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."