Le Franco Phoney

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, a little old 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 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. 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, 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.

The steering on my car felt funny this morning so I stopped and saw a flat front tyre. I was pretty sure driving on it would ruin the tyre and the wheel, but being impatient, I decided to drive in first gear to the close-by garage with an air pump. Within ten metres, the wheel started making loud noises, and the farmer from across the road looked over. He saw the tyre and said he had an air pump. Actually, I didn’t understand his French, but he motioned me to the next driveway where he pulled out an air pump to fill the tyre. Sadly, it stayed flat so I got out my spare tyre. Old VW Golfs have this ‘compact’ tyre-wheel combo that you fill up to a high pressure and drive at a moderate speed to the closest tyre shop. It saves room and weight, but this farmer and his mate who arrived were not convinced. They told me to get one of my winter tyres. I sprinted back up the road, then realised my keys were in the car. It was 25 degrees outside so I was baking. I walked back down, collected the keys, walked back up, collected the tyre, and walked back down with my hands  covered in grease from the tyre.

When I got back, two problems arose: firstly, the snow tyre had no wheel attached and the farmers had no tools to switch tyres; and secondly, the ratchet thingy that came with my car did not fit the wheel nuts, so the wheel was stuck on the car anyway. Eventually, one of the farmers realised that the nuts had plastic covers on them and that the ratchet thingy was indeed the right size. So, back to the emergency wheel/tyre. The two farmers popped it on, tightened it up and discovered it too was flat. They pumped in some air and the tyre inflated. Relief! The lovely farmers spent more than an hour sorting out a tyre for a girl they didn’t even know. Of course, this happened at midday, which meant I’d have to wait until 2pm before the shops re-opened from lunch. No worries: it was already after 1pm by the time the emergency wheel went on and I repacked my car’s boot to fit the flat tyre, then loaded the winter tyre in the back seat (that tyre was of no use to anyone, but it had a lovely day cruising Annecy with the roof down as my passenger).

The closest tyre shop is ten minutes away. I managed to take sixteen minutes on my emergency tyre, driving at a moderate speed and waving cars past, so I didn’t have long to wait until 2pm. A boy there told me I would have to buy two new front tyres (the law in France states that your front two tyres must be the same model and your back two tyres must be the same model, even if the two at the back are different from the two at the front). I asked him why they couldn’t just repair my existing tyre. He said that when tyres get “close” to not being road-worthy, the shop is legally bound to change them. When I told him they were only five months old, he backed down, and eventually, his boss fixed the problem (something to do with the seal between the tyre and the wheel) and charged me €15 which probably went straight into his pocket since no receipt was offered or given (or requested - I really didn’t care at this point). I chucked the ‘compact’ tyre back in the boot and decided close enough was good enough when trying to get the jack back in the tiny compartment with the spare.

The two farmers were so generous their precious time, yet these two blokes just saw a presumably clueless girl and tried to make a profit. Anyway, I now know how to change my (rather specific) spare wheel and that I can hold my ground against less generous French men. I might make the farmers a cake or something. Suggestions welcome!