Deux secondes

It was the recurring refrain when my kids were growing up.

“Deux secondes,” my son would say whenever I asked him to do something.

“Deux secondes!” my daughter would call from her room when we were running late for school.

“Je suis à vous dans deux petites secondes,” says the woman at bakery, placing baguettes on the shelf. (Be with you in two seconds.) Two small seconds obviously being much quicker than normal ones.

I’ve never understood why the French require two seconds when all we ever needed was one. “Just a sec!” I used to yell when my mother would call me. But around here two seconds is the norm. Sometimes it’s two minutes (deux minutes!) or even two hours (ne prend pas deux heures!) but whatever the unit of time, two are always required. I guess everything with the French just takes longer.

It is said that patience is a virtue. Unfortunately it is not one with which I am familiar. Two seconds or minutes or hours are too long for me when I want to get somewhere or do something. It goes against my nature to spend any longer doing anything than is absolutely necessary. This philosophy is entirely incompatible with running a business, raising a family or living in France.

So finally, after much reflection, I’ve decided to cultivate the art of patience. Because it seems that patience, like other qualities, is not something that you have to be born with to enjoy.

And I’m starting small.

Two seconds isn’t a lot of time but if you’re mindful, you can make them work for you. In fact, they can be life changing. It’s enough or run a stop sign or get hit by a car. Long enough for your heart to beat a few times, to make up your mind, to have a stroke of good luck. Two seconds was all it took for me to catch a certain Frenchman’s glance across a crowded bar a very long time ago.

So I’m using ‘deux secondes’ as my mantra. Every time I’m about to tell myself — or the dog, or the driver in front of me — to hurry up, I stop and say the magic words: deux secondes. And for that tiny bit of time, I breathe, focus my eyes on something, relax.

I don’t know if the two-second rule will ultimately stop me from stamping my foot or swearing to myself for very long. I may not make it to two minutes, never mind two hours. But so far I’m amazed at what two seconds can do. Even if I can’t be patient for long, I can enjoy two seconds where things slow down. And then somehow, my sense of urgency evaporates.

Are you a patient person?

Carte de fidelité

“La carte du magasin?” the cashier asks dully, mustering all the enthusiasm of someone required to ask the same question of every customer, day in and day out. But it must be asked. He — or more often she — cannot process my purchase without an answer: do I have a store loyalty card?

Oddly, this is the only question anyone in a French store ever asks. Not “How are you today?” or “Are you satisfied with your shopping experience?” or even, “Can I help you?” No, we are sadly limited in our exchanges as to whether or not I have a store card. Mostly I say no, even though I do have a collection of such cards. At home, in a drawer where I keep the massive wallet with all my papers. Mostly the drawer is where it stays.

These days I travel light with just a small change purse and a couple of cards. I know I should carry my ID or at least my drivers license, but I can’t be bothered. In 30 years of driving in France, I’ve only been stopped once and that was by les douaniers, the border control, because I had obviously (from the boxes in my back seat) been shopping in Switzerland and not stopped to declare anything. What can I say? Our closest Ikea is in Geneva. They let me go with a warning. I’m not sure they even asked to see my big, pink French drivers license.

Carton rose

There is something about the term ‘carte de fidelité’ or loyalty card I find oddly endearing. I’m not sure why. I have no loyalty to any store, nor any other sentiment other than gratitude that such places exist within a reasonable drive. Ours is a relationship of convenience. And there is little convenient about such cards.

First is the fact that you need a physical card. You can’t just say your name or give a number, with the exception of a few smaller shops, which means carrying around a lot of plastic. This is especially true if, like me, you are not the faithful type. I confess: I shop around. Fast and furious. Based on my mood, to-do list and whatever a particular store has to offer: a better fish counter, fresh produce or selection of beer or wine.

Then there’s the fact that most of the reward programs require you to go online, log in to your account, and interact with them in some way to get your bonus. Only one store near me offers a simple ‘cagnotte’ or jackpot system in which you cumulate a bonus amount every time you shop that you can apply to future purchases whenever you choose. They even gave me a mini-card that attaches to my key ring. It takes little effort and adds up to a few euros off here and there.

Smaller places like hair salons give you a paper card that they must stamp each time you go. After a dozen services, you get a freebie. Usually I forget the card and start a new one several times, then change to a new place before it’s full.

I wish that store owners would understand that it’s service, not a little bonus after hundreds of euros spent, that wins my loyalty. How about a suggestion book, where I can let you know what’s missing on your shelves? A friendly cashier who actually says hello? Or even tapes that partially open container shut so that what’s inside doesn’t spill everywhere?

Happy staff create happy customers, so give your employees a reason to smile and that will earn you all the loyalty you need.

Do you have any store cards?

