Expat Life in the South of France

As we shiver in the European winter, I  look forward to spring which is right round the corner.  Spring is probably the best time of year to visit Paris. The city emerges from its grey winter torpor and within just a few weeks its parks are resplendent with a riot of blossoms . The Jardin des Tuileries,  on the right bank of the Seine, and next to the Louvre is one of my favourites.

My husband could never understand why a café au lait was only a breakfast drink and why French waiters looked askance at him whenever he ordered one after a meal.  Just having finished lunch, this waiter, in a small neighbourhood cafe in La Bocca, Cannes did more than just look askance when Michael asked for one.

“Would monsieur like a croissant to go with it?” he asked cheekily. After which he yelled to the bar, “un café espagnol!” Seeing our puzzled look, he whipped a napkin off our table,  using it as a matador’s cape and nimbly did a pass at an imaginary bull. “Olé!” he beamed. “Cafe Olé - get it?”

Well…yes…

We almost didn’t come here. We originally considered Portugal and Spain, but after a couple of holidays in the south of France, we decided this was where we liked best.  Besides, as I said to my husband, I didn’t want to learn a whole new language.

“You speak French?”

“Well..…sort of.” I could still conjugate avoir and être and count from one to ten in French, so I decided I qualified.

That was a mistake. Ávoir  and être proved woefully insufficient at the local tax office when we tried to argue that we had been billed twice for our tax d’habitation for the same house. My tentative “Parlez-vous Anglais?” was met with a snooty “Madame, vous êtes en France!”   Speaking English loudly and slowly was evidently not the answer.

“From tomorrow we will speak only French in the school.” Language boot camp, otherwise known as the Institut de Français  in the beautiful fishing port of Villefranche-sur-Mer, was the next step. Thoughtfully (and some might say, sadistically) recommended by the French consulate in Hong Kong, it was the linguistic and cultural equivalent of the French Foreign Legion. Having broken down our resistance to French to the extent that English was only a faint memory, an exhausting, expensive and absolutely exhilirating four weeks later, we, the students, were all jabbering excitedly in eminently understandable French. If you are interested to read more about the school, my article which appeared in the Expat section of the Daily Telegraph can be found  here . 

Fast forward a year later, to the same tax office and the same officer, I conducted myself entirely, if not always correctly, in French. He beamed and said to me in impeccable English, “Madame, your French is excellent!”