Une tribute a les Anglaises qui habites dans notre ville!!!
Saturday, 26 May 2007
The Sound of Music
The little train stopped outside for a little impromptu concert. On the other side is "oh my sunshine" which has now had paper placed on the windows to hide from inquisitive eyes. Quelle domage!!!!
The huts are for the Romanian village due to move in tomorrow.
The huts are for the Romanian village due to move in tomorrow.
No peace treaty. Let the parties begin
To understand the locals here, or anywhere in France is to understand that everything is done out of principle, whether it is logical or not. Such was the little dispute that erupted at the supermarket yesterday. A somewhat overweight, huffing and puffing Wilderbeast together with his green alternative looking broomstick of a wife had crossed the border into Paradise to do a spot of shopping in what is essentially still a Wilderbeast supermarket. They had a shopping cart of items to confirm their illusions that these things were only available in Paradise or were substantially cheaper this side of the border. Mein Frau was a little indecisive about the cat food and the pressure of the upcoming dispute eventually, maybe reluctantly, turning to address her attention to the scene of the battle. Which was about to erupt directly behind me in the queue. At the core of this little international skirmish were 12 bottles of rose, which at €1.79 a bottle is just a tiny little more expensive than petrol here. The Wilderbeast tradition outside of Paradise is that one places one example of the item of the total batch on the conveyor belt and indicates to the cashier that there are so many of the same item in one's trolley and all the cashier needs to do is scan the item once and then bash the cash register into submission by telling it that there are more of the same items. This procedure is very logical in a system geared around minimising the input and maximising the output. So, the only link in this chain which has to bear the burden of any labour is the cash register, and as a machine, is not expected to have any feelings. So, our overweight friend and his wife applied this method, placed one bottle and so on. Ah non! This is not the way in France. You must place all the items on the conveyor belt. It is a matter of principle.
It was met with total incomprehension and a sharp increase in body temperature as the blood pressure began to rise in order to activate the brain which came out a with the one of the two standard emergency excuses: I have a bad back and cannot lift these 12 bottles. How they got into the trolley is of course a small detail to be overlooked in this situation.
Madame, the resolute cashier was having non of this. In French, she proceeded to explain that, non, ici, one places all items on the conveyor belt so that they are properly scanned.
Aber ja, you ken zee zat zer r tvelf bottles in ze trrrrolliii.
Mais non.
(This discussion was going on whilst I was paying for our groceries, French women can multi task)
But I hev a kaput back.
Non, .... it was fascinating that both were speaking in their respective languages and still managed to understand each other perfectly.
The Wilderbeast now began to move into political as well as emotional mode, calling this whole event pure harassment on the side of Madame, as she is French.
Bon, then they are not part of the purchases, I will not process them.
In the event, Herr Wilderbeast had to capitulate to the local principle and accept that, even if they were so close to their own homeland, that things are different here. And with much grunting he painfully heaved his purchases onto the conveyor belt.
So, in the last 60 odd years, nothing has really changed. In 1945, Germany capitulated and signed a cease fire. No peace treaty has ever been drawn up and technically I suppose, Germany is still at a state of war with everyone else.
Not lost on the French cashier, who had a national holiday on May 8th to remember the occasion.
And put it into practice to anybody who does not adhere to the French principles.
Yesterday evening, the festivities began. The fairground kicked into life at 4pm and the town was full of youths, hormones raging in warm spring evening, heading for the joys of screaming one's head of when one's body is faced with 3G's of pressure and boys, sporting their first signs of hair growth, cooly and very sportingly attired, to relive their ancient Roman hero's legends, passed down the generations from Julius Cesar: veni vidi vici. The air was partly filled with yet another conflict: La guerre des parfums.
One curious tradition also takes place on this particular Friday evening. Under the chapiteau sur la Place Tribunal, was the Soiree Ballermann. It is in effect, one lone, lanky species of the male population, deeply engrossed in the turning of vinyl records, the pushing of buttons and the fine tuning of all types of electronics so that the boom boom boom of the bass sounds perfect in his ears, even though the more mature of his audience may beg to differ. On the sides of the tent are a Wilderbeast beer stand (why they can't promote the local stuff I have no idea) and the staple diet of any living creature starting at embryo stage: tarte flambee. So, in comparison to the original Ballermann concept, quite civilized.
How?
The Ballermann is a Wilderbeast invention and is actually a German occupied piece of beach on Majorca. There is only one rule which applies to this territory: with a group of friends, drink a 10l bucket of Sangria as quickly as possible, sucking on a straw, and then be a loud primitive slob.
Why the French want to adopt this, only the organiser will know.
