Learning how to speak French can be challenging, especially for those who move to France knowing only croissant, un, deux, trois, and merci, like me. Everyone has their own methods to improve their language skills, and mine began with driving. I started with the number plate game (before the departmental numbers got smaller on the new number plates). Then, I started reading aloud the departmental numbers on the number plates, and soon enough, ridiculously long numbers such as quatre-vingt-dix-neuf (99) were rolling off my tongue.
Once I’d perfected numbers, I moved on to hitchhikers. The lack of regular public transport around in the Alps means that people hitch between villages often. Even Candide Thovex picks up hitchhikers, so who am I to drive past someone in need of a lift? Besides, hitchhikers are a captive audience, making them excellent victims to practice dodgy French skills on. Most hitchhikers are happy to get to their destination without having to wait any longer by the side of the road, even if it means being polite and patient with the driver massacring the French language.
I’ve learnt loads of small talk from hitchhikers. I’ve chatted about the common stuff like “Vous habitez ici?” (“You live here?”) right through to cultural conversations comparing France with Australia. I hope most hitchhikers have enjoyed the exchanges, even if some cringed as soon as they heard my accent. As my French has improved, I’ve used hitchhikers less for language practice, but I still pick them up out of habit and kindness, especially in bad weather.
Last night, I picked up the grumpiest hitchhiker I’ve ever met. He needed to get to Le Grand Bornand, where I was headed, so he jumped in. I broke the silence by asking in French if he lived there. He grunted like some teenage angsty boy despite being older than that. I tried again, asking if he found it quiet between seasons. Another grunt. I added that in summer, it’s lovely and he didn’t even bother grunting. I was glad Le Grand Bornand was just a few kilometres from where I’d picked him up. I contemplated stopping the car and telling him to get out, but we were already at the village entrance. When I parked in town, I sang a purposely cheerful “voila” but he was already half out the door. I followed up with a melodic “au revoir” (“see you again”) and he grunted one more time.
I wanted to shout after him: “You rude s**t. I hope a tyre splashes mud up you next time, you ungrateful w**ker. Screw the ‘au revoir’ — unless you’re standing near some mud.” The words just weren’t there in French, which means either I need to continue learning French with hitchhikers, or I need to learn to shrug it off with a good old French “bof“.
Bof.
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Today, Canal+ still has segments left unscrambled, and one of those segments in Le Petit Journal. It’s my favourite French TV show. I’m a little bit in love with the twinkling eyes and cheeky smile of presenter Yann Barthès, but I’m more in love with his sharp wit and the show’s modern approach.
It’s not all positive though. There’s still a section of Le Petit Journal where French men dress up as women and pretend to be all girly in the office (why can’t they just get women to act as women and kill the cliché stereotypes for an even stronger segment?), and there are still aspects that shock me, like an illustration of a woman’s wide open legs morphing into a cat’s head. Bizarre, ‘arty’ and apparently entirely appropriate for an 8.30pm audience.
Regardless of the new law, I think the real French opinion is captured in the doggy bags already on sale in the supermarket. They’re certainly destined to take something away, but nothing edible. Yes, here in France, the ‘doggy bag’ is used to clean up your dog’s poo. Bon appetit!
An a country that can talk for hours about bread, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that you can rate your local bakery on a dedicated website, 
I stumbled across a poster for the 
While the Enigma machine kept him busy, I sat down to read about the braille machine — something that has always fascinated me. There were loose sheets of paper by the machine and a large board showing the braille code for the alphabet. Was it really okay to test out the machine? At this museum, yes it is. I typed my name in braille, which was more challenging than I’d expected. I could have spent all afternoon on that machine, but there was a lot more to see.
Here in Saint Jean de Sixt, our local fire brigade did their annual door knock to sell (through donations) their calendar last week. Were they inspired by that other calendar everyone’s been raving about? Err, not quite. Here’s a red Ferrari, which is pretty much as racy as the calendar gets. Is it to be used as some sort of fire truck? Does a fireman own it? Was it a gift from Italy? Who knows: there’s no further information.
My gut instinct was to take a photo rather than buy them, and now I regret it. These French sweets sound quite tasty: each one is made with a roasted almond coated in dark chocolate, then marzipan and brandy, and finally, dipped in raspberry juice — probably to give it that realistic tone. And since I used their photo, I probably should 
What a week! In case you were hiding under a rock, we hit the date programmed into the Delorean in the film ‘Back to the Future Part 2′!
