the same patterns on my Christmas hanging baubles last year.

If the, erm, Easter Bunny does put these eggs out, does he hang them on trees? Do the kids check under the trees for presents? Do they leave biscuits and milk out for Santa next year?

Me, I’ll be checking my Christmas decorations for any Easter egg baubles. I’ll get back to you later in the year.

Check out these two photos of pizza boxes. The one with the beach scene in the background was handed over to me with a pizza almost a year ago. I posted the picture on my blog because I thought it was all a bit phallic. Click here to see the original post. I don’t think that my objection to the pizza box brought about the change, so I guess the artist, who probably gets paid to produce a ‘new’ pizza box illustration annually, decided to be a bit lazy and update the background only.

As much as the beach scene was all wrong, I’m not sure that grapevines are much better. It looks like they’re waiting for their pizzas, or that they’re ready to attack, and now I have this image in my head as if from some C-grade movie from the fifties, when things always seemed to attack humans. Is the grinning pizza man about to die? And is the wood-fired oven in the background teaming up with the grapevines? Are they both being controlled by the villa on the hill in the distance? I’m now really looking forward to next year’s illustration. Will it be a Venetian gondola? The pope? Or a trulli hut? I’m hoping for an Italian ski resort.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m not a war-lover, but while I was in the north of France recently, I was lucky enough to visit some World War 2 bunkers. The first one was Blockhaus d’ Eperlerques, where the V2 rocket was going to be prepared and launched. Many prisoners of war died here while making the building: they started by making the roof, which was then raised up as the layers beneath were built, like jacking up a car. The Brits bombed the site before it was finished and the Germans finally abandoned it. No rockets were ever launched. The photos below have some interesting captions, even if the photos themselves don’t seem all that interesting (click on the caption to enlarge the photo).

La Coupole was the second bunker, and no rockets were ever launched from it either. It too was abandoned after a bomb caused the adjoining quarry to collapse. According to a British soldier, you could fit two entire double-decker buses in the hole left behind from a six-tonne tallboy bomb. The plans show that it was going to be an underground maze with train tracks to deliver rockets for storage, preparation, and finally to take them to one of two planned launch sites outside the bunker. The dome at the top of the bunker is now a museum that houses war memorabilia, various bombs and rockets, and two small cinemas with films. The visit took a good three hours and I thoroughly recommend it.

On my way back to La Clusaz, my travel partner and I decided to stop in at Reims. This, of course, is pronounced as “Rahz” in French. Someone once explained how this is logical, but I’ve forgotten. Apparently in French, it is actually logical. It has something to do with the agreement of the “ei” with the “m”, producing the “ah” sound.

Anyway, my French travel friend, on crutches, needed a hotel room without stairs. We had lots of stuff with us including a paraglider, which we didn’t want to leave in the car, so we went to the tourist office to ask for a hotel that had close parking and no staircases, and not necessarily in the centre of town.

Now, fair enough if the tourist office lady had misunderstood just one of our needs, but she failed on every single one of them! The hotel was situated on a pedestrianised street in the centre of town, with a long, narrow staircase just to get to the reception, and no on-street parking in the closest road to the pedestrianised zone.

How did this happen? The woman we spoke to was very generous, giving us lots of tourist books and maps along with calling the hotel to reserve our place. She acknowledged the crutches and even joked about how someone one crutches could use a paraglider. We didn’t mention the wakeboard in the car (the reason for the crutches).

Luckily, the man at the hotel was very nice, giving us a more expensive room at no extra cost on the same floor as reception so that we didn’t have to climb another two staircases to get to the room reserved for us. Better still, we didn’t have to walk far for dinner: the pedestrianised street was full of restaurants from all around the world. We made good use of it after lugging heavy bags up that narrow, steep staircase!