It must be said that I enjoy writing with a bit of a ranting style but please believe me I love being in France and this I knew long before our decision to move there. I see the challenges and culture clashes as succour to my soul and wouldn't have it any other way.
May France forever be France and may I live there as a courteous guest and never long to change it.
Monday 27 February 2012
Bricomarché!! (Rules not Service!)
Perhaps it is through some national sense of unease at the rise of supermarkets and gradual decline of local shops that the French shopping experience in large national chains (Such as Bricomarché) is so utterly obtuse.
The amount of form filling, ticket holding, needless waiting, shoulder shrugging, rules and bureaucracy is staggering. It's not as if any of it is aimed at providing superb service or efficiencies that are passed onto the consumer (far from it, I could do my DIY shopping at Harrods for less). It seems to me to be uniquely aimed at ensuring, the shopper fully understands the immense privilege he should feel by spending his money at Bricomarché!
Last autumn, I had the misfortune of attempting to return four, four meter lengths of copper pipe and some valves to our local store, which I visit regularly and have spent a considerable amount of time and money in. Some of the process I was aware of, by studying how the locals did it, so I knew that as you walk into the shop, you need to catch the attention of the lady behind the counter who will give you a ticket. It turns out that the ticket says "4 x copper pipe" (Or words to that effect) on it. This served the purpose of allowing me through the automatic barrier to the customer returns department, without being accused of stealing copper pipes. The customer services department is the other end of the same counter where I handed my ticket over to the same lady, who then took the time to read the ticket she had, not ten seconds previously, written and actually checked to make sure there were, as she had just written, 4 copper pipes about my person.
So far so good, I was maintaining a sense of humour at being thrown into farce but then made my first mistake, I produced the 2 valves from my pocket. Oh dear god, if my hand had contained a live grenade, the look on her face could not have been more appalled. My French (lessons underway) is not what it should be but through observation of a particularly animated conversation between her and her colleague I got the impression I had committed a grave, possibly capital, offense. My broken pleas that she had seen me walk into the shop and was watching me the whole time were met with "but where is your ticket?", when I suggested that she write me a ticket now, she called the manager!
Further arm waving conversations between all three of them, intermingled with furtive glances in my direction (Still holding my four, four meter pipes aloft, like some contemporary jouster ready to charge, and the incriminating valves in a slightly more sheepish fashion) seemed to produce a bit of progress. I was not, it seems, to accused of theft (again!) and they would be happy to deal with my returns provided I had my receipt.
Ah!
My second mistake was to lose my receipt, more arms were waved (or possibly the same ones but more vigorously), further conversations were had and once again the manager was called over.
French or no I got the very clear message that they could not help me. Sense of humour gone by now, I thought to myself "I don't need Bricomarché as much as they need me, I going to go for a Franglaise rant". This I did and I rather surprised myself at how well I could make a point in angry French! Had my rant been song it would have had the title "Rules not Service". You get the idea.
As I prepared to storm out, not easy with my 4 meter pipes clattering into everything within a two meter radius, I was called back and told everything would be fine, full refund, no (more) questions asked just as long as I took the refund as a credit onto my loyalty card. So it seems the rules can be bent as a very last resort!
I'm sure this approach is not going to be the basis of my future transactions in France but hanging onto my paperwork will certainly have to be. That's all folks.
The amount of form filling, ticket holding, needless waiting, shoulder shrugging, rules and bureaucracy is staggering. It's not as if any of it is aimed at providing superb service or efficiencies that are passed onto the consumer (far from it, I could do my DIY shopping at Harrods for less). It seems to me to be uniquely aimed at ensuring, the shopper fully understands the immense privilege he should feel by spending his money at Bricomarché!
Last autumn, I had the misfortune of attempting to return four, four meter lengths of copper pipe and some valves to our local store, which I visit regularly and have spent a considerable amount of time and money in. Some of the process I was aware of, by studying how the locals did it, so I knew that as you walk into the shop, you need to catch the attention of the lady behind the counter who will give you a ticket. It turns out that the ticket says "4 x copper pipe" (Or words to that effect) on it. This served the purpose of allowing me through the automatic barrier to the customer returns department, without being accused of stealing copper pipes. The customer services department is the other end of the same counter where I handed my ticket over to the same lady, who then took the time to read the ticket she had, not ten seconds previously, written and actually checked to make sure there were, as she had just written, 4 copper pipes about my person.
