There is an oft quoted theory that the differences between the French and the British can be most plainly seen when they are queuing and especially when they do this together. We British see ourselves as patient and considerate in a queue and view the French as chaotic and rude. The French on the other hand seem to view our adherence to queuing protocols as faintly amusing and somewhat self defeatist.
It is easy to interpret the queues in these ways but I have recently looked at things slightly differently.
In a supermarket for example, the British have an unspoken rule of first come first served. Even when till 2 opens up, those in line at till 1 will shuffle backwards and re-assemble at till 2 in the same order. We've all nipped in every now and then but (and be honest) do you ever turn and look behind you afterwards? No, because you know you've broken protocol and don't need the just and silent admonishment from your fellow shoppers! The upside of British queuing technique is that if everyone follows the rules no-one gets cross or upset and all possible conflict is avoided. The down-side is that if you are late or in a rush you have to stand in line, take your medicine and wait your turn.
The French on the other hand simply don't get cross or upset. If a new till opens up whoever gets there quickest gets served first and those who miss out don't bat an eyelid. This way, if you are in a rush and you cut in, you can get out of the supermarket faster and without feeling you've upset anyone. Those with time don't care and those without push in. The upside is again that no-one gets upset but also late people get served quicker. The downside is that there are always a few irate Britons in the queue!
Showing posts with label culture shock. Show all posts
Showing posts with label culture shock. Show all posts
Thursday, 3 July 2014
Wednesday, 4 April 2012
The long way home.
This could be a lengthy one so brace yourself. Well in fact, if this
bit hasn't been edited out, it is.
One of our trips to the house last year saw one of my wife's longest serving friends (Penniless solicitor: PS) come over to visit us for the last 4 days (Thursday to Sunday) of a 2 week stay.
Our aim for the 2 weeks was integration with the local community and to this end we had arranged a little "Apero" evening, inviting our neighbours by knocking on doors and speaking at them in our best French.
The Apero was to be held on the Friday and we were as scared as kittens. We had no idea how many would turn up, each invitee had been asked to "invite anyone you think of who might want to come". This led to a bit of panic buying in the wine and glasses departments and at the time of writing we still have far too many glasses.
The evening was pretty much a success, about 25 locals turned up (Including about 10 ex-pats but the rest were French locals) and we managed to communicate fairly well and keep all of the glasses topped up. Other than a small groping incident the night passed off without a hitch but somehow wife (Against her own rule of not entertaining the night before we drive home) managed to invite Grumpy Welshman (GW) and his better half over for dinner the following evening. This was the first link in a chain of events that will be family lore for many years to come.
The following evening, after we had got dinner sorted, we received an invitation from GW to come over to his for a pre-dinner drink. It was a bit close to little one's bedtime to take advantage of it so, very graciously, wife offered to let PS and I go as long as we were sure to be home by 7.30 given our impending early start and 12 hour drive.
Armed with 45 minutes, we set off on foot for GW's house and had barely managed 60 yards when a van parked in front of us pulled away turned left and removed a large chunk of trim from it's side cutting a corner a bit too fine. The driver, either unaware or unbothered simply drove away! Several neighbours came out to see what the noise was so we smiled, practiced our best Gallic shrugs at the little bit of van on the side of the road and headed off once more.
After another 20 yards a rotund Frenchman (with a nickname derived from his father's job at the water board, we'll call him WB) we recognised from the Apero evening came running out of his garage and insisted we came in to see the work he was doing on his house. We explained we that we needed to get to GW's house but he simply explained: GW, "he's my brother" as if that settled any and all argument! "And so it begins" were PS's prophetic words at just that moment. A full tour ensued complete with much appreciation of wall finishings, window trim, flooring, electrical installation and understanding of the costs involved, not to mention a considerable amount of boasting that it had all been done outside of the tax system!
We finally got back down to his garage and were about to bid our farewells when he produced a half bottle of whisky with a hairy Scotsman on the front and 3 disposable plastic cups. Something of a movie style dream sequence followed with WB, who spoke no English, teaching me (A Welshman from the valleys) words in Welsh while we all downed neat whiskey. GW had clearly been coaching him for this moment for years. By the time we got underway, WB in tow, it must have been 7.20 and we had managed 80 yards. Further drinks at GW's meant we didn't arrive home until 8.15.
This didn't go down well with wife who had been dealing with the little one who didn't want to go to bed and trying to keep dinner edible. This was entirely fair on her part however I still couldn't see any way around the delay without being rude to our new acquaintances! Much drinking was done for the next few hours and I think we staggered to bed well past midnight with a 6am start and 12 hour drive home the next day.
