Le Franco Phoney

July and August are the peak months for tourists flocking to Annecy to spend all their tourist money on ice creams, live entertainment, paddle-boats and admission fees. Ponies and bouncy castles will always get the attention of kids whose parents are nagged into submission. A couple of Euros here, and a couple more there. Holidays for families in Annecy can be expensive.

It looks like Santa is getting in on the act too, with his abode being open to tourists from 3rd July to 29th August. I found this sign in Annecy last week. It says: “This summer, discover the hamlet of father christmas” and then says “Unique in France”. Well, yeah, I imagine it is, given it’s summer and Santa is meant to live a bit further North than the French Alps. A friend of mine, Lilly, worked at this very tourist attraction a few years ago, tossing crepes as the French do, for hungry kids during November in the lead-up to Christmas. When I visited her at work, I had to race through the rooms of Santa’s house, which were very glittery, to get to where she was at the café — appropriately placed at the end of the tour for parched and hungry kids and parents. The kids all seemed to be pretty happy, but that was in winter. Right now, it’s summer. Are families really interested in starting the Christmas hassles this early in the year? Surely this just starts the nagging for Christmas presents and those awkward questions from older kids about Santa himself.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m all for the Christmas spirit, but it’s not Christmas. However, I must thank Santa for Lilly’s great crepe-making ability, which I’ve benefitted from on more than one occasion.

My pre-Christmas shopping included a visit to a small indoor shopping centre, complete with Santa and his photographer. Most of the times I’ve seen Santa in a shopping centre, he has a lovely big chair which he looks as out of place sitting on as he does in his acrylic beard, and the kids flock in wonderment and oblivion to have a photo with the big man in red.

This particular Santa wasn’t all that different, but he had a lavish black velvet couch instead. He’d lure the kids over with a wave and sure enough, the kids would beg their parents for a photo and out comes the cash. But then I noticed something a bit different. Santa was out of the picture altogether! The photographer had asked a little girl to remove her big outdoor coat, then daintily arranged her scarf and told her how to pose on the ornate black velvet couch. Santa was busy luring the kids while the photographer snapped away. The photographer clearly knows his market: the parents were loving these photos of their kids posing happily on the couch and buying them on the spot from what they could see on the photographer’s view finder.

Where I am in France often reminds me of my childhood in Australia: everyone seems a bit more relaxed and the pace is a bit slower. But my childhood photos with Santa usually involved a Santa who looked younger than my mum, sweating in the summer heat with all that padding, a sibling with closed eyes or a tongue poked out, and a very bored photographer using a tripod to take the same photo angle over and over again. In fact, I hassled my mum to dig up this old photo of me with my brothers and Santa to illustrate just how bored the photographer (and Santa) must be. Time with Santa was limited and there was never an option of more than one photo. So here’s a tip to Santa’s photographers worldwide: get that camera off the tripod and work it! Parents will love you for it and you’ll make a load more cash. Not that Christmas has anything to do with commercialism, obviously.

Johnny even features on Zippo lighters.

Well, not really. At least, not offensive to me, but apparently offensive to some French people. Time to rewind. Do you know who Johnny Hallyday is? In France, he’s touted as the French Elvis and indeed, he’s loved as much — if not more — than The King. Johnny’s getting on a bit now, but the post office proudly displays the Johnny stamps you can buy for your Christmas cards, or indeed as part of your stamp collection. Each year, a new Johnny DVD is released just in time for Christmas. In fact, as I walked through a supermarket the other day, I saw a man grinning and shaking his head at a television which was screening Johnny live in concert. I could just tell this guy was thinking “bah oui, he izz just too gooood.”

You may also be aware that Johnny had to cancel last-ever tour after some back surgery in France last month resulted in further surgery in the US (where he spends lots of time, apparently, because he’s not recognised). He was in so much pain that he was placed in an artificial coma for several days. French TV was all over it. Copenhagen climate summit? It barely got a mention, with Johnny being the first headline on every news programme. The latest news, now that Johnny is back from coma-land, is that he will be suing his French surgeon who allegedly bodged the initial operation. Fans in France were so upset about Johnny’s pain that the very same surgeon was attacked and beaten. That also made the news, but only because it had something to do with Johnny.

So, where’s the joke in all this? I overheard a French couple talking the other day when Johnny was put into the coma. The man, with a playful grin, said to his wife: “So, did you hear? Johnny Hallyday is dead.” She glared at him, paused, then said: “There are some things you just don’t joke about.” That was the end of the discussion. She was, of course, right. Nobody in their right mind would joke about Johnny being dead unless they want the same lynching that his surgeon received. Indeed, I was too scared to even publish this before Johnny came out of his coma just in case. Long live the king!

Long-term readers may remember the postcard I blogged about which was addressed to my friend with the wrong address, the wrong post code, the correct village and the wrong surname. More recently, there was the realisation that mail does not get into a letterbox unless it has the recipient’s name on it. And last weekend, I discovered that in France, oversized envelopes, bubble wrap, padded envelopes and basic brown paper are not available at the post office or the typical outlets you’d expect. That sounds ridiculous, right? Well, they’re kind of avaialble, but not really. Let me explain.

I know some post offices around the world (like in England, for example) demand that you buy your padded envelope — from the large selection — from the separate retail purchases counter. You can then take your envelope home to pack, dance with it, do what you like with it, or you can add some goodies to it right there in the post office, then head to the official postal service counter and pay for postage. Other countries (like Australia) provide post offices where you can buy packaging to suit your needs at the same counter, then quickly bundle up your items while chatting to the staff if there’s no queue.

