May, Mai; one year in France - smoking, sexting and not being Swiss

Some things that I have learnt since moving to (southern) France

So yeah, this month marks my one year milestone since moving to this beautiful, frustrating country.

This year has made me realise that my relationship with France, its people, its ways, was like that of a long-distance lover. We’ve had many moments together over the last two decades - hot and heavy with appreciation and intrigue, so keenly aware that our time entwined was limited. I was able to turn a blind eye to the possibility of annoying quirks, bizarre sentiments and a possible obsession with bureaucratic paperwork. Because my moments in France have given me sailing to Belle Île and Porquerolles, swimming in ravines, gorging on baguettes and cheese, and bathing in five euro glasses of wine. It gave me markets, vignerons, French men, and generous helpings of butter.

I should mention that while I’m definitely a romantic when it comes to France (it helps), I wasn’t entirely clueless. My first real encounter was at sixteen, when I spent a semester with a family in Saint-Étienne, near Lyon. It was the summer Brice de Nice came out, the summer I learned to smoke, the summer I had cause to say, “Où est la discothèque?”, and the summer I French-kissed a French boy for the first time. It was also the summer I discovered that French kids got a three-course lunch - with cheese - at school. That one was hard to swallow when I returned to my lacklustre school lunch in Ireland.

The decades that followed were dotted with extended stays, seasonal stints, French boyfriends - and eventually, the purchase of a house here in 2021. I’d flirted with other countries, sure, but I kept coming back. Finally, I was ready to commit. Ready to exchange those fleeting, indulgent moments for something long-term.

You see, when you know that there is an expiration date, a romantic goodbye, it is easy to remain at surface level, dazzled by the sex appeal of a country that really has it in droves. But one year in, I am pleased to say that I am still dazzled, but also more familiar with the soft, weird underbelly of French culture. Here are a few things I’ve learned this year - from the charming to the downright shitty (literally).

• Sorry to start off negatively (although it is quintessentially French), but there is dog shit everywhere. I stood in some just last week. My mistake? Looking up - daydreaming, enjoying the coastal breeze and the morning sun. Silly me. Always look down. You need to be keeping a pointed eye out for the assault course of dog shit that lies ahead of you.

• They love a ciggie. This is, of course, no revelation in of itself - but I had assumed that there were some places that were sacrosanct from such behaviour. Perhaps at the gym for example? Apparently not. I have witnessed many staff and clients alike enjoying a quick clope (ciggie in French) break. A new take on a balanced lifestyle perhaps?

• Giving the French some love here - in 1981, they passed what is known as the Lang Law (after their Minister of Culture, Jack Lang), which protects the price of books and how much you can discount them. These laws were bolstered with a minimum delivery fee, so as to defend independent book shops from the tyranny of companies like Amazon. Allez les Bleus!

• They are blunt. Painfully so at times. For example, I had come back from the beach with, what I thought was an alluringly golden hue, only for a friend to see me and say, “Your face is very red.”. Yep, that brought me back down to earth. However, when you realise that this isn’t done with malice, simply factual observation, it makes it a little easier to accept… I think?

• Meeting times are loose suggestions - give or take 30 minutes (but never earlier, God forbid). I think this rule of thumb could be applied across southern Europe. Once, upon questioning why someone was twenty minutes late for our meeting, they puffed their cheeks and sighed, “On n’est pas swisses.”. No apologies. Just know, we’re not fucking Swiss. And they say it with such conviction, as though punctuality were some sort of moral failing.

• They don’t care about your feedback in restaurants. It is not wanted or appreciated, or indeed, accepted. One experience of attempted feedback ended in being told to fuck off et get out! You’ve been warned.

• Each region is fiercely proud and connected to what it produces. This is of course charming and calls to a sense of pride that we don’t typically display back in old Blighty. Good luck ordering Burgundy or Jura when you’re in the Languedoc.. Looks like I’ll be drinking Picpoul for the rest of my days. Pass me the tiny violin, s’il vous plaît.

*Mum and Ludo - I’d recommend skipping the next one. Not sure you need to know anything about my sexting.

• French sexting. Sneaking in just before the year’s out. I’m surprised I hadn’t experienced this little French treat until now. The French have an effortless way of weaving filth with romanticism - something British men, in my experience, simply can’t pull off. That said, it does take a moment to adjust to their style of dirty poeticism when you're used to seduction that sounds more like: “Show me your tits.”

• Last but not least, I would argue that there is such as thing as too much baguette. I’m sorry. I had to say it.

Alors, a whole year of France. As I wrap this up, I am sitting with a (British) friend in Paris and both of us wholeheartedly, passionately agree that whilst this country can be maddening at times, we are so unbelievably happy that we moved here. Santé to another year of getting to know this beautiful, complicated place.