Quirky France

Living in France can be a head-shaking experience.

Today, in Leclerc, at Villeneuve sur Lot, I bought three cases of wine.

It was a good red, at a good price.

I put my three cases, each containing six bottles, on the check-out conveyor belt.

When it came to my turn, the young woman behind the cash register said to me, "I have to open these cases."

Initially, I said nothing. I just watched as she broke open the tops of the cartons.

She inspected the bottles in the carton, took out one bottle and scanned it six times.

She did this with all three cartons.

I couldn't contain my curiosity any longer.

"Um, why are you doing this?"

"Management instructions," she said.

"OK, but why?"

"Security," she said.

"OK, but what is the issue?," I said.

"I need to make sure these bottles are the same as on the label," she said.

Ah, so this was a precaution against carton tampering and product substitution.

"It's not very logical, is it," she conceded, apologetically.

I shook my head in a bemused way, and wondered if she ever got a reaction from her French customers.

But how bizarre. Does Leclerc really think someone, in the middle of the store, is going to tear open a carton of wine, pull out one or more bottles, and covertly replace them with more expensive wine? Then somehow manage to reglue the carton?

And all the while the store's closed circuit tv monitoring their actions?

Maybe Leclerc check-out staff will soon be required to start opening cereal packets to ensure people haven't substituted expensive muesli for cornflakes.

Funny old France.

Folkloriades

Castelmoron puts on a series of music and dance concerts every year ... called Folkloriades.

The performances showcase traditional music, costume and dance from various parts of the world. They are held over three nights in a large marquee tent on the rugby field near the centre of town.

We had tickets for Saturday night. Aperos were served on long trellis tables from 7pm. Drinks were accompanied by live music, a taste of what was to come.

For dinner, a plate of duck breast, chips and salad cost 9 euros. A bottle of wine was 5 euros.

The show started just after nine o'clock.

The first act was a Peruvian ensemble called Somos Romero Paiva. From their panpipe player came a thin, ethereal sound, haunting and evocative of the Andes. It was complemented by the charango, a kind of lute. When the tempo increased, the dancers, male and female, emerged from either side of the stage.

In brightly coloured costumes, they waved sticks, stamped their feet and shouted ecstatically. A flute produced a reedy and unwavering melody, punctuated only by shouting. It's repetitive phrasing was underpinned by driving percussion from a cajon, a box-like drum held between the legs and struck with the palms of the hands.

The next act was supposed to be an Armenian outfit called Anii, described on the flyer as a dynamic young folkloric group. But, as the MC explained, the ensemble had had visa issues and despite the intervention of the Castelmoron Mayor herself, they hadn't made it.

So their place was taken at late notice by a Tahitian act, who proved to be the hit of the night. Their singer spoke to the crowd in French. The first wave of dancers consisted of young women in grass skirts the colour of sunflowers, gold-yellow against smooth, milk-chocolate skin. On their heads sat elaborate creations that defied the tremors of their dance. They wooed the audience with seductive, quivering hips. In beguiling movements, they swayed like palm trees on a tropical beach.

Then the young men came out. They were also wearing grass skirts. The percussion increased to fever pitch. The women's bellies and hips went into over-drive, the men waved their arms frenetically. Their wild-eyed warrior steps reminded me of the Maori haka.

After an interval, it was time for the Mexicans, the Ballet folkloric de Tamaulipas. The musicians wore cowboy hats and the dancers were resplendent in folkloric costumes. The music featured high, plaintive singing and wistful violin. It reminded me of Bob Dylan's "Desire", an album of obvious Mexican influence ... particularly tracks such as "Romance in Durango", "Oh Sister" and "One More Cup of Coffee".

One of the Ballet's songs had obvious religious significance. The women, dressed in long white skirts and flowing black headscarves, were in two small groups on either side of the stage. They held candles and remained motionless. They appeared to be in mourning. The men danced in a series of choreographed half turns ... moving back and forth between the two groups. The men wore strange masks, grotesque and baleful. The music became more upbeat and a dozen pairs of boots began stomping in rhythmic unison on the wooden stage. This created a resounding, banging din that was as loud as it was impressive.

When the Mexicans were done, the Spanish came on. It was a Catalonian group called El Foment de la Sardana de Perpinya. Their performance was flamenco-style with foot-stamping and castanet dancing.

The show finished at half-past midnight. We had enjoyed more than three hours of first-class entertainment, for 7 euros each.

For such a small village, Castelmoron can be proud of hosting an event of such class and diversity.

All tidied up

So now the field has been tidied up.

The farmer and his helper picked up the bales of hay.

Pidgeons and other birds flock down into the stubble looking for titbits.

We can see more clearly the rabbits and hares as they make their way across the field.

The occasional hawk or eagle (not sure which) glides effortlessly on thermal currents scanning the ground for food.

In the village

Yesterday morning I drove into the village with a boot full of recycling; glass, plastic and paper, stopping at the big collection bins next to the petanque square.

That done, I left the car and walked down the main street to do some other chores.

