Expat Life in the South of France

Recently there was a news item in the English language press, which made the rounds in France as well.  It was a study of the eating and sleeping habits of different nationalities and how it affected their weight and longevity.  It seems that the French spend more time eating and sleeping than almost any other nationality (they sleep an average of 9 hours a day),  yet are among the least obese and pretty much at the top of the longevity table.   I figured that living in France, I might have a good chance to get on the same bandwagon - after all sleeping 9 hours every night is not a problem at all, and like the French, I too love my food. Unfortunately, unlike the French the kilos keep piling on - I’ll let you know about the longevity part later!

At a ladies only birthday lunch earlier this week,  our hostess had the idea of going around the table of 11, mostly expat residents, to ask about embarrassing faux pas trying to make ourselves understood , or trying to understand the French.  Two really funny ones had us all in stitches.

One was that of a new arrival who had just moved into her apartment and who luckily, had extremely helpful French neighbours.  One of them rushed in one day, in a state of panic and asked for some “scotch,” whereupon Anne rushed to the cabinet, brought out a bottle of scotch and handed it to the neighbour.  The neighbour was horrified. She wanted cello  tape, which the French for some reason insist on calling “Scotch!”

Another was of a couple shopping in the supermarket, when the wife wandered off and the tall husband was approached by a little old French lady who pointed to the top shelf and said something in French, whereupon the husband replied in French, “No thank you, Madame, not today!”  The French lady insisted, by which time his wife had returned and explained that what the lady wanted was a product from off the top shelf which she couldn’t reach!

As you can see I am not a very regular blogger. I just never seem to have the time. I get asked the above question by overseas friends all the time and I am at a loss to explain where the time goes. Sometimes I wonder how I ever found the time to work before the retired (sort of) life.

I shall attempt to answer.I do a lot of reading, some writing, yoga, have a lot of friends. I go to French conversation classes once a week, I run, with others,  a weekly English conversation group,  belong to a groumet group which meets to eat, and go walking with my husband, weather permitting, mainly along the coast, either the Promenade in Nice, the Croisette in Cannes or the Cagens-sur-Mer waterfront. Of course my overseas friends haven’t done their own housework for years - living mostly in Asia - so they forget about the effort required to keep a household running - even if it’s somewhat desultory most of the time (the effort I mean).  Having a garden doesn’t make things easier. However my husband has now succumbed to my constant nagging, and we now have a gardener. It was  frightening seeing him up a ladder pruning a bloody great olive tree - we have 6 of them .  And now, with the arrival of spring, the visitors start soon. So, do I miss work? Not at all. Am I bored? Absolutely not. Am I enjoying life? YES!

We also do a fair amount of travelling. We have just returned from a trip to the UK to visit family, and while there I took the opportunity to visit the (relatively) new gallery of Islamic Art at the V & A in London.  Loved it, but was a bit disappointed at the lack of objects from Central Asia. 

Just before that we spent a week in and around Barcelona. A friend had her birthday party at a  lovely parador on the Costa Brava, after which we spent a few days in Barcelona.  I was struck by how much cheaper the prices were, even in the touristy areas of  a big city like Barcelona, compared to France. Yesterday the IHT ran an article “36 Hours in Barceona.” I think the author must have slept no more than 4 hours on that trip. Just reading it left me breathless.

I have read comments on several expat forums on France about the loneliness and difficulty of some new arrivals in meeting people.   The AVF or Accueil des Villes Française is an invaluable port of first call. It has 350 local associations all over France and they help newcomers integrate into  local life. They are very welcoming, have a raft of activities, among which French conversation sessions, English conversation for foreigners, hikes, square dancing, etc. or you can start up an activity of your own. They are all open to members for an annual fee of 50€.  We have made some wonderful friends of all nationalities and have found it most rewarding. The website is very informative (if you read French) and will tell you where in each region AVF exists. Go fot it and watch your social life explode!

Body parts, you say?  Sure, but they are also names of French villages! Corps-Nuds, (corps nus), Montcuq (mon cul - both drop the last consonant) & Monteton (mon téton) .  They all, according to The Connexion, our marvelous monthly newspaper published in France, belong to the Association of Communes with Humourous and Charming Names (English translation).

Other hilarious names:  Swindle the Post Office  - Arnac (Arnaque)-la-Poste, Very Stupid - Trécon (très con) & finally, Go Away - Vatan (vas-t-en) extends you a warm welcome!

A big merci to The Connexion for digging out these gems.

I’m on a roll now!  Some time ago, we had an attempted break-in at about 4 am., however by the time my husband went into the garden armed with a hockey stick, the perp had fled leaving only his footprints and a mangled window frame behind. The police duly appeared, because the neighbours were also burgled, and we were told to report to the gendarmerie the next morning, which we did.