So far so good, I was maintaining a sense of humour at being thrown into farce but then made my first mistake, I produced the 2 valves from my pocket. Oh dear god, if my hand had contained a live grenade, the look on her face could not have been more appalled. My French (lessons underway) is not what it should be but through observation of a particularly animated conversation between her and her colleague I got the impression I had committed a grave, possibly capital, offense. My broken pleas that she had seen me walk into the shop and was watching me the whole time were met with "but where is your ticket?", when I suggested that she write me a ticket now, she called the manager!
Further arm waving conversations between all three of them, intermingled with furtive glances in my direction (Still holding my four, four meter pipes aloft, like some contemporary jouster ready to charge, and the incriminating valves in a slightly more sheepish fashion) seemed to produce a bit of progress. I was not, it seems, to accused of theft (again!) and they would be happy to deal with my returns provided I had my receipt.
Ah!
My second mistake was to lose my receipt, more arms were waved (or possibly the same ones but more vigorously), further conversations were had and once again the manager was called over.
French or no I got the very clear message that they could not help me. Sense of humour gone by now, I thought to myself "I don't need Bricomarché as much as they need me, I going to go for a Franglaise rant". This I did and I rather surprised myself at how well I could make a point in angry French! Had my rant been song it would have had the title "Rules not Service". You get the idea.
As I prepared to storm out, not easy with my 4 meter pipes clattering into everything within a two meter radius, I was called back and told everything would be fine, full refund, no (more) questions asked just as long as I took the refund as a credit onto my loyalty card. So it seems the rules can be bent as a very last resort!
I'm sure this approach is not going to be the basis of my future transactions in France but hanging onto my paperwork will certainly have to be. That's all folks.
Thursday 23 February 2012
Actually buying a house in France!
Perhaps this should have been my first post but maybe I've been trying to forget the wholr tortuous process. Seriously it really does seem to take forever. Considering we were first time buyers, buying a house with no chain, I'd have to say that 8 months between agreeing the price and actually owning the house is a little excessive. It only took Henry V 6 months to take Rouen by siege (Although 5 months of that could have been taken up by trying to work out the road system!).
For the entirity of this process we had only the most tenuious grasp on exactly what was happening. I won't bore you with details but I do feel the need to say that between my wife and I we had to provide nearly 1000 signatures! That's one each for every piece of paper in the contract (twice as there was an ammendment) and every page of the surveyors report!
Ultimately what we have is, or at least will be, amazing. There are 2 houses around a courtyard-garden and an enormous barn space that we have no idea what to do with but will provide sumptuous accomodation for Monti (Our little 1972 Fiat 500), not that he requires much in the way of space. All this for less than the cost of our 3 bed semi in provincial England.
For the entirity of this process we had only the most tenuious grasp on exactly what was happening. I won't bore you with details but I do feel the need to say that between my wife and I we had to provide nearly 1000 signatures! That's one each for every piece of paper in the contract (twice as there was an ammendment) and every page of the surveyors report!
Ultimately what we have is, or at least will be, amazing. There are 2 houses around a courtyard-garden and an enormous barn space that we have no idea what to do with but will provide sumptuous accomodation for Monti (Our little 1972 Fiat 500), not that he requires much in the way of space. All this for less than the cost of our 3 bed semi in provincial England.
Builder's advance!
Well it hasn't taken long for something odd to happen.
We have a father and son builders team working on the french house. Originally from deepest Essex, they live in the area and work for €10 an hour each (doesn't cost us too much though because they only manage to work 4 hours at a time and a full Monday to Thursday would be a very good week!). If ever you thought the term "salt of the Earth" was a cliche then you need to meet our Clacton builder and his octogenarian dad complete with matching roll up fags, tattoos and a beaten up old car as a works van.