To say we were in poor condition to commence the drive home would have been an understatement, three hangovers and a loud baby in a car at 7am on the autoroute, mixed in with a bit of leftover tension from the night before was not ideal. We had to give up and stop at the first services for coffee and a bit of a group hug (Or the British equivalent, a sensible chat around a table). This cleared the air and our heads somewhat and we got back underway having wasted about an hour. Now behind schedule and struggling to catch our ferry from Calais, we pushed on as fast as we dared for 6 hours and with the port just 20km away were squeaking in on time to catch our boat.
At this point the petrol light in the car came on along with a warning that we had just 45km of fuel left. Wife was asleep in the back of the car and after confirming the remaining distance with PS who had the map I said "Let’s risk it". These are the words that wife woke up to asking "risk WHAT?". I started to explain but before I could finish we had run out of petrol. So now we are on a service road near the autoroute with a baby, it's foggy, cold and occasionally drizzling. Having jogged the half km to the nearest SOS phone to find that it didn't work I came back and following the instructions on the SOS booth dialled 112 on our mobile. My mistake was to ask if anyone spoke English because they just hung up! Another 10 attempts later we finally managed to explain our situation to someone and get a rescue vehicle on it's way to us, perhaps from Paris as it only took 2 hours to arrive.
On arrival he tipped 2 litres of petrol in the car, stuck out his hand and said 185 Euros please, when questioned about this he shrugged, said "c'est Dimanche" and threatened to call the police. We paid the man leaving us a combined wealth of 1 Euro, and headed off once more.
Arriving at the port we were told that we needed to go to the ticket office to pay to change our ferry crossing, a mere 87 Euros. When I explained that this was more than the original return crossing cost the lady behind the counter cheerily said "I know", she followed this up by saying we were now too late for the next crossing and would have to wait another 2 and a half hours. "Merci" I said with as little real meaning as I could manage.
The waiting hall consists of a huge room filled with 5 or six vending machines. Having not eaten since breakfast we decided to spend our Euro a single packet of crisps to share between 3 of us. Never has a crisp tasted so good and collectively we were almost weeping with joy when I held up the little one to look into the packet and said "look crisps!". Showing a previously undiscovered talent for comic timing she promptly threw up straight into the packet. We really did cry with laughter.
One of our trips to the house last year saw one of my wife's longest serving friends (Penniless solicitor: PS) come over to visit us for the last 4 days (Thursday to Sunday) of a 2 week stay.
Our aim for the 2 weeks was integration with the local community and to this end we had arranged a little "Apero" evening, inviting our neighbours by knocking on doors and speaking at them in our best French.
The Apero was to be held on the Friday and we were as scared as kittens. We had no idea how many would turn up, each invitee had been asked to "invite anyone you think of who might want to come". This led to a bit of panic buying in the wine and glasses departments and at the time of writing we still have far too many glasses.
The evening was pretty much a success, about 25 locals turned up (Including about 10 ex-pats but the rest were French locals) and we managed to communicate fairly well and keep all of the glasses topped up. Other than a small groping incident the night passed off without a hitch but somehow wife (Against her own rule of not entertaining the night before we drive home) managed to invite Grumpy Welshman (GW) and his better half over for dinner the following evening. This was the first link in a chain of events that will be family lore for many years to come.
The following evening, after we had got dinner sorted, we received an invitation from GW to come over to his for a pre-dinner drink. It was a bit close to little one's bedtime to take advantage of it so, very graciously, wife offered to let PS and I go as long as we were sure to be home by 7.30 given our impending early start and 12 hour drive.
Armed with 45 minutes, we set off on foot for GW's house and had barely managed 60 yards when a van parked in front of us pulled away turned left and removed a large chunk of trim from it's side cutting a corner a bit too fine. The driver, either unaware or unbothered simply drove away! Several neighbours came out to see what the noise was so we smiled, practiced our best Gallic shrugs at the little bit of van on the side of the road and headed off once more.
After another 20 yards a rotund Frenchman (with a nickname derived from his father's job at the water board, we'll call him WB) we recognised from the Apero evening came running out of his garage and insisted we came in to see the work he was doing on his house. We explained we that we needed to get to GW's house but he simply explained: GW, "he's my brother" as if that settled any and all argument! "And so it begins" were PS's prophetic words at just that moment. A full tour ensued complete with much appreciation of wall finishings, window trim, flooring, electrical installation and understanding of the costs involved, not to mention a considerable amount of boasting that it had all been done outside of the tax system!