The bank was crowded so I kept going ... to the Post Office. It was crowded so I kept going ... to the Town Hall. I needed to buy Floriades (world music) concert tickets for this Saturday night. After a bit of a wait, I was served by a rather harried lady who had to keep breaking off her dealings with customers to answer the phone.

When it came to my turn she said payment was by cheque. I was a bit taken aback and said I didn't possess cheques. When she saw my look of despair, she softened and said, "Well, I'll accept cash but it must be the exact amount. We don't have change."

I needed 14 euros. I looked in my pocket but only had 9 euros in coin and in my wallet, a couple of 50-euro notes.

I apologised, said I'd be back, and withdrew.

I went back to the bank, hoping the queue had shortened. It had. I asked the lady behind the tiny front counter why the bank had deducted 16 euros from our account. She looked at my account statement and said it was a penalty for being overdrawn. I said that was not possible because our account had never been overdrawn. She checked on her computer screen and said, "Yes it appears you are right. We have made a mistake, that money will be reinstated to your account."

So, with that little problem sorted I asked, "Can you please break this 50 euro note?"

"Sorry," she said, "we don't carry cash."
"But you're a bank."
"Yes, but we don't carry cash. You'll have to go to a shop down the road."

Well, that was OK. I slipped into the bakery and bought a baguette with my 50-euro note, apologising and lying that this was all I had.

So, armed with the exact money, I went back to the Town Hall. There were a couple of elderly people in front of me, writing cheques for the concert tickets.

An old bloke with a bald head under an unwashed beret was asking who to make out the cheque to.

"The Music Society of the Lot Valley," the harried customer-service officer said.
"What?"
"The Music Society of the Lot Valley," she said in a louder voice.
He started writing, slowly. He got halfway through and asked again.

"The .. Music ... Society ... of ... the ...Lot ... Valley," she repeated.

He finally finished writing the cheque and the transaction was completed.

The queue behind me had grown.

It was then I realised that France is a first world country with a lot of third world habits. These habits die hard. There doesn't seem to be any transitional second world happening here.

It was my turn to pay. I gave the woman my Carte de Sejour (long-stay visa) which had my address on it to prove I was a Castelmoron resident and hence entitled to a discount. I handed over the 14 euros and she put the money in an envelope and wrote my name on it.

I then walked to the Post Office, hoping the queue had shortened. The little reception area was still crowded. I waited about 15 minutes to be served. At one point, a woman with damaged ankles came in on crutches, and everyone agreed she could jump the queue. But not literally.

When the postal clerk had served me, I said goodbye to the crowd in the Post Office and walked back to my car, parked at the petanque square. It was too hot for anyone to be playing.

Remembering my dismal performance last week I thought to myself, "I need to come back when it cools down ... and practise."

The next day

The cactus flower continues to open ... spreading its pink and white wings like a butterfly.

And a different piece of farm equipment is working in the paddock, this time bailing hay.

July 14

On France's national day, our Christmas cactus flowered. Christmas in July.

The neighbour's wheat got harvested.

The grain was loaded into a truck.

I played in the village's weekly petanque tournament and lost all four games.

I need to practise.

Negatives and positives

There have been a few frustrations of late ... avoiding speeding drivers whilst out cycling, coping with the frustrating task of house-hunting, dealing with La Poste over letter tampering and maintaining patience with the length of time it is taking for Cliona's Carte Vitale (medicare card) to come through.

Then, tonight.

We go up to Laparade.

We've heard that their marche nocturne (night market) is pretty good.

We're there late for a look-see.

There are cars parked everywhere. We squeeze into a narrow space.

We walk into the village, following the music.

When we arrive, a wondous sight opens up like a vista in front of us.

It seems like there are food stalls everywhere.

We pass a stall selling escargots (snails) for 7 euros per two dozen.

We pass a stall selling freshly shucked Archachon oysters (they're big) for 6 euros a half dozen.

There is a butcher cutting pieces of aged steak off a fillet and a guy next door bbq'ing them, mustard at the ready.

There is a stall selling veal brochettes. Another one is doing a roaring trade with french fries.

Over by the ramparts, with a view of the valley, people are sitting at the best tables, having got there at 5.30pm.

We run into Kim and Christian. They say this is the best marche nocturne in the district.

The guy on the microphone is singing trad French songs and people are up dancing.

Stallholders are friendly. People greet each other with a smile and "Bonsoir".

Cliona gets a fresh fruit sorbet. I get a glass of local red.

France is a cool place in the heat of summer. This is why we are here. The sense of community and fun is palpable. It compensates for the frustrations.

More positives than negatives.

Montcabrier

There is a quaint little village ensconced in forest on top of a hill near the Lot.

Its stone buildings, some going back to the 13th century, are cream and gold.

Flower boxes, climbing roses and pretty shrubs add contrasting colours.

I was walking around the streets, when, coming towards me, some people were speaking English.

To their greeting of "Bonjour", I said, "Hello".

An older man in the group said, "Gidday"

I replied, "Gidday"

He was from Adelaide.