France, however, doesn’t seem to stock packaging products at any of the places you’d expect. I needed to send two parcels last weekend. At 10 in the morning, I tried the post office, but the only packaging there were postage-pre-paid boxes and tough-bags and one pre-paid padded envelope, and all these options were expensive because the postage (to Europe only) was already included. Why on earth would I pay €30+ for an envelope which I then have to pay for postage to Australia on top of that?

So, I left the crowded post office and hit the supermarket. There were some standard A4 envelopes, but no padded envelopes and no rolls of brown paper. I then tried two news agents, but they didn’t even have a standard letter envelope for sale! Where do people go to buy padded envelopes here? I need to know.

With the pressure of the post office closing at midday, I desperately needed to get these gifts sent so they would arrive before Christmas and a birthday. Finally, at another supermarket, I found two metres of brown paper covered in cartoon santas and other festive images. No worries: inside out and it became normal brown paper. I used the whole lot. A friend has since told me about a shop which may stock padded envelopes. If they do stock them, I’m going to buy up big and consider opening a stand outside the post office.

UPDATE: I wrote this entry before I went shopping this morning. By this afternoon, I had discovered that rolls of brown paper can be found at Ikea in Switzerland, and supermarkets in Annecy stock very small padded envelopes. I guess the local supermarkets here stock containers of grass for cats and stuff instead. Yes, I bought a container of grass for my cat.

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.

Yes, apparently the French aren’t happy with just eating fully-grown snails. Now in France, you can buy snail eggs. I read about this in a magazine in La Clusaz a few weeks ago and decided to keep the article as a worthy snippet for my blog.
The French words basically say that in these times of ‘thin cows’ and with the financial crisis, if you want to impress your friends at Christmas, why not replace fish caviar with snail caviar. At only €49 for 30 grams, it’s a bargain (apparently). I’m struggling to think of any eggs I’d like to eat less than snail eggs. I’m struggling to justify spending anything like that amount of money for the ‘privilege’ of doing so. Just. Yuck.

Happy New Year too.

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My childhood Christmas dinners involved roast turkey and hot plum pudding (sometimes on 40+°C days) in Australia, and they always started with the Christmas cracker. You know, those bits of paper or foil with a ‘party’ crown (a thin paper hat that often tore before you stuck it on your head) and a ‘toy’ (eg: a plastic ring in almost orange-coloured gold; a measuring tape; a leapfrog if you were lucky) inside.

Who doesn’t have a photo of their family all looking bored and embarrassed, eating their roast dinner with a paper crown on their head? Actually, French families don’t. Christmas crackers don’t seem to exist in France, but they do have Christmas bonbons. Yes, chocolate: so much better than a paper hat! But just when you’re thinking it’s a win-win situation, think again. The bonbons share something in common with the crackers: they contain a dodgy joke that just isn’t funny. Safe for all the family, here are just two of the typically corny jokes:

	It says: “A snail waits for his friend, a slug. The slug arrives late and the snail says, ‘And also, you haven’t brought your backpack’.” Get it? The snail thinks the…oh, you must get it.	It says: “What is the worst thing a gymnast can do? Faint while doing a hand stand” (it’s a play on words, as ‘tomber dans les pommes’ literally means ‘fall in the apples’ (faint) and ‘faire/faisant le poirier’ literally means ‘act like a pear tree’ (hand stand). Get it? Apples and pears…

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Many years ago, I recall a supermarket visit that involved a woman telling my mum and I about her son in a mental institution who was being allowed to visit for Christmas. We didn’t know her: we were just checking out frozen turkeys for the festive meal when she walked up and said she would need a bigger turkey this year because her son was visiting. Instead of ignoring her, my mum said “Really?” and smiled, and that prompted the woman to talk at us for a good ten minutes (hey, it might not sound like long, but when you’re in a frozen turkey aisle, it really is) about her son, the dogs in the sky (!?) and various other topics that actually made no sense. My mum just attracts people like that. It’s what she’s good at.

It looks like it might be genetic. Just last week when trying on a pair of boots in Annecy, a little old French lady informed me that she is old and sick and “look at my feet.” I looked at her feet and they were indeed as old and sick as she had explained. I didn’t understand much of her French, but I was left pretty speechless after burning my eyes with the image of her twisted, dry, bruised and lumpy feet with yellow toe nails. I escaped, feeling just a bit ill.

I’d hoped it was a one-off, but it was not. Today started with a man who saw I was buying three plates. Yes, today, I bought three plates. I will use them to sit my gingerbread houses on, as my friends never give my my own plates back. I’ve learnt to buy the cheapest I can find, and I was in the cheapest shop in possibly all of Haute Savoie with all the world’s crazy people. The man in front of me at the checkout turned to his, erm, I can only assume it was his minder, and said in French, “Looks, she’s buying three plates. Three plates. That’s what she is buying. Three.” She pulled him away while I did exactly what my mum does – I smiled as if it was normal. These people are not normal. Later today, a woman came running up to me in a supermarket in Annecy. Now, I had baggy jeans on and a blue hoody, complete with dreadlocks loose almost to my behind, yet she seemed to think I had a red supermarket apron on and was an ideal worker to ask directions from. “Where are the detergents?” she demanded in French, impatiently. Eager to help (will I never learn?), I said I wasn’t sure but I thought they were over- Too late! She heard I wasn’t a native French speaker and dismissed me as a BAD store worker who was probably taking a local French person’s job. “Oh,” she said as she walked off in a huff. I felt like yelling out in English: “No worries, any time, glad to help such friendly people as yourself. And have a great day, sunshine.” Instead, I carried on and was grateful I was not in the frozen turkey aisle.