Le Franco Phoney

Before you study this photo, look at the logo for my blog. A beret-wearing cow with a curly moustache, holding wine and a baguette. It’s missing a bike and a stripy top, but it’s pretty stereotypical of the French. I did once see a man in a stripy top riding a bike with a baguette in his backpack, but only once. I’ve done a mean thing and embraced an unfair stereotype about the French.

Now, let me rewind a little. When I first arrived in France and spoke only English, the most I could explain to people was “Australian”, complete with full Aussie accent and a finger pointing back at myself. Those who finally figured it out would usually say “Ahh, kangourou” (because the French do spell it differently), and just in case I didn’t understand the exact same pronunciation, they would often mimic a kangaroo with their hands pulled up near their chest. I love this aspect of human nature, and I’ve used a variety of hand gestures to mimic various words I don’t know in French when trying to communicate.

However, none of those French people ever said “Ahh cactus” for a reason.

I can only guess that some French man with no moustache who doesn’t like bread, refuses to own a bike and prefers soft drink to wine whilst wearing only solid colours without lines has got his revenge on at least one nation who keeps the French stereotypes alive. I can hear him now: “Bof! Zeez or-strah-lianz sink zhey are so smart. I will make up a stupit stereotype about zhem.”

And so, here is an American native plant stuck next to a sign about kangaroos. Good work, Jean-Michele (or Jean-Paul, or Jean-Philippe or Jean-Pierre or whatever his double-barrelled name is). I, for one, deserve it.

It’s true, you know: animals do have accents. A few years ago, linguists proved that cows have regional accents, and they’re not the only ones. I’ve done my own research. French animals sound different to Australian animals, as proved by my French friends who gave me the low-down on the sounds that animals make. Here goes:

Bruno, my cat: does he ronron or purr?

Are you ready for a rant? I am. Here’s a money-making idea for someone living in rural France: sell fly-wire screens. There’s an apparent shortage of the things in the Aravis valley and beyond, despite the poo from farm animals such as this cow in La Clusaz ensuring an ample supplies of flies all summer long. I’m prompted to write about this because of the huge influx in flies in the last week with the return of the warm weather. Coming from Australia, I’m used to flies, but I’m also used to fly-wire screens. These screens, made of mesh that’s small enough to prevent flies and other insects from passing through it, allow the air through on hot summer days and nights when flies and mosquitoes are plentiful. During the hot weather, the occasional fly would get in the house, but it was mostly a fly-free environment.

Since moving to France, none of the seven houses I’ve lived in have had any sort of fly wire screens. I’ve looked all around and I don’t see any houses or businesses (and yes, the flies love cheese shops) that make use of this simple approach to keeping flies out. The lady next door comes closest with her door-length fringing. I think it’s actually one of those modern indoor string curtains that has gained popularity in France recently. Perhaps it works, but it still looks like a curtain on the wrong side of the door to me. Fly-wire screens may not be the most attractive adornment either, but they’re guaranteed to be effective against flies.

In May, my trusty old fly swat of two years was broken. It’s my own fault: I’d left it propped up against a wall instead of hanging it by the hole in its arm. A curly swat is not much use. In my desperation to kill the flies, I bought the first fly swat I found — the blue one pictured here. It’s from the supermarket, and it lasted an entire day before it broke. I continued to use it despite bits of blue plastic breaking off every now and again, making the skill level involved in the killing process just that bit higher each time. The other fly swat was a gift (who says romance is dead?): I love the extra detail of the fly on the swat area. But can you see anything wrong with this swat? You can see from the black plastic mesh that it, like my old trusty one, is not flat. It’s not bent a lot, but the reduction in surface area gives some flies a few moments longer to live and requires a few more swats from me. I could buy some sticky fly paper, but I feel sorry for the flies who stick to it alive and have to await their death. At least the swat is fast.