We finally got back down to his garage and were about to bid our farewells when he produced a half bottle of whisky with a hairy Scotsman on the front and 3 disposable plastic cups. Something of a movie style dream sequence followed with WB, who spoke no English, teaching me (A Welshman from the valleys) words in Welsh while we all downed neat whiskey. GW had clearly been coaching him for this moment for years. By the time we got underway, WB in tow, it must have been 7.20 and we had managed 80 yards. Further drinks at GW's meant we didn't arrive home until 8.15.
This didn't go down well with wife who had been dealing with the little one who didn't want to go to bed and trying to keep dinner edible. This was entirely fair on her part however I still couldn't see any way around the delay without being rude to our new acquaintances! Much drinking was done for the next few hours and I think we staggered to bed well past midnight with a 6am start and 12 hour drive home the next day.
To say we were in poor condition to commence the drive home would have been an understatement, three hangovers and a loud baby in a car at 7am on the autoroute, mixed in with a bit of leftover tension from the night before was not ideal. We had to give up and stop at the first services for coffee and a bit of a group hug (Or the British equivalent, a sensible chat around a table). This cleared the air and our heads somewhat and we got back underway having wasted about an hour. Now behind schedule and struggling to catch our ferry from Calais, we pushed on as fast as we dared for 6 hours and with the port just 20km away were squeaking in on time to catch our boat.
At this point the petrol light in the car came on along with a warning that we had just 45km of fuel left. Wife was asleep in the back of the car and after confirming the remaining distance with PS who had the map I said "Let’s risk it". These are the words that wife woke up to asking "risk WHAT?". I started to explain but before I could finish we had run out of petrol. So now we are on a service road near the autoroute with a baby, it's foggy, cold and occasionally drizzling. Having jogged the half km to the nearest SOS phone to find that it didn't work I came back and following the instructions on the SOS booth dialled 112 on our mobile. My mistake was to ask if anyone spoke English because they just hung up! Another 10 attempts later we finally managed to explain our situation to someone and get a rescue vehicle on it's way to us, perhaps from Paris as it only took 2 hours to arrive.
On arrival he tipped 2 litres of petrol in the car, stuck out his hand and said 185 Euros please, when questioned about this he shrugged, said "c'est Dimanche" and threatened to call the police. We paid the man leaving us a combined wealth of 1 Euro, and headed off once more.
Arriving at the port we were told that we needed to go to the ticket office to pay to change our ferry crossing, a mere 87 Euros. When I explained that this was more than the original return crossing cost the lady behind the counter cheerily said "I know", she followed this up by saying we were now too late for the next crossing and would have to wait another 2 and a half hours. "Merci" I said with as little real meaning as I could manage.
The waiting hall consists of a huge room filled with 5 or six vending machines. Having not eaten since breakfast we decided to spend our Euro a single packet of crisps to share between 3 of us. Never has a crisp tasted so good and collectively we were almost weeping with joy when I held up the little one to look into the packet and said "look crisps!". Showing a previously undiscovered talent for comic timing she promptly threw up straight into the packet. We really did cry with laughter.
Tuesday, 6 March 2012
Electric eccentric!
The standard for electrical installation in France is have armoured conduit threaded with individual wires for positive, neutral and occasionally earth. This is all good and well until one of two problems occurs.
Firstly where several connections have been made you can have upwards of 10 individual wires running through a single conduit. This makes making changes to the system very difficult because (even when correctly coloured) 4 blue wires will look exactly the same at either end.
Secondly it seems to encourage the amateur, have a go, electrician to, well... have a go! This time you can guarantee that no wire remains the same colour on its way into or out of a junction box. Wiring up a light with yellow and green wire for the positive gives you a distinctly uneasy feeling and becomes a journey into the unknown.
Firstly where several connections have been made you can have upwards of 10 individual wires running through a single conduit. This makes making changes to the system very difficult because (even when correctly coloured) 4 blue wires will look exactly the same at either end.
Secondly it seems to encourage the amateur, have a go, electrician to, well... have a go! This time you can guarantee that no wire remains the same colour on its way into or out of a junction box. Wiring up a light with yellow and green wire for the positive gives you a distinctly uneasy feeling and becomes a journey into the unknown.
Monday, 27 February 2012
Ranting with a Smile!
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.
May France forever be France and may I live there as a courteous guest and never long to change it.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)