Shut eye

How do you imagine being tired? Take an image of a mother of three forced to entertain, cook, work, taxi around and perform wifely duties. There it is right there. Fortunately I'm not that woman and the only excuse for my fatigue is self-inflicted excess activity.

When you enjoy doing things out of working hours, they tend to start ballooning. Take my choir for example. I adore being a part of it, but for the last few months it has taken up no fewer than 3 whole Saturdays, every single Monday night for the last 3 years (this being France, July and August aside) plus an extra four whole (enjoyable) days in Malta when I really should have been working. My band has taken up 3 hours every week for the last two years and costs at least 7€ a pop per rehearsal. Add to this the hours spent practising individually and you may well begin to wonder why anyone bothers. Yes, yes, the enjoyment outweighs the annoyance at seeing 1 free evening a week on my schedule, but at the moment I'm wondering why I commit so much time to these things.

Disappointment crash and burn is just around the corner, I know. It's the same every summer. June is chock-full of concerts, festivals and the fête de la musique - which in itself brings a two-concerts-in-one-night dilemma, then July arrives and suddenly free time is my new stalker. He doesn't seem to let me go, haunting me every day and never leaving my side except during working hours. He worms his way into every evening and reminds me of a musicless life I don't know yet. I become agitated, at a loss for a responsibility to uphold.

All this to say that this evening I'm exhausted and could do with an early night. I guess that's it.

On Tour

I was lucky enough to be taken on a free trip to Malta recently. The choir I sing with was invited to Malta for four days by the French and American Embassies there, to open a Music Festival. This involved, among other concerts, a performance at St John’s Co-Cathedral. This place is a stunning plethora of gold and wood and every square inch of space is decorated. The floor is laden with coloured marble tombs of Maltese knights and walking into the place you are transported to another world where the church ruled all. The Maltese Catholics really know how to show their faith.

The concert was an incredible experience. Malta is a small republic but nevertheless the presence of its President in the front of the audience filled the whole choir with adrenalin and apprehension – all the better to sing with. Concentration was as sharp as the heels on the dressed up Maltese women and we did the best we could to lift the golden roof. A standing ovation – rare in Malta – followed and our sopranos and altos fought back tears. Our director wasn’t so successful in her fight and her emotion moved us all to share in her happiness.

After we’d shaken off the adrenalin and pumping hearts we were able to enjoy Malta for its natural and architectural beauty. We were able to visit Valetta and Mdina during our short stay and it gave me real desire to come back as a schedule-free tourist. Our hotel was just wonderful, with an enormous and varied breakfast buffet, gorgeous marble floors and a pool set in lush gardens with its own bar. We managed to make the most of the pool for the only free afternoon on the schedule!

The food in Malta is something which has remained a mystery to me. Meals were obviously rushed affairs as we had to respect our tight rehearsal and concert schedule. I developed a tolerance for greasy pastry petits fours which I am glad to say have now taken a long-term absence from my diet. Having said that, the warm welcome we received far outshone the quality of the snacks – we were treated like stars. I hasten to add that we are not stars, nor ever will be, and are just an amateur choir who takes delight in singing.

My feet finally touched the ground at Roissy Charles de Gaulles Airport and now it’s back to the old routine.

 

A Loose End

So, it's party time all over France this weekend - today is a bank holiday and most people have also taken the opportunity of having another day off tomorrow to do the bridge faire le pont as they say, in other words it's a long weekend! Surprisingly enough, there doesn't seem to be too much upheaval on the rail system today.

Not so lucky for those taking the plane though. One of my best friends in the world from university who lives in Paris had her birthday two weeks ago and since she was on holiday we planned to celebrate it tonight. As her job as a high-flying staffing manager calls her away on business at least once a week she was planning to come in from Milan this evening. I'd reserved a table at OKI, the lovely sushi restaurant I mentioned in March, and was looking forward to an evening with the girls.