It was met with total incomprehension and a sharp increase in body temperature as the blood pressure began to rise in order to activate the brain which came out a with the one of the two standard emergency excuses: I have a bad back and cannot lift these 12 bottles. How they got into the trolley is of course a small detail to be overlooked in this situation.
Madame, the resolute cashier was having non of this. In French, she proceeded to explain that, non, ici, one places all items on the conveyor belt so that they are properly scanned.
Aber ja, you ken zee zat zer r tvelf bottles in ze trrrrolliii.
Mais non.
(This discussion was going on whilst I was paying for our groceries, French women can multi task)
But I hev a kaput back.
Non, .... it was fascinating that both were speaking in their respective languages and still managed to understand each other perfectly.
The Wilderbeast now began to move into political as well as emotional mode, calling this whole event pure harassment on the side of Madame, as she is French.
Bon, then they are not part of the purchases, I will not process them.
In the event, Herr Wilderbeast had to capitulate to the local principle and accept that, even if they were so close to their own homeland, that things are different here. And with much grunting he painfully heaved his purchases onto the conveyor belt.
So, in the last 60 odd years, nothing has really changed. In 1945, Germany capitulated and signed a cease fire. No peace treaty has ever been drawn up and technically I suppose, Germany is still at a state of war with everyone else.
Not lost on the French cashier, who had a national holiday on May 8th to remember the occasion.
And put it into practice to anybody who does not adhere to the French principles.
Yesterday evening, the festivities began. The fairground kicked into life at 4pm and the town was full of youths, hormones raging in warm spring evening, heading for the joys of screaming one's head of when one's body is faced with 3G's of pressure and boys, sporting their first signs of hair growth, cooly and very sportingly attired, to relive their ancient Roman hero's legends, passed down the generations from Julius Cesar: veni vidi vici. The air was partly filled with yet another conflict: La guerre des parfums.
One curious tradition also takes place on this particular Friday evening. Under the chapiteau sur la Place Tribunal, was the Soiree Ballermann. It is in effect, one lone, lanky species of the male population, deeply engrossed in the turning of vinyl records, the pushing of buttons and the fine tuning of all types of electronics so that the boom boom boom of the bass sounds perfect in his ears, even though the more mature of his audience may beg to differ. On the sides of the tent are a Wilderbeast beer stand (why they can't promote the local stuff I have no idea) and the staple diet of any living creature starting at embryo stage: tarte flambee. So, in comparison to the original Ballermann concept, quite civilized.
How?
The Ballermann is a Wilderbeast invention and is actually a German occupied piece of beach on Majorca. There is only one rule which applies to this territory: with a group of friends, drink a 10l bucket of Sangria as quickly as possible, sucking on a straw, and then be a loud primitive slob.
Why the French want to adopt this, only the organiser will know.
Sunday, 20 May 2007
Bliss and weather forecast
Bliss is lying under a tree and all you can hear are the leaves as they sway gently to and fro in the light breeze. The birds are faint, there is no other sound. Experienced that today.
Meanwhile, work is progressing nicely in what was "oh my sunshine". The shop has been completely guttered. The ceiling seems to sag dangerously be it for the one supporting pillar in the middle of the room. The ancient walls will soon be covered. The old pizza oven has been removed from the premises still nurturing my hope that the local population will not be blessed with yet another eatery of some exotic description.
The preparations are underway for the Pentecost bash which will descend upon us next weekend. Basically the whole town will be closed off to traffic as local dance organizations, clubs, artisan markets, the local folklore groups and of course the countless numbers of eateries with the omnipresent "tarte flambee" on sale. I think the babies are fed on it from the minute they are born.
And across the road, Smiler has been warning us, in the form of a small portable blackboard that from Friday to Monday, he will have all sorts of activities. Whether the now infamous DJ Chris will partake remains to be seen....heard.
In the square beneath the salon, signs have appeared that the prudent French drivers of vehicles and their Wilderbeast counter parts sporting the latest technological wonder on wheels will be politely asked to refrain from parking their cars as the space will be necessary to set up the little wooden huts which will no doubt house some accordion playing costumed local with a big grin on his face.
Who needs more
Paradise is when you read the passionate letters between Amantine-Lucile-Aurore Dupin (Baroness Dudevant) also known as George Sand (1804 - 1876) and Gustave Flaubert. It is read in the surroundings of the study, the window is open, the French street sounds drifting in - drinking a glass of wine.
Then heading up to the pomegranate hill for a light nibbles and wine and then returning home to do a spot of cooking, listening to a selection of Middle Eastern, Indian and African music.
Doesn't take much to get people happy.
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