Chronicles

The French are champions at dexterous sports such as fencing and skiing. But they really excel at their national pastime—parking. It’s been elevated to an art form. We would be sure to win Gold, Silver and Bronze should parking ever become an Olympic sport.

Parking garages and legal spots are for softies. The French find spots between cars, behind lampposts, and under busses that cause the Anglos (“but you can’t possibly park there”) to squeamishly shudder. Granted you sometimes need a can opener to get out of your car. But the thrill of finding and easing your car into a space that only you have spotted induces a smug pleasure comparable to tripling your air miles through no expense of your own.

There are actually five seasons in France—the traditional four plus “après les vacances” (after the holidays), which is a nebulous period from mid September till late October. Cliff Richard might have sung the original “We’re all going on a Summer Holiday” but the French could sing that particular song with gusto and conviction—provided that the words “for a month or two” had been added.

This summer, France celebrated the 50th anniversary of the paid leave, which increased to 5 weeks after the victory of the socialist president François Mitterand in 1981. The 35-hour workweek added, on average, another three weeks of vacation, bringing it to 8 weeks total.

In Paris, you generally meet your neighbour when their removal van arrives. You finally get to exchange words and sometimes even whole sentences with someone you have lived next to, and occasionally bumped into for years. You find out their name, where they are from, and where they are heading off to. Joyous cries of “bonne continuation!” (good luck) ring in the air as your circumvent the boxes on the stairs.

Astoundingly, house insurance is cheap and easy to get in France. One is not accustomed to such adjectives applying to anything here. Better still, it comes with a bundle of other policies. If, for instance, you are unexpectedly abducted by Martians, if you clumsily bump a large vase from the Ming dynasty off its pedestal in a museum and it crashes to the floor, or if you inadvertently crush to death a family of triplets on their way to church: relax, you are covered by the “responsabilité civile” (or liability insurance) part of the policy.

Only the very foolish would accuse the French of being sympathetic—in true Gallic fashion, they have even changed the meaning of the word. The French word sympathie actually means nice, pleasant and friendly. No. Definitely not French. The lack of sympathy is particularly apparent when dealing with the bureaucracy, these absurd rules and regulations that simply can’t be contravened. You broke both legs on a skiing trip? Too bad you still have to pay for your tango lessons. Your family was abducted by aliens last week? Well, sorry, but school lunch fees are still due. It’s the rules you know…

I have been a biker in Paris for twenty years. As such, my pioneer pride induced slightly disdainful thoughts of Mayor Bertrand Delanoë’s scheme to make bikes available to all. (I have always been suspicious of democracy.) Considering the value of square meters in the city, the administrative authorisations that were probably needed, the bureaucratic barriers that were surely invented against it, plus the difficulty in finding good builders, the fact that these stations have mushroomed almost seamlessly in a few weeks is for me one of the more impressive aspects of this project. By the end of the year, we’re promised 2,000 stations and 25,000 bikes.

The city is now clogged with cycling debutantes, some of whom need side wheels and most of whom lack traffic sense. Yet, I can’t help feeling that our mayor must be a very proud dad as he watches his offspring take their first ride, wobbling and nervously stumbling down the myriad of cycle tracks he has also created.

This little piggy goes to market at least once a week—and fortunately this little piggy comes home, too (baskets a-bulging). Open-air markets have a very important social role in Paris and most districts have their own markets. Round the Bastille we have two: Aligre and Richard Lenoir. Which one you choose tells more about you than your religion, your occupation, your political leanings, and your haircut combined.
Take Aligre—a cacophony of odours and sights and lots of overripe fruit. It’s stall-to-stall ambience, where the trendy rub shoulders with extended working class families trailing their children and overloaded trolleys with vicious wheels. As vendors tout the virtues of their produce—the baying becomes more frenzied as the hour advances—beware the trade-off between price and firmness.

If you ask a Frenchman about Bastille Day, he will at best think you are referring to Place de la Bastille, the big cobblestone plaza where the infamous prison and subsequent guillotine used to be. It was storming that very prison, a symbol of aristocratic power, on July 14, 1789 that marks the official start of the French Revolution (the one about equality, not Nouvelle Cuisine). Of course storming a prison there today would be impossible, particularly on a Thursday (market day). There are just far too many traffic jams.

The French celebrate Bastille Day, which they refer to as la fête nationale, with enthusiasm, vigour, and a lot of firecrackers.

By Adrian Lees

Leaks have brought down governments, and when associated with insider trading, they’ve lead to jail sentences. But leaks can be much, much more serious. When you see the first signs of water damage coming from your upstairs neighbour, it makes a lot of sense to pack your bags and flee: believe me it’s a lot cheaper in the long run, even if it means abandoning all claim to your apartment. Just think of the trauma counselling that you’ll avoid.