As is perhaps painfully obvious from the title of this post, my friend is not yet in Paris this evening, her flight in Milan was cancelled and now none of us get to eat delicious maki or sashimi, unless I call on the rather questionable local Chinese with spécialités japonaises. The poor girl is stuck in Milan and won't get back to Paris until late this evening, and of course sans birthday celebration. I didn't feel like having a dinner without her and so I'm thinking of spending the evening with the Desperate Housewives and a few glasses of Chablis. I suppose it could be worse.

English Attitude

The other day a good (English) friend of mine from choir said she had read my blog and found it interesting how her outlook on life and my own were different. She has been living in Paris for 15 years and has a more French outlook on life, whilst my own remains decidedly British, having only been here for just over 4 years. I totally agree with her, I believe my take on the world is English with only shades of French and for a variety of reasons.

Let's take food. I can happily discuss a recipe, a way of cooking in a particular style for 10 or even 15 minutes. Only in France can a conversation channel itself into cooking and remain there, rooted to the spot for over 3 hours. This is no bad thing, just something of which I'm not yet capable.

Moving on to the more current topic of smoking. I can't stand it, I am 0% tolerant of the pollutant fumes eminated from people's noses, mouths, fingernails and hair - let alone my own after 5 minutes by the coffee machine at work. There seems to be a (misguided - in my opinion) belief that people who smoke should have the right to smoke wherever they like (not counting in the presence of pregnant women and children - there are some limits at least). I'm not sure why smokers have the freedom to smoke and non-smokers have, err, no freedom whatsoever to breathe clean air. This attitude of freedom for smokers does seem to be quite French. Please correct me if you disagree!

Finally, on a positive note, I have to say I love the way the French take holidays. Not only is the working week 35 hours (more in practice), but there are 5 weeks of holiday every year, plus RTT days (réduction du temps de travail- reduction in working hours) which don't even exist in England. For the entire month of August, Paris takes a break, sits down and rests. You can always sit down in the métro, breeze through the light traffic on the roads and walk around without being shoved.

I'm very interested to hear comments about English / French attitudes and what other people in a similar situation have experienced.

Sicilia

A whirlwind week of post-holiday work and rehearsals has just released its final shudder of life and now it's time to rest. Sicily was incredible. The island is drenched, not only in sun but in thousands of years of history, its tapestry of invadors leaving their mark on the land in the form of Greek theatres and temples, Roman gladiator amphitheatres, Norman cathedrals with Arab influences, Baroque churches and hints from many other periods of history.

The food is delicious, consisting mostly of pasta, olives, tomatoes, fish and capers but all fresh and presented beautifully. It was a little monotonous, though I do feel guilty saying it, to have a choice of the same list of antipasti every day even though we toured the island from north to south, west to east.

My favourite two places were Taormina (the picture is from the Greek/Roman theatre there) and Cefalù - one is a gorgeous car-free town on the side of a cliff and the other is a gorgeous car-free town on the beach. It's pretty difficult to find car-free places anywhere in Sicily but those two places proved to be very relaxing to walk around without the threat of toe-ectomy so frequently encountered in other Sicilian places.


We also drove to Etna - the largest volcano in Europe. We were able to go right to the top (see photo) which was an amazing experience. The ground beneath our feet was smoking and actually warm. You don't expect your body to be colder than your feet at any time, but when it happens it's an extremely strange sensation. There was even snow on the ground at the same time which made me doubt some fundamental chemistry I'd learned at school - doesn't ice melt when it's warmed? In fact the air is so cold on the top of the volcano that the snow doesn't even melt, despite the fact there is molten lava flowing just a few metres beneath hot enough to burn the boots off your feet.

It was a really educational, cultural and wonderful holiday that I intend to repeat. We hope to visit the Aeolian islands, especially Stromboli next time, now that my interest in volcanoes has been 'sparked'!

Holidays!

French customer service is just as wonderful as always. I was in H + M this evening, or "ash et em" as it's called here, and I was at the till spending around 65€ on a few articles. The dress I chose didn't have a bar code but I remembered the price from the rack. The trousers I wanted had a button missing. Despite all of this I still chose to buy the clothes as I'm not one to spend hundreds of € on high-quality goods. (Starting to sound a bit mean on this site now...)

