Vive la France!
The sign above the garage read ‘BASTARD AUTOS.’
My van had started complaining on the twisting alpine roads around my new home near Chamonix, in France. Perhaps it was the steep, gear-crunching climbs or the long descents which ended in hissing, smokey brakes. Perhaps the steering was loose, or the suspension was worn. I asked a friend to recommend a local garage.
“Try the Bastards,” he suggested.
I laughed. “Why do you call them that? You weren’t impressed?” To call someone a bastard in English is a decent insult.
“Actually that’s just their surname - the Bastards are really nice!”
I drove cautiously down the valley to Sallanches and the BASTARD garage (French surnames are often in capitals, which makes me think they’re SHOUTING). Of course, when in Sallanches, you’ve got to stop in the picturesque but noisy square to visit one of the best boulangeries (bakeries) in the area. My girlfriend Christelle has taught me a lot about France, and all things French. For example, not all boulangeries are equal.
But unfortunately, this particular boulangerie was closed because… it’s a Thursday? I remembered another lesson: France has some wonderfully socialist attributes, and the family-run bakers should understandably be closed at least one day of the week. They’ve chosen Thursday (‘pourquoi pas?’ With a shrug). I ran to another before they shut at noon for their long lunch break. France closes for an hour and a half around midday, but this also make sense: everyone is given a proper pause to relax, socialise and eat good-quality food.
Using my best French, I ordered ‘une baguette’ (because baguette is feminine, apparently…), and received a warm smile from the lady as she handed me the bread. But I’d made a rookie mistake: this loaf was rock solid, like a sword, meant to be eaten immediately. En guarde! I joked in my head. Next time, I’ll remember to choose something containing nuts or seeds, which keep for longer.
Stepping into the town square, I saw old men in berets playing pétanque. A quintessentially French scene, I thought. It appeared to be a serious activity, but they gently heckled each other with a cigarette in one hand and a kilogram cannonball in the other.
Since I was also passing the local alpine farm shop, I couldn’t resist buying some cheese. In the field next to the store were enormous brown and white cows, each with a necklace and bell, grazing in the sunshine. The bells chimed loudly around the meadow, and the cows must have quickly gone deaf. A buxom woman operated the laser-guided guillotine which hung above a giant wheel of cheese, slicing me a piece. I wondered what she’d think of the crazy British, chasing wheels of cheese down steep hills. From Camembert to Comté, and Beaufort to Brie, the French love every one of their 1000 cheeses. Some are classics; others could be more accurately described as mould in a packet.
When I finally arrived at the garage after many hours of faffing, the BASTARDS were inexplicably closed. “Bastards,” I muttered; another time. I looked for another garage in a neighbouring town, but get lost on Google Maps looking at entertaining names: Bonneville (‘Good Town’), Haut Sex (‘High Sex’), Nice, Die, Magland, or there’s always your local Salle des Fêtes (‘Party House’)…
***
Later, at a sport crag perched high above the Arve valley, Christelle and I traded burns on a brilliant climb with our French friends. The summer temperatures had forced us to find high and shaded cliffs, but the views of the valley and the Mont Blanc massif were stunning. A cool updraft made the vertical grey limestone grippy to the touch, and the smell of pine wafted through the air. The tops of the trees shimmered in the heat.
The Arve valley isn’t known as a popular sport climbing destination because it’s overshadowed (sometimes literally) by the Mont Blanc massif, but if it was anywhere else in France - or the rest of the world - it would be considered very good. When I suggested to my French friends that the climbing in their country is world-class, they replied with a non-committal shrug, saying, “ah bah oui, c’est pas mal.”
I asked my friend for his method on a technical, intricate route, and soon we were standing side-by-side, waving our arms in the air and kicking feet onto imaginary footholds like tai-chi.
“You take this crimp, tak! Then cross to this, tak! And then throw, bam!” He paused for a second and frowned. “But maybe for you… it’s not possible…?” he laughed with a cheeky grin, and I joined. We watched other climbers, our encouragement rising in pitch and quickening, shouting “allez… allezallez… allezALLEZ!”
The French humour is excellent, and friends have often played down their achievements or abilities. “What do you call someone that speaks three languages?” A local friend asked me.
“Trilingual” I replied.
“Two languages?”
“Bilingual,”
“And only one?”
I shrugged.
“French!” And again, I joined him in laughter.
I get the impression the French are proud of their culture and language. They might speak other languages, but they’ll prefer to celebrate their own. And they might initially have a cool air about them, but soon they’ll be smiling and sharing jokes. I do really appreciate their attitude, their culture, and their language. It’s as if the entire country is out to enjoy life as much as possible.
I recognise that being British is similar, but different. When it comes to learning another language, perhaps the British are lazier? I’ve heard some Brits joke they have no desire to learn a language, since it’s one of the most-spoken languages in the world. I disagree, and think it’s important to learn about the culture, the people, and language where I now live, even if I do make a few mistakes. I’ve really benefited from Christelle’s help and lessons. France has always been intriguing: my earliest impressions were school trips to Paris, discovering that late-night French television channels were very racy.
