Le Franco Phoney

Here is a photo of Vernazza, one of the five villages that makes up the Cinque Terre in Italy. I was there last month, walking the paths —  often just some stones raised off the slanting ground to flatten it — between the five villages. I could go on about the pesto, the gelati, the welcoming atmosphere, or the loudness of children, but this is a blog about France, not Italy. So why am I mentioning Italy? Because it’s only through going to a country where none of my (two!) languages are spoken that I realised just how much improvement I’ve made in French. The Cinque Terre itself is full of American tourists even at low season, so getting around the five villages isn’t so difficult (and walking on the paths, you never know whether to say “hello”, “buon giorno”, “hola”, “guten tag” or “bonjour”). However, on the way to the Cinque Terre, I was in a restaurant where I wanted a fruit juice. I know the word in French, but not in Italian. None of the Italian staff knew the English or the French word, so I followed the staff to their drinks fridge and pointed. I ended up with iced tea. Apparently, juice is just not available in some restaurants in Italy. The language frustrations continued right up until we reached the border back to France: we stopped just before the Frejus tunnel to fill up with petrol (there was a petrol strike happening in France at the time). There was some problem with my bank card and the man said something in Italian. I asked if he spoke English. Nope. French? Yes. Result! We managed to establish that the card was fine but the machine’s connection sometimes played up, and fears that he was charging me twice were alleviated when he explained in French what the writing on the first cancelled receipt said. Thanks Italy — for the food, the welcome and for the reassurance that my French has improved more than I realised (but your kids really are very loud).

I’ve always been impressed with how many languages flight attendants speak on international flights, and in the past, easyJet has been no exception. On my flight over to England from Geneva last week, the two flight attendants greeting passengers were both unable to speak any French. I don’t think the attendant at the back could either because they asked me to translate for a French lady who had a problem. Her daughter had left her doudou (normally a soft toy, but hers was a scarf) in her pusher and she only realised once she had boarded the plane. With less than half the passengers loaded, I explained to the flight attendants that the French lady’s daughter would cry for the entire flight if she didn’t have the scarf. Apparently, they’re not allowed off the plane so cue ten minutes of difficulties in finding someone who could walk back along the short platform to where the pushers has been left for loading. Finally, a member of ground staff boarded the plane to ask what he was looking for, then explained the pushers were already loaded. Don’t they have contact with the people at the gate? The French mum gave up and returned to her unhappy daughter but the flight attendants were so grateful for my translation that they offered me a free hot drink. Yes, I scored a tea bag, cup, some hot water and two long-life pots of milk from the easyJet flight attendants! Fine, that doesn’t sound like a big deal, but this is easyJet, who charge extra for basics such as checking in a bag, using certain bank cards for booking the flight, food and drink on the plane, and now the horrible ‘speedy boarding’ (which allows people to pay to board the plane before the rest of us plebs race on to get a good seat). I’m not criticising them for their approach: they provide a fantastically cheap service for quick trips away (even if their staff aren’t as multilingual as I previously thought). But I’m pretty sure anyone who has flown easyJet will understand my satisfaction at being offered a freebie out of gratitude. Hooray!

Friends warned me about Corsica before I left home, from: “They’ll ignore you in shops if you’re not Corsican,” to the rather extreme: “The locals slash tyres of tourist cars: buy a Corsica sticker and put it near your number plate.” Worse still, when I asked my Corsican friends on arrival if I should indeed buy a sticker because I had heard…”Oh yeah,” one friend said, “about the car burnings of cars that aren’t from here. You passed one on the way.” Indeed, we had passed a burnt-out car on a construction site. “So it’s true?” I asked. “No,” the other friend said, “we’re just joking: it’s not true and it doesn’t happen.” They giggled and pushed more local products to sample in my direction. My car remained intact and I found the locals very friendly.

The car-wrecking aspect of Corsican vandalism may be an urban myth, but Corsica does have an ugly side. Pictured is one of many road signs on the island that have had the French spelling vandalised leaving only the Corsican spelling visible. This one seems to have been hit with an air gun as well. The Corsicans are proud of their heritage and perhaps still a little(?) annoyed that, despite becoming a republic in 1755 after a long struggle for independence, the island was sold by the Genoese to France in 1764. A further six years of battle went on before Corsica was finally incorporated as part of France. Apparently, some of the locals are still upset about this, so the signs get the Corsican treatment I’d heard so much about. My joking friends then got serious and told me about the arson attacks on illegally-built houses and businesses close to beach fronts, which they justified using Corsican logic (vendettas). The Good of Corsica definitely outweighs The Bad and The Ugly, but keep a fire extinguisher handy just in case.