First of all I asked the sales 'assistant' if she could discount me 10% from the trousers as they had no button. She pointed out the spare button that was sewn into the label at the back and explained that she couldn't do a discount because there was a button. I explained that the button was supposed to be spare and to be sold as an extra button but this didn't make any difference. She said she could go and ask her manager but it would take a long time. I chose to forget it.

She then asked me why I hadn't chosen a dress with the price tag on. I explained it was the only one in my size and that I'd remembered the price. Even after that she couldn't run it through the till because of "the system". So, I had to go and pick up another dress from the rack on the other side of the store. I'm sure one of the managers thought I was an employee by this point.

Just another example of France's wonderful customer service. If I'd been in the States I'd have had free garlic bread.

Anyway, I'm getting very excited now because I've packed up my office for the week and I'm not going to do a minute's work until a week on Monday - it's holiday time! I'm going to Sicily with G for a romantic break around the island.

We don't have any plans as yet, so I would really appreciate any advice that anyone has. The only advice I've managed so far was for the wrong country.....

I was on the RER A line, reading my Sicily Lonely Planet book and a man sitting opposite me.

"Greece is beautiful in September".

Not really being sure what to do with that comment, I looked up and said "OK that's nice".

"You'll have a wonderful time".

"OK thanks, but I'm actually going to Sicily as it says on my book."

He then proceeded to tell me he knew nothing about Sicily but Greece was gorgeous after all the tourists have gone in late August. I thanked him and my lucky stars as he got off at the next stop. He wasn't a crazy, bum pinching métro maniac but I didn't really feel happy with conversation on public transport.

Maybe I'm becoming too cynical, but at least I can now practise my sewing skills.

Bourgeoisie

I'm not a member of the upper class. I realised this many years ago when I bought a pair of jeans for less than 10 pounds from Doncaster market and was proud of that fact. Even though I'm approaching my thirties, am doing quite well in my career and have a wonderful boyfriend who would buy me what I want, I still blanche at the thought of spending more than 20€ on a T-Shirt or more than 35€ on a meal.

So you can understand my embarrassment when I was invited to partake in a Monday night dinner with G's family at Mori. Mori - Venise Bar is a new trendy Italian restaurant opposite the Bourse in the centre of Paris. Typically frequented no doubt by financial executives and rich business people, this restaurant was exactly what I had feared it would be.

Decent white wine was spoiled by the cheesy veal slices I mistakenly ordered. The promise of delicious mushrooms with the sauce was quickly dashed when I saw the lonely mushroom head bobbing around in the sauce early on in the meal. A couple of sprout-sized potatoes completed the disaster and my lovely mother-in-law went home 33€ poorer because of it. I have to admit that the tiramisu that G ordered was pretty good, but with it being more than 10€ a portion I couldn't let the Yorkshire lass inside me waste hard-earned cash, even if it wasn't my own.

I have to admit to preferring the more food-oriented eateries in Paris like the Potager du Père Thierry - don't know who Thierry is but he's a damn fine cook - or the Epicérie. Both of these places fail to disappoint and you don't have to budget for the rest of the week.

I also have to admit that today I had lunch in a certain golden-arched fast food 'restaurant' even though I have not set foot in one for more than a year and felt fat and greasy on my way out. Sometimes you need contrast.

Bruges

I've just yanked myself back to the reality that is the Paris métro system in all its glory after a wonderful weekend in Bruges with G, my parents and my aunt and uncle. Bruges is a beautiful city, nicknamed the 'Venice of the North' with its canals and cobbled streets. There is traffic in the city, but the bicycles, horses and carts and pedestrians equal them in number.

We stayed in the centre of town in a gorgeous hotel made up of three houses all joined together. Our room had wonderful wooden beams and a very high ceiling - all in all an extremely romantic place. Mussels, beer and chocolate are Belgium's specialities and we sampled plenty of all three.