But I can’t help thinking that if fly-wire screens were more common on houses in the Alps, flies wouldn’t make it indoors in the first place. It was some Aussies who live down the road who found me through this blog and suggested someone could earn some money by introducing the French to fly-wire screens. I suspect the French love the appearance of their beautiful chalets a bit too much to ugly them up with the screens I’m so used to seeing in Australia. But with so many non-French around, i can’t help but wonder if they’re onto something. Can someone sell me some screens please?

Us Aussies are pretty good at making biscuits, and that’s why Tim Tams have appeared as the only Australian product on the shelves of the supermarket chain Carrefour in Annecy.

These biscuits, similar to the UK’s Penguin biscuit (but nicer — I might be biased of course), are hauled all over the world by travelling Aussies and after years of only being available in shops selling Australian goodies (mostly to Australians desperate for a fix of something from home), Tim Tams made it onto the shelves of Tesco supermarkets in the UK about five years ago. I took them for granted: they were always available and I bought them only when I had a real hankering.

That all changed when I moved to France. The “foreign foods” aisle of the supermarket has various things from the UK — Heinz Baked Beans, treacle, tomato soup(!), and this really posh (ie, tiny cardboard container and very costly) oatmeal stuff that I never actually saw on the shelves anywhere in the UK — but there’s never anything from Australia — until now, that is. Wedged between random honey from the Middle East and biscuits from Italy (oh come on: Italy is only an hour away!) lies the Tim Tams in all their glory. Just to reiterate, I have never seen any Australian product on the shelves of a French supermarket. I heard rumours that vegemite is available closer to big cities, but I’ve never seen that. The Tim Tam presence is a total win in my books.

Upon arrival in the aisle containting these treats, I embarrassed my shopping partner by letting out a shriek, followed by “TIM TAMS” in an overly loud voice. The five shoppers in the aisle all turned and stared at me, my shopping partner disowned me, and I ran to the Tim Tams and picked up two packets for the trolley. The five shoppers shrugged at the weird English girl rejoicing about her English biscuits and moved on.

Since that day, I’ve been checking that the Tim Tams are still there (and they are). Just in case, I’ve been buying a few packets every few weeks — obviously to keep the Australian export market bolstered rather than for any personal enjoyment. Obviously.

I recently saw a blog entry entitled: “Travel Inspirations: Looking Further Than Your Own Backyard” and it got me thinking about how I explore. I’ve travelled a bit, and lived in three different countries, crossing the equator to do so. Is it because I’m Australian and we tend to value exploring the world? Is it because I’ve achieved a financial independence that my foremothers were always denied by the ones who were supposed to love them most? Is it because as a society, we never seem to be happy with what we’ve got, and look further afield for satisfaction? For whatever reasons, I tend to look way beyond my backyard for travel inspiration. And I think that’s a problem. Let me explain why.

Everywhere I’ve lived has gems that I’ve never discovered. When people discover I’m from Melbourne, they mention the Twelve Apostles or The Grampians, or broader Australian attractions such as the Great Barrier Reef and Uluru (aka Ayers Rock). Have I travelled to any of these places? Nope. And now that I’ve spent more than three years in France, I’m doing it again. When I first arrived, I was so excited to learn of a cheese maker in Thônes who does tours, the farm across the road from my place in La Clusaz where you can feed the cows in winter when they’re bored in their sheds, and the farm just up the road that sells fresh eggs and butter which I thought I’d visit regularly for such treats. There are cheese caves in Le Grand Bornand where visits can be arranged! Have I done any of these things? Nope. Okay, I’ve discovered all sorts of other great things around this area, but why do I look beyond my own backyard when there’s still so much more to explore on my doorstep?

This week, I asked my friends if they do the same. One has been in a cheese cave at Le Grand Bornand, but it was to do with work. Nobody had been on the cheese making tour, and one friend had fed the cows right opposite my old place in La Clusaz when she was with some children. I trumped them all with my multiple visits to the goat farm, with extra points for regularly buying cheese from it. But still, we’re all a bit hopeless.