A quick visit south last week was my last hope for warm days before winter kicks in, so Corsica seemed like a good place to start. Although the island is closer to Italy, it’s under French governance (after various others including a bout of independence and even a self-made king — King Theodor von Neuhoff). This was handy for me, as I was able to speak to the locals, and this is where The Good comes in. Corsicans do not pull that face that so many Savoyardes pull when they hear my accent: they not only understood me when I opened my mouth, but they often chatted in further detail with me when they were under no obligation to do so. This was the first of many Goods, although this is no doubt considered normal behaviour in many parts of the world

The next Good is the views. Check out the coastline:

If you look closely, you can see buildings perched on the side of the cliff face in the distance. These are likely to fall into the sea one day when the cliff breaks off, joining the other broken bits of cliff pictured in the water. Corsica has a bit of everything: beaches, pretty walks, old bunkers, mountains, ski resorts, and Europe’s largest chestnut tree, which was kind of handy since a few days of rain meant fewer beach-side jaunts and more free time for other activities. In many places, the cows roam free on the roads, and although this could end in tears on dark and stormy nights, it was a pleasure to slow down to get around the slow-moving mooers, like the one pictured, on the mountainous roads. We had just passed this cow’s mum a few metres earlier and there was much mooing going on between the two of them.

The weather in Corsica seems to be very localised. One rain-free morning, we headed for the coast and swam at one of the first beaches we reached. It was only fifteen minutes away from where we were staying in Porto Vecchio, but it rained all day in town while the blue skies continued at the beach. Another Good.

The best Good of all was the Corsican hospitality: staying with friends is always great, but staying with Corsican friends is the best. My friend Jean-Pierre had said for years that I should “come to Corsica: zee most beautifoool island in zee world” and now I understand why. The most beautiful island lived up to its reputation, and much of it would have been missed if JP and his partner hadn’t gone out of their way to be personal tour guides.

And yes, we picked chestnuts from Europe’s largest chestnut tree, which I’ll be roasting some day soon.

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?

I used this simple phrase the other day when I was in a giant stationery shop: “Je cherche les sacs en papier“. Okay, I should have said “des” not “les” but this basically means: “I’m looking for paper bags”. I wasn’t looking for anything fancy, such as this designer number pictured. No, I’d just like to have some brown paper bags to hold some seeds for the garden over winter and to see if putting my geraniums in paper bags from autumn will indeed keep them alive until next spring. So, after waiting patiently for at least five minutes while the only person serving anyone finished serving the previous customer, then faffed around looking for some important pen, then finally found it and bonjoured me. I asked the paper bag question and got a blank stare. Actually, I tell a lie: her face contorted as she raised one side of her lip and frowned while she jerked her neck back in shock. She didn’t open her mouth so I repeated my request to the contorted face, which remained contorted.

You may have guessed by now that this is another rant. I’m sorry. As often as I find a fantastic French person who is patient, friendly and generous with his or her time while I converse in my accent-ridden French, I find at least one who, like this woman, makes bad facial expressions, or huffs or rolls eyes or just walks away as soon a I start speaking. I know my French isn’t too bad because some French people, such as the mechanic (see previous post) who fixed my car told me when I picked it up that my French is great, and I was able to chat for five minutes or so with him about my car, mutual friends and how his sister lives in Australia. Sydney, in fact. She loves it. He dreams of going there one day and seeing the Great Barrier Reef.

Back to the shop. My French friend standing next to me understood me, so he repeated my request to which she immediately replied — looking at him only, of course, rather than that stupid etranger who was disdainfully taking up space with her presence.

If there’s one thing that wears me down and crushes my spirit, it’s that look on someone’s face when they hear my accent and shut off completely. However, an English friend has come up with an explanation. She reckons that English speakers are used to all sorts of accents because so many people revert to English to communicate with people who don’t speak their language. Of course, it’s a generalisation, but maybe all these contorted faces are happening because the French speakers are only tuned into French accents. This would certainly explain the subtitles on TV if someone from Haiti (a country where French is spoken) is speaking French. I mean it’s the same language!

Anyway, the woman explained to my French friend that they have plastic bags and material bags but no paper bags, so it looks like I’ll have to use the large roll of paper that I bought from the very same shop months ago to create my own paper bags.

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.

Snow. White cold stuff, right? In French, it’s neige. Snowflakes are called flocons de neige (or just flocons). In the past week, I’ve seen snowflakes, rain and bright sunshine. The rain down lower was heavy, and the French saying for heavy rain is “Il pleut comme vache qui pisse” (It rains like a cow that pees).