So now it's back to reality and in less than twenty four hours I'll be back at work, ready to enforce my omnipotent language on some more unsuspecting frogs.

CPE and all that

"You're fired!" is a statement not often heard in France, despite the high pressure of some executive positions in major companies that have their head offices in La Défense. Even petits boulots (which could be translated into 'dogsbody jobs' in English) are not easily lost. There are all kinds of laws protecting the vulnerable employee from the ruthless employer and you really have to do something serious to hear that immortal phrase. Of course companies making cutbacks and handing out redundancies to people approaching retirement age is another reason to lose your job, but frankly, in France, with a contract in your fist you're pretty safe. I know of no other country (but please correct me if I'm wrong) where employees have as many rights as here in France.

So you can understand when young people start marching the streets in protest against a contract which will effectively make them as expendable as workers in the US and the UK, not to mention the rest of the world.

You can understand when the young shout out in protest that it wouldn't be fair to employ them with the threat of firing for no valid reason for two years hanging over their head.

You can understand when they scream that it's not fair to apply this rule only to the inexperienced under-26 population.

What I cannot understand is why, after being so strong, tough and almost Thatcheresque in his previous discourse, Dominique de Villepin has now retreated under the table trembling with fright that he may not be able to wear a nice tie and speak to his "chers compatriotes" as Monsieur le Président by the time the elections come around in 2007.

As an English person, I really believe that the most sure-fire way to guarantee more strikes in the future and nation-wide chaos is to give in to strikers. I am certainly not saying that I agree with the conditions of the CPE, I think he never should have put it forward in the first place, but what I'm saying is that if you're going to push something through, push it. Nobody respects a scaredy-cat.

The answer, as far as I can see is to focus on training issues. Let's teach the young how to communicate better in English for international communication, how to use computer software more easily, how to give presentations, negotiate, how to do effective job interviews, CV writing and all the other skills that we never realise are important until we're faced with reality.

Let's train the youth of France to perform on a higher level with more marketable skills, perhaps then at least the demonstration banners will be more interesting to read.

Metro Madness

I've never loved the métro in Paris, but I've never had a particularly scary experience on it either. I take it daily, eyes fixed on the middle distance not looking at any of my fellow passengers or caring what they wear, look like or do. I try to let people get off before boarding myself, I don't push or tut like some and I generally get to where I want to go with minimum hassle (strikes permitting).

Such a good citizen then surely does not deserve the freakish incident which happened to me on Tuesday evening in the bussle and noise of St Lazare station.

I felt a sharp pinch on my backside as I began to go down the stairs leaving the line 3. I turned around abruptly (not easy with a fold-up push scooter over one shoulder and a duffle bag on the other) to see a girl in a pink hat about my age, in her late twenties, looking at me. Thinking it was obviously not her I asked her if she had seen who it was "Vous avez vu qui viens de me toucher?"

She just stared and I thought maybe she thinks I'm crazy and it was some random guy who's well out of sight by now. So I kept on walking and felt like someone was following me. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that it was Miss Pink Hat. I gave her the benefit of the doubt and walked right along to my platform and right to the end of it. Of course there she was behind me. I changed direction and went all the way back to the other end and there she was again.

At this I turned around, looked her straight in the eye and asked her if she was following me and what she wanted. "Vous me suivez? Qu'est-ce que vous voulez"? She didn't respond, just stared at my fold-up scooter (it is rather fetching) and my coat (nothing special) and looked crazier as the seconds went on.

When my metro arrived she was still right next to me so I pretended not to take it and then jumped on at the last minute. When we pulled away her face was almost touching the glass door and her eyes were staring right at me. Crazy Miss Pink Hat was no match for Mr Metro so I managed to rely on my Parisian friend to get me to my destination without further event.

I have now put my unremarkable short beige coat safely in the wardrobe and have pulled out my equally unremarkable long beige coat. I know I can't prevent crazy pinching ladies altogether, but at least I can make it more difficult for them to get their hands on my derrière.