14.03
A lovely sunny Saturday in early May and I decide to take the children to the park. My spirits always lift when on approach I see that Other People are in the park. That way my son will have other kids to shout 'caca boudin' at and sprinkle sand on, leaving me to ruin my back in peace while my 10-month old daughter learns to walk holding onto my fingers.
This time though, despite the gorgeous weather, I could see that the park had been shunned. A glance at my watch confirmed my suspicions. We had broken unspoken rule no 1874378 - between the hours of 12.30 and 14.00 thou shalt not go to the park, thou shalt be engaged in lunch-related activities, or sitting meekly on the sofa waiting for 14.00 and the invisible forcefield protecting the park from all but ignorant foreigners to lift.
It was 13.20, so I resigned myself to wait. Over the next 40 minutes or so, I reflected how weird it felt to sit alone in a park in a busy part of town on the first sunny weekend of the year. One of the things I have come to appreciate about the UK is the spontaneous sun worshipping, the unselfconscious shedding of layers and exposing of lard. Who cares if it's mid March? Wonderful.
The French are comically set in their ways. One example that comes to mind is my 'pot de depart' from my last French workplace. A bottle of champagne had been purchased to celebrate (ho ho) my departure, and as my soon to be former colleagues gathered round, one of them sniffily remarked that we were opening the champagne at the wrong time of day (4pm). What we should be doing at this time of day, she informed us, was drinking tea and eating little pastries. I didn't bother to seize her by the lapels and demand 'Why?' because I knew that there was no answer, other than it is, quite simply, rule no 7890454. In one way, living among such a hidebound people gives boring old me the luxury of a being a rebel. Where else in the world could I get a dirty adrenline rush from having a glass of champers in the middle of the afternoon instead of just before lunch?
One of the reasons that France is doing my head in is the internal clock that programmes people's actions. I neither want nor need such a thing. When the invisible sheepdog rounds the crowds up in the park and starts herding them in the direction of the exit at precisely 11.31am every weekday, I fight the urge to sprint to the gate, block it and shriek 'Come on Frenchies! Break out of the mould! Live a little! Stay until 12.08! Hell, buy a sarney and SIT IN THE PARK EATING IT. What do you think is going to happen eh? eh?'
At last I heard the gate click - it was a mother with two older girls. When they had settled themselves and the mother had told the girls off for shouting, I snuck a look at my watch: 14.03.
Spookily, at that precise moment, the mother called across ' On reste quarante minutes, a trois heures moins vingt on part.'
Amazing then, how they manage to be late 90% of the time. it just doesn't make sense.
This time though, despite the gorgeous weather, I could see that the park had been shunned. A glance at my watch confirmed my suspicions. We had broken unspoken rule no 1874378 - between the hours of 12.30 and 14.00 thou shalt not go to the park, thou shalt be engaged in lunch-related activities, or sitting meekly on the sofa waiting for 14.00 and the invisible forcefield protecting the park from all but ignorant foreigners to lift.
It was 13.20, so I resigned myself to wait. Over the next 40 minutes or so, I reflected how weird it felt to sit alone in a park in a busy part of town on the first sunny weekend of the year. One of the things I have come to appreciate about the UK is the spontaneous sun worshipping, the unselfconscious shedding of layers and exposing of lard. Who cares if it's mid March? Wonderful.
The French are comically set in their ways. One example that comes to mind is my 'pot de depart' from my last French workplace. A bottle of champagne had been purchased to celebrate (ho ho) my departure, and as my soon to be former colleagues gathered round, one of them sniffily remarked that we were opening the champagne at the wrong time of day (4pm). What we should be doing at this time of day, she informed us, was drinking tea and eating little pastries. I didn't bother to seize her by the lapels and demand 'Why?' because I knew that there was no answer, other than it is, quite simply, rule no 7890454. In one way, living among such a hidebound people gives boring old me the luxury of a being a rebel. Where else in the world could I get a dirty adrenline rush from having a glass of champers in the middle of the afternoon instead of just before lunch?
One of the reasons that France is doing my head in is the internal clock that programmes people's actions. I neither want nor need such a thing. When the invisible sheepdog rounds the crowds up in the park and starts herding them in the direction of the exit at precisely 11.31am every weekday, I fight the urge to sprint to the gate, block it and shriek 'Come on Frenchies! Break out of the mould! Live a little! Stay until 12.08! Hell, buy a sarney and SIT IN THE PARK EATING IT. What do you think is going to happen eh? eh?'
At last I heard the gate click - it was a mother with two older girls. When they had settled themselves and the mother had told the girls off for shouting, I snuck a look at my watch: 14.03.
Spookily, at that precise moment, the mother called across ' On reste quarante minutes, a trois heures moins vingt on part.'
Amazing then, how they manage to be late 90% of the time. it just doesn't make sense.
posted by francesca tereshkova | 3:43 AM
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