The pistes have turned from poudre or peuf (powder) to soupe (erm, soup). There are also icy patches underneath like a patinoire (ice rink). Conditions have gone from hard-packed to soft and mushy, to avalanche-prone, then powdery, and now back to soggy snow, all in less than a week. And if you want to have a chat with any French person about the conditions, you really do have to know more than the word for snow. Otherwise it’s plain confusing: “What’s that? You were stuck in soup? You hit the ice rink? Then a cow peed?” These are just a few examples of snow-related talk that you probably need to know.

This photo of an avalanche (you can figure out its size by looking at the big pine trees) shows how a thin the layer of snow can transform quickly from a patinoire to soup, and then collapse under its own weight. Apart from the obvious faux-pas moment of misunderstanding someone who mentions getting stuck in soup, it’s pretty handy to know from a safety point of view, especially at this time of year. If someone is talking about a fondue, chances are they’re talking about melted snow and not cheese. Snow fondue is by far the less attractive type.

The Winter Olympic Games (les Jeux Olympiques in French) are in full swing, and I’ve been following the sports on French television. The French athletes have been a bit unlucky so far, and at first the commentators blamed it on badly-made courses. I think they’ve given up on that angle now but they certainly haven’t stopped saying: “Ooh la la”, nor the variation: “Ooh la la la la”, nor the variation of the variation: “Ooh la la la la la la”. Seriously, the commentators are la la laing so many times that I’m losing count. As the Men’s Cross-country Relay went on (and on and on)  last night, the commentators became more and more worried, using more “Ooh la la”s, when the Norwegian approached from fourth place, and eventually made it to second place, ousting the French team to fourth place. Vincent Vittoz from La Clusaz was in that team, and it was pretty much his last chance of winning an Olympic medal after many years of trying, so the commentators were hoping for him as much as I was that he would get at least a bronze. There’s still a chance he might get one because the French team have complained about Sweden (or is it Norway?) bringing two pairs of skis instead of one. If their complaint is successful, Vincent and the French team will move up to win bronze. And the commentators are sure to la la la themselves into oblivion if that happens.

Between the Ooh la las, it’s often difficult to hear much else because the commentators like talking over each other. During the replay of some figure skating last night, I wondered if they’d forgotten to turn off a few microphones as there were no less than four people talking at the same time. Really, I’m not joking: four people at once. The French do seem to have a knack of being able to talk and listen at the same time in everyday life, so such commentary probably shouldn’t surprise me as much as their moment of absolute silence when Ladies’ Downhill hopeful Marion Rolland hurt her knee and fell just seconds after she started her run. The French commentators had been excited about her run and they switched directly to her when she was getting ready to leave the gates. Bing! Off she goes! As she veered directly to her right and off the course, only one commentator let out a single, sad “Non”. Ten seconds must have passed before any of them could muster up the ability to speak. The catastrophe of another French athlete going down was just too much.

As I write this, the French are ranked equal sixth in the medal tally. Compare this with my native Australia — a country renowned for producing sporting champions, which has a whole three medals, putting them in sixteenth place. We’re better at summer sports really. Us Aussies are rapt with our best ever winter Olympics medal tally despite it being nowhere near the top-ranking countries. So, France, don’t fret: you’re doing alright. And may Vinny get that bronze.

So, here at Le Franco Phoney, I provide a written commentary on life in the French Alps, and from an ex-pat’s perspective. I’ve discovered an illustrated version of life in the Alps from a true French person, Caro (that’s Madamoiselle Caroline to us), who I had fun skiing with last week in La Clusaz, and who has since illustrated that particular day on her blog, including a stick figure of me on telemarks. Although her entries are in French, the illustrations mostly speak for themselves and she’s not scared to make fun of herself in order to give the rest of us a laugh. And now that she’s mentioned it, our mutual friend, Tim, does indeed look a lot like Sam Neil.

Although we don’t share the same language, nor her talent for drawing, we do share a love of snow, and the photo of her planted next to a tree, deep in snow is something I’d experienced just one day earlier on my snowboard (being waist deep in powder is more of an aerobic workout than you can ever imagine). And looking at her older blog entries, there are plenty of amusing illustrations of what life is all about here in the Alps, along with life in general (like having a husband who says he’s helped because he’s put the washing machine on after she’s spent the day cooking, shopping for her kids’ clothes and looking after her kids). She’s my new favourite illustrator and new favourite blogger. Enjoy!