So, my challenge to myself and to you is to explore more of the local treats in your area and see just what’s there to discover and enjoy. Time starts now.

My Australian heritage is often lost here in France because I apparently have the same accent when I speak French as an English person. Lots of French people talk about how this cloudy weather must be like being back home. Except, of course, “back home” for me is Melbourne, which has been suffering from drought for close to ten years.

So, when this pamphlet came through my letterbox the other day, it made me giggle. The word for “kangaroo” in French is pronounced the same, but spelt differently, and often when I explain to someone that I’m Australian and not English, the word “kangarou” is bandied around. It’s one of the first French words that I instantly understood and it got me through many moments with strangers before I could speak any French: I could at least explain to them where I was from with one word that we both understood. Saying word was often accompanied with arms raised to the chest, like a kangaroo — sometimes mine, sometimes the French person’s. Everyone loves kangaroos!

In case you’re interested, this brochure was for courses run by a learning institution. It says: “my future is in the pocket”, referring to the kangaroo’s pouch for offspring I guess. What really surprised me was “DZOÏÏÏNG”. I don’t know if those umlauts are used in any French words or whether it’s made up as much as the word. A French friend has told me that “BOING” would be the more common usage in French — the same as in English, but after seeing “DZOÏÏÏNG”, I think I prefer it. Let’s see if I can bring it into common usage in English.

Okay, it’s time to come clean: I’ve been in Australia for the past few weeks, but I had plenty of blog topics to keep me writing about France. By the time you read this, I’ll be holidaying on an island on the Great Barrier Reef before heading to Brisbane for a family wedding, then back in France next week.

Until then, I want to write about how easy it is to idealise a home country when living abroad. It’s natural for anyone to compare countries, but I’m now comparing France to an Australia of ten years ago. In that time, a lot has changed: toll roads; skim-milk Big M flavoured milk; water restrictions from drought; new stadiums; and slower traffic just to name a few. Although I’m a fan of the low-fat flavoured milk, having to restrict showers to three minutes, using the government-provided egg-timer on a suction cup for the shower tiles is not as attractive. I guess I’ve used Australia as my normality guage for other countries I’ve lived in. I have idealised my country.

For example, I explained to my French travel partner that he wouldn’t need to pack a rain jacket because ‘Melbourne is having a drought and it only rains a few times a year so we’ll be fine.’ It rained two days after we arrived, then again the next day, and then again the following day. At least that might prevent shower times from dropping further. Then, after parking the car outside a shop advertised as ‘Open 24 hours a day’, we noticed, as we walked up to the door at 6.59am, that the staff were just unlocking the door after being closed overnight. I guess they just didn’t specify which days they’re open 24 hours.

When we spent a day snowboarding at Mt Buller, we hired equipment rather than lugging our own from France. Our first attempt to hire failed massively. We had our equipment fitted and had chatted to the ski technician about where we live in France and how pointless it would be to bring snowboards with us from there just for one day. His assistant then asked for a credit card. Apparently, my debit card isn’t good enough because there’s a risk that we’ll flee the country with, shock horror, very old ski hire crud including smelly boots, damaged snowboards and heavy bindings. I asked my partner if he had a credit card, but like me, he only had a debit card. They said if my driving license had been Australian and not British, it would have been okay. Errr, what? Common sense did not prevail and they said the risk of us not returning their old, worn out hire equipment was too great. We were stupidly honest with them about only having French debit cards, which are labelled only as ‘Carte Bleu, so on our way to the next shop, we agreed to give them a Carte Bleu debit card and not tell them it was a debit card. It worked and we hire some equipment.

Idealism shattered, I’m pleased to say that the positives have by far outweighed the negatives: friendly shop assistants; native birds tweeting outside my mum’s house; great food; a return to sunny weather; a fantastic city to explore, and so much more. I still call Australia ‘home’.

…but I’m still looking forward to winter in the French Alps.