When the temperatures finally cooled in the evening, and the pine trees lost their intense shimmering, we packed our bags. The sky began to slowly melt into orange and pink. Following switchbacks down into the shadows of the valley, nursing the van’s acrid-smelling brakes, we passed lush alpine meadows and squat, timber-framed chalets.
A Camion Pizza (‘Pizza Van’) was parked at a busy junction, and it took all my will-power not to stop. These vans have a wood-fired pizza oven inside, and at dusk they appear in town squares throughout the south of France. A chatty man serves delicious, cheap, Italian-style pizzas, usually in only a few minutes. Each van is unique, independent, and the pizza business appears to be more of a hobby. I used to think that, if I ever get the courage, I’ll ask some of them to re-locate to the UK. But now I wouldn’t want to see them leave!
The reliable climate is another thing I love about France. Summer is usually hot and dry, but we’re never far from a fresh mountain stream to cool off in. Barbecues live outside as much as we do, my pale skin almost becomes tanned (sunburnt), and August appears to be a French national holiday. “Nobody works in August,” apparently. The only fear in these months is when going to a public swimming pool, and being told to wear Speedos; what’s that about?!
Instead of pizza, we headed to the terrace of a busy Chamonix bar, hypnotised by the mountains burning in the last of the golden light. We traced dream lines up the mountains. “Look at that corner. Then you could follow those cracks…?” We pointed with friends and beer goggles. What an incredible place to live, with these amazing peaks on our doorsteps.
After a few more beers, a friend tried to explain how reflexive verbs work - again. “Ça me plaît: it pleases me. Tu me manque: I miss you. Tu me donne: you give to me.” He said. “Got it?”
“Yes!” I replied, then frowned. “…I think.”
Then he turned serious. “Now, au-dessus,” he said pointing up. “En-dessous,” and he pointed down. But the sound he made was the same both times. “Which one is which, again?” I was lost.
***
When the autumn leaves had burnt and blew, and the skirt of white snow crept down the mountains, we got excited about the winter months. It’s another reliable season, with the promise of cold north faces and smiles on swishing skis.
One morning, Christelle and I woke to a white wonderland. “Snow! This is so exciting!” I shouted. Heavy snowflakes carpeted everything; the car was buried, the shovel hidden, and snow falling over the top and into my boots. This happened about once every five years back in the UK, and the snow soon melted. Here, we get to enjoy it for at least a month.
Bundling into jackets, gloves and hats, we slipped and slid along the pavement to the local cafe-boulangerie. Even this short journey took on the air of an expedition. The village was quiet, in a hushed thrill. We said “bonjour!” To the baker, still wrapped in his flour-stained apron and wide-eyed from the early start. Buttery croissants greased my fingers and flakes of pastry flew like confetti. “Mmm… delicious” I said as I licked my fingers.
Back at home, Christelle and I attacked the car-shaped mound of snow with a broom, digging and brushing like archaeologists. Then we coaxed the engine into life and began driving to the supermarket.
But no journey is guaranteed - or safe - when the roads are covered in snow and ice. French drivers will still act like they’re on the final lap of the Grand Prix, and every occasion to overtake is seized. We past the postwoman as she zoomed through the neighbourhood like it was a normal day, cheerily waving hello. In my inexperience, I hesitated to put snow chains on the tyres… although I soon wished I had them when I braked and the car just carried on sliding downhill.
Once at the local supermarket, the crux of the shop was weighing my fruit and vegetables before going to the checkout. The cashier has had little sympathy when I’ve forgotten, mercilessly sending me back to the machine; it’s like going back to the beginning in a game of Snakes and Ladders. Sometimes I’ve just guessed at what type of apples I’m buying, punching at the screen hopelessly until it takes pity and produces a ticket. We bought a few extra essentials, like cheese (obviously), salted butter, a dozen eggs, and voila.
Jumping back into the car, tyres spinning, Christelle and I slid for home. I narrowly avoided a bus, and my knuckles were white on the steering wheel… but perhaps this was because we stared at the mountains above, rather than the road. The summits always look most impressive when wearing their winter coats. “What about that couloir? Do you see that tower?” We wondered.
Home. Phew. My boots plunged into the snow again, and I tiptoed from footprint to footprint towards the house like a giraffe. I still hadn’t taken my van to the Bastards, but it could wait until the weather improved. Inside, with rosy cheeks and cold noses, Christelle and I dived under duvets. I really like this country, these people, and this exciting life. I could live here - in fact, I intend to! You’ve got to be based somewhere in the world, and I think this area of France is hard to beat. But now it was time for more French delights: real ‘chocolat chaud’ and…
“Ah, vive la France!”
