Le Franco Phoney

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?

No, you are not imagining things. This really is a photo of a cow in a car — a Renault 5 to be exact. This is a car with only three doors, so there’s not that much space between the driver and the cow. My friend Penny snapped this photo on the way back from Annecy last week. At first, she presumed the brown and white thing was a boxer dog. She then realised it was a cow.

I guess this particular farmer found it more cost effective than getting out the cow transport truck, but I’m not sure how the cow feels about it. Is that a line of wee coming from the cow? And if so, is it really that cost effective? The farmer has to clean up the the mess left behind by the cow.

I reckon this one beats the dog on a bike and the snowman on a car hands down.

Okay okay, I know: this is a blog about all things French. So what’s the deal with a vending machine in Belgium? I went to Belgium last weekend for a music festival and I feel the need to tell you about this vending machine that was placed at the entrance of a shop. As you can see, there are lots of cigarettes going on in there. This alone surprised me as I remember in Australia, when I worked in a shop, having to ask people to prove they were eighteen (raised from sixteen) before they could buy cigarettes. I guess anyone can walk up to this vending machine and buy a packet no matter how young they are, but perhaps there’s some ID-checking process that somehow happens. Does anyone know?

This particular vending machine is the friend of the teenager: it contains not just cigarettes, but various other things that can help a teenager get through those difficult years — condoms, for a start. I think that’s a great idea: no more embarrassing moment at the checkout required, but safe sex is more likely. Rizla papers are also in there (along with bags of tobacco) for anyone wanting to roll their own…erm…’cigarette’. Bizarrely, razors for women are available, which might be handy if a date has gone well, he’s rolling a ‘cigarette’ back at his house with a Rizla, and she just realised she forgot to shave. She can pick up the condoms at the same time just in case things get a bit steamy later on.

And way down the bottom there, next to the tobacco and the Rizla papers, are postage stamps. Postage stamps? Are these not a bit square for the average teenager exploring sex, drugs and shaving? I reckon they are. I can only presume it’s for those ‘crazy ex’ types who decide to write that scathing letter late at night when everyone else is either rolling ‘cigarettes’, shaving bikini lines, or opening a packet of condoms.

The French region of Var this week suffered their worst flash flooding in almost 200 years. At least 25 people have died, and the animal count is much higher. President Sarkozy has declared a national disaster, and fittingly, it was the first headline reported on last night’s news. Each night when the headlines are over, some of those headlines are looked at in more detail. And last night, the first headline discussed in more detail was the other national disaster — France’s loss to Mexico in the World Cup. The news reader discussed it in depth with some photogenic hunk who played for France in the previous World Cup. Only when they had exhausted talking over each other, watching reruns of footballer Thierry Henry looking upset on the sidelines, and the French coach speaking slower French than I do at the press conference after their loss did the news reader move onto the flash flooding. Life loss through natural disaster? Pfft: let’s talk first about the football eh. Incidentally, the next in-depth story involved the President’s visit to London to mark the 70th anniversary of Charles de Gaulle’s momentous war-time speech urging the French to resist the Nazis. Allez les bleus!

To see just how severe the floods have been, check out the following news report (death toll already out of date).

On a walk through St Jean de Sixt yesterday, I noticed the garden scene below. Something’s a bit NQR (Not Quite Right), right? That’s not a real person! That’s not a real café either. The donkey is only two-dimensional. And, in fact, that’s a fake house there in the background. Let me explain.

These are just some of the props that used to grace the St Jean de Sixt roundabout at different times of the year. The guy who used to put the mannequins on the roundabout together with the corresponding props is obviously missing his roundabout antics, and is now turning his attentions to creating scenes away from the roundabout, closer to his house.

I had walked past a week earlier one evening and I saw a scene full of life — minus the actual life. The red mannequin dude in the background hadn’t moved, but there were chairs and tables populated by mannequins (including the one with the hat right in front of the camera, watching the scene from a distance while he was gardening at night). Apparently, mannequins party at night.

It might sound silly, but it’s a real treat to walk past this area in St Jean and watch the scene change over time. Security cameras and fences aren’t needed here, and that’s what I truly love. The mannequins have not been undressed, the donkey has not been turned upside down or stolen, and the fake café has no graffiti. I heart rural living.

It’s that time of year again, when movie buffs, media students and animation geeks from all over the world swarm to Annecy for the week-long International Annecy Animation Film Festival. This year, the fashion seems to be badges on bags, although I did see one guy sporting his badges all over his jeans. Yes, his jeans were entirely covered in badges.

The festival is great fun, with outdoor freebie screenings most nights of the week, and lots of animation styles to keep everyone happy. I favour the shorts: a movie-length screening of around six or more short animations. That ten minutes or so when people are entering the cinema involves more than just a hum of chatter: it’s an opportunity to throw lots of paper planes. So, on top of walking up stairs while scanning the rows of people for a few empty seats, you also need to dodge the papers zooming around the room. Long paper plane flights get a round of applause and a cheer! I saw one guy last night collecting as many as he could from the aisle beside him to relaunch, while the guy in front of me ripped off another sheet from his notebook to start folding another plane.

In fact, the planes are so common at the festival, that they’re an integral part of this year’s animated trailer for the festival, which you can watch below (and yes, that’s the actual cinema at the end).