20 minutes later, the gendarme typing with 2 fingers managed to  finally get our name and address down. Now came the interesting part.

G to my husband: ”What is your mother’s maiden name?” 

Mike:  “Brooks.”

G:  “Her maiden name please.”

Mike, who decided to be difficult because he didn’t see the point of this question, deadpanned: “Brooks.”

G - taking both his hands of f the keyboard - to me: “Madame, would you please translate for your husband I need his mother’s maiden name.”

Me: “Brooks!” Then seeing his exasperation and not wanting to spend half the day arguing about my mother-in-law’s maiden name, I explained that his mother had the same name before marriage as after, at which he shook his head as if to say “I always knew the Brits were weird.”

The main question of course, and the one that never got asked, was what had my mother-in-law’s maiden name got to do with an attempted break-in at our home?  If any of you French residents has an answer, please let me know.

Much as I love living in France, the fonctionnaires really freak me out sometimes.  When we first arrived here, cartes de sejour were compulsory for all resident foreigners, even EU citizens. By the time they expired, 5 years later, they were no longer necessary for EU citizens. However, I found having one really useful for identity purposes and for passport free travel within Schengen. I duly presented myself at the Préfecture in Nice and very politely asked for one even though I knew it was no longer necessary. I couldn’t get past first base, so I gave up.  However, last week I discovered a French Government website which specifically states that permanent resident EU citizens can ask for one, even though it is not obligatory to have one, and that it would be provided.

Being a glutton for punishment I called the préfecture and referred the bureaucrat to the website and restated my demand for a CdeS. The reply was: “We have nothing to do with the government website, and we do not issue cartes de séjour EU citizens any more.”

Me: “But it is a government website, you work for the government don’t you?”

Bureaucrat: “No I work for the Nice Préfecture de Police, and regardless of what the government website says you will not get a CdeS here !”

Round one to the fonctionnaire! I’ll wait awhile before launching round 2 in this battle!

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…

It didn’t take us long to discover that some things do work differently in France. If you wish to catch the French at work, you have to be fiendishly clever and quick. They do not work more than 35 hours a week, two hours over lunch, on the weekend, on Sundays (supermarkets), on Mondays (shops), before 10 a.m., after 5 p.m., during August, during strikes and when they don’t feel like it. That said, when they do, they are unfailingly polite, charming and efficient.  Amazingly, they also have almost the highest output in the world, per man hour worked.

We accept that the legendary French bureaucracy  needs to be negotiated with patience, tact and politeness,  that the French health service beats the NHS hands down, that you can’t go to the supermarket on a Sunday, and that when you order a ‘café’  it never comes with milk on the side!

Vive la difference!

Retirement loomed. After 35years of living in the pressure-cooker of Hong Kong, it was time to ride off into the sunset. Our daughters had left home, and we decided that if we had to retire, we might as well do it in style. So the French Riviera it was.

“Can we afford it?” I asked my husband.

“Probably not,” he replied, and proceeded to trace a circle of 20kms from Nice airport on the map. Since one-half of the circle was in the Mediterranean, our choice of area was considerably restricted. And so we moved to Vence, 30 minutes from both Nice and Cannes. I, especially, needed to be near a major city, for my occasional fix of noise and pollution. After life in Bombay, Cairo and Hong Kong, withdrawal symptoms were a distinct possibility!

Forty houses and six weeks later we found the house we eventually bought,  lovingly described in estate agent speak as “a charming bastide on three levels.” The majestic palm tree which greeted us as we drove in already began working its magic. The eye-popping view tipped the balance a little further .

To buy or not to buy? It wasn’t an easy decision. Would it be worth the time and expense involved for the major renovation work required? Would our eclectic (some would say mish-mash)collection of Oriental and Egyptian ornaments fit into this very ‘olde worlde’ French setting? Could we really combine eastern elements in a western setting to give it a cohesive look? Several visits later, with the view still continuing to beckon us, we took the plunge.

The formalities for transfer of title were achingly slow. The surveyor advised us that the swimming pool was illegal being too close to the boundary of our property. This entailed an exchange of land with our neighbour. Also the arched dining room extension with the spectacular view was illegal too, because planning permission had not been obtained by the previous owners! This too was regularised in the final contract.

After four months of obligatory screw-ups by absent vendors, present tenants, agents and lawyers, while we hapless foreigners, speaking fractured French, stood helplessly by, we finally obtained possession.

Wrecking time was here. Walls, doors, bathrooms were torn down, repositioned and gutted and for months we lived with piles of rubble, huge holes in the walls and overhanging clouds of dust. The workmen called it Beirut! (Today they would call it Gaza!)

Seven years on, here we are……