I heard from my wife (She's over at the house with my mum for the week.) last night, that they were going for a pizza with the builders and a couple of other friends we have met over there. Not so surprising as it seems to be difficult to work with/employ someone in rural France without socialising or becoming friends, which for all it's wonderful positives, adds to the whole culture shock thing.
After they got back the word was that my mum had a few hand squeezes with octogenarian builder and would accept a dinner invite if he asked! Oh good god, it's uncomfortable writing about it sitting in another country. At least they are home tomorrow, hopefully both of them.
We have a father and son builders team working on the french house. Originally from deepest Essex, they live in the area and work for €10 an hour each (doesn't cost us too much though because they only manage to work 4 hours at a time and a full Monday to Thursday would be a very good week!). If ever you thought the term "salt of the Earth" was a cliche then you need to meet our Clacton builder and his octogenarian dad complete with matching roll up fags, tattoos and a beaten up old car as a works van.
I heard from my wife (She's over at the house with my mum for the week.) last night, that they were going for a pizza with the builders and a couple of other friends we have met over there. Not so surprising as it seems to be difficult to work with/employ someone in rural France without socialising or becoming friends, which for all it's wonderful positives, adds to the whole culture shock thing.
After they got back the word was that my mum had a few hand squeezes with octogenarian builder and would accept a dinner invite if he asked! Oh good god, it's uncomfortable writing about it sitting in another country. At least they are home tomorrow, hopefully both of them.
Welcome to the village.
One of my early trips to the houses was a week of intensive cleaning and painting of the little house. I came on my own without knowing anyone in the village and with rather a single minded objective that would never withstand events in the village!
On about my third afternoon 3 gentleman approached the house and introduced themselves as the retired farmer from next door, "Local Service" (See below) and a grumpy Welshman (GW) who could do some translating for me (My French is probably better that school boy but not a lot) especially for Local Service (LS) as he speaks a local Patois which is barely French.
It was explained to me that as a welcome to the village I was to be taken into Retired Farmer's (RF) cellar. Once safely ensconced there I was thankfully served alcohol and none of the other things which came to mind. Drinks (Given this was mid-afternoon) included with wine (2 bottles), pineau (Eau de vie and grape juice) and some rocket fuel made from blackthorn shoots.
During my stay I was shown RF's collection of corkscrews and given a crash course on the local patois the LS regularly saying incomprehensible things followed by "Traduction!" as instruction for GW to translate. This game was fine and perfectly normal until he grabbed a topless calendar and proclaimed loudly "titties traduction!". There are after all many similarities between the English and French languages.
After this bewildering afternoon we emerged blinking into the sunshine and all piled into LS's car (Yes I know but still!) and drove about 200 meters to LS's house where he insisted that we start on the Pastis. GW had bailed by this stage and I was left to fend for myself for 40 minutes of stuttering French/Patois and sign language.
After I'd staggered back I have to confess I didn't get any more painting done.
Wednesday 22 February 2012
How did we get here?
So it came to pass that after a couple of holidays in remote European villages. We decided we would like to move to France.
Long story short, we bought a house last year are now just a month out from moving in, our house in the UK having sold to the only bidder. This means we have reached the point of no return.
It might be considered a rash decision for all of us: me, my wife, our 18 month old baby girl with premature terrible twos and a cat with a closed door complex but decision made so here we go!
Anyway, so much has happened just owning the house in France and popping over when we can to try to decorate, repair or build bits of it that I'm just going to throw in random topics for my first few entries. This should (I make it sound like there's a plan!) get the background sorted before I do anything chronological. That said if it's happening now I'll let you know.
Long story short, we bought a house last year are now just a month out from moving in, our house in the UK having sold to the only bidder. This means we have reached the point of no return.
It might be considered a rash decision for all of us: me, my wife, our 18 month old baby girl with premature terrible twos and a cat with a closed door complex but decision made so here we go!
Anyway, so much has happened just owning the house in France and popping over when we can to try to decorate, repair or build bits of it that I'm just going to throw in random topics for my first few entries. This should (I make it sound like there's a plan!) get the background sorted before I do anything chronological. That said if it's happening now I'll let you know.
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