Thankfully, the planes stop flying as soon as the first animation starts. However, between animations, the “done thing” is to make a popping sound with your mouth. You know, when you were a kid and you’d stick a finger inside your mouth near your cheek, then flick it out to make a pop? That’s the sound that gets made between movies. This is a whole separate set of cultural norms that seem to exist in Annecy purely for the animation festival.

I guess it was nice to escape some aspects of French culture for the evening, but by the time I left that cinema, I was looking forward to a crepe and seeing men in stripy shirts and berets riding bikes with baguettes under their arms and saying “ooh la la” a lot to the background sounds of a piano accordion.

Okay, we’re all familiar with the dog in a bag fashion statement, but that’s for the likes of Paris Hilton, right? Wrong. If your image of a dog in a bag is one of a white fluffy thing in a bling bag on an equally bling shoulder, think again.

Yesterday, a friend in my car snapped this photo of a dog in a bag. Yes, that fluffy blur is actually a black poodle, but we couldn’t catch up to the tough guy on the chopper-style motorbike because he was whizzing around so fast. So, here’s the blur instead, and you’ll just have to trust me on this one. Not only is that a dog in his bag, but it’s a bit of a pink bag for a dude in black on a slick motorbike. Could it be his girlfriend’s dog in a bag? Has he been asked to transport said dog from one location to another? And since it comes with it’s own handy carry-case, perhaps he just popped the girly bag over his shoulders and started up his engine. Who knows.

Now, my friend mentioned that she had just seen a twin-dog bag in Leipzig on a goth who was on his way to a goth festival  happening there last weekend. He was all decked out in a ‘romantic’ goth outfit, which apparently consisted of black, plus white ruffles—kind of lucky considering both dogs were white. They matched his outfit. Dog-in-a-bag fashion continues! Apparently, they were well behaved. I’m guessing they know that their owner is a goth and are so scared he might dye their hair black too that they’re as good as gold when he’s around.

Meanwhile, summertime in the Alps signals the start of dog-in-a-bag season. A few years ago at the Fete du Reblochon in La Clusaz, I saw this (sunburnt) lady checking the dog in a backpack  on her partner’s back. Did they perhaps start the non-bling dog-in-a-backpack alternative to the bling dog-in-a-bag fashion? Again, who knows. What I do know is that the dog on the motorbike seemed pretty relaxed about the whole thing. His mate in La Clusaz, on the other hand, seemed a bit embarrassed. Black motorbike dog is cool.

Tête de veau means “head of calf” in English. So, why would there be a sign offering tête de veau and vegetables in Annecy recently? Because people eat whole heads of calves here in France, as well as in Italy and Germany.

And at just €6, you can see why it’s popular! Well, to be honest, I wouldn’t eat it if someone paid me. However, a couple of stories spring to mind. Back in the year 2000, when I had only just left Australia and had been talked into a quick bus tour of Europe, one of the fellow tour-goers ordered tête de veau when we stopped in Lyon, the culinary capital of France, for dinner. He had no idea what it was, but decided, since we were at this posh restaurant after days of eating boring tour-group food at pre-arranged locations, that anything on the menu must be good and that he would enjoy whatever came out. How bad could it be? The head went back uneaten, and the guy felt too ill (and guilty for contributing to the market of calf-head cooking) that he abstained from food for the rest of the night.

Recipes tend to involve the tongue wrapped around the head (minus the bone by the looks of it, but don’t quote me: I became too queasy just reading about it and had to stop), along with some boiled potatoes, capers and a vinaigrette. Brains are often served beside the meat.

Now, apart from the whole culinary delight thing, tête de veau is also an insult aimed at Parisians. The saying goes (spelling unknown, but it all rhymes with “go”): “Parigot, tête de veau”, so it’s really just a rhyme used by non-Parisians to make it clear they think that Parisians have calves heads. It’s a bonafide insult, albiet light-hearted most of the time. The only reason I found out about this was after a weekend ski contest in Le Grand Bornand for kids from villages nearby. Apparently, Manigod (pronounced “manny go”) did very well, much to the disappointment of the kids from other villages, who started chanting: “Manigod, tête de veau”. Parents were shocked and embarrassed and word got out — all the way down to the Australian (me) who doesn’t even know any truly local kids. Apparently, kids saying it to other kids is less light-hearted!

So, did I buy a tête de veau? No way! I’ll leave that up to the locals.

How do you say “I’m sorry for your loss” in French when someone dies? Apparently, with a six-pack of greeting cards. Yes, in France, you can buy packets of “Sincere Condolences” cards, which I guess is handy if a lot of your friends drop off in fast succession, or if you don’t have a chance to get to a card shop when someone has popped their clogs (quite possible, considering shop opening hours in France).

At first, I was shocked that anyone would consider buying a six-pack of cards for death, but then I wondered what the difference is between this and buying a packet of Christmas cards. Choosing a card that you can send to at least six of your friends doesn’t exactly say “this is personal and sincere”, but I think the difference is that Christmas happens once a year, so you can be a bit more blasé about it. Death is pretty much a one-off (unless you’re Slash or pretty much any other member of the old Guns’n'Roses who dabbled in drugs a little too much before being resuscitated), and I’d feel embarrassed if the only card I could find to send to a mourning family was one from a six-pack. Also, just saying “six-pack” reminds me of Australian beer. Although my brother would probably appreciate the sentiment, I’m sure he’d just prefer the beer.

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.