L’apéro

One of my favourite French abbreviations is also a backbone of life in France: l’apéro. In its longer form, ‘apéritif’ sounds stiff and formal. Shortened to apéro (pronounce: a-pay-ROH) it becomes something easy and friendly. One that goes down as lightly as a quaff of champagne on a summer’s evening.

I was reminded of this when we visited old friends and neighbours in Lyon last weekend. It was nothing fancy. We were in the area and wondered if anyone would be around if we stopped by? This is when the true stuff of French friends comes out. From a quick visit it became an evening event that our former neighbours organized on the fly during an otherwise busy weekend. A family reunion in the afternoon, a job that requires being on-call all weekend. Peu importe. We came for drinks and stayed till midnight. The apéro was ‘dinatoire’, meaning it took on the proportions of a meal, with plates of simple nibbles being passed around the big table. We’re talking pâté en croûte, squares of quiche, various dips and breads, chunks of melon, cherries and an apricot clafoutis.

I’ve been to fancier events that have been designed to literally mimic a 5-course dinner: starting with nuts and ‘verrines’ (small glasses) of chilled soup or layered salad; followed by canapés of smoked fish and meat, mini-quiches, etc.; then a platter of various cheeses with bread and finally, fruit pieces and small cakes. At such parties, even the wines follow the usual order: champagne, white or rose, red with cheese and more bubbles with dessert.

Interestingly, the French have a few habits that tend to stick regardless of how fancy the fête: generally, everyone arrives before you serve the first drink. In Canada, we have the habit of getting the guest a drink in his or her hand the instant they walk in the door. In France, we wait until most everyone is assembled, then serve a drink and have a toast, clinking glasses before anyone imbibes a drop. Needless to say, it is best to have friends who arrive on time!

The other thing is the French don’t like to remain standing or even sit in individual conversation groups, as is my preference. Even if it’s only an apéro, everyone will be seated around a common table and a general conversation begun. Once the ice is broken, and especially after a second or third top-up of drinks, the conversation will break into smaller groups. I dislike sitting in the same place for long and so usually find an excuse to get up and move about (and optimally adjust the position of my good ear to be able to hear what is being said.)

We don’t host many parties these days, but we did our share when we lived in the old neighbourhood. It made me smile when one of our friends noted on Saturday that all we were missing was ‘la sauce de Mel’. For the French, everything is a sauce. Salad dressing, dip, you name it. Yet I had no idea that my dip (borrowed from the Best of Bridge) had become a local favourite that bears my name. It’s basically a sun-dried tomato and cream cheese dip with garlic and basil. Very easy and fresh and extremely popular with the French! Recipe here if you’re interested.

Apéro hour is approaching so I’ll wrap this up with a ‘bonne santé’ and ask the essential question: what are you drinking?

Service national

The man who would become my husband was fresh out of his obligatory French military service when we first met.

“That’s outrageous,” I said. “Conscription in this day and age? A whole year of your life?”

His reply was a Gallic shrug. Military service was only right and normal for the French. After all, it had been in place since 1798. And it wasn’t so bad, he explained. After basic training (during which the young recruits in his division weren’t allowed to use real bullets!) and given that he was a hotel school grad, most of his military service was performed  – you guessed it – in the kitchens, later serving in the officers’ mess.

That was in 1985. France finally abolished its ‘service militaire obligatoire’ in 2002. As a mother whose son was getting close to the age of conscription, I breathed a sigh of relief. In its place they instituted a ‘parcours citoyen’, essentially an instructional course about the military as part of the educational system, complemented by a one-day training course.

Now obligatory national service is back in a new format: a one-month ‘Service national universel’ for all 15 to 16-year-olds. It has begun on a pilot basis in 13 French departments and will be rolled out nationally from 2020.

Macron’s SNU is more societal, culture-building scheme than military service. It designed to inculcate shared values and a sense of engagement, while breaking down social  barriers with two weeks of training camp followed by another two weeks of community service. Those who are interested can also sign up for a voluntary 3-month commitment. The logistics of the whole thing are still being figured out.

France being France, the SNU has been met with skepticism. The spirit of resistance to all things national and smacking of rhetoric is alive and well in this country, as can be heard in the lack of enthusiasm of recruits singing the national anthem, La Marseillaise, in this video of a training session in Tourcoing:

Personally I think it’s a great initiative. If done well it will be a true opportunity for young people across France to meet others from different departments and walks of life. It will be a chance to learn a few basic skills that will serve them well throughout their adult lives: the importance of physical fitness, of community service, what to do in an emergency. It’s only a month, not a year, and presumably financed by the state.

What’s your take on this – is it a good idea or not?

If you’re interested…
– More info on the SNU (in French): https://www.education.gouv.fr/cid136561/le-service-national-universel-snu.html
– BBC report (in English): https://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe-48755605

La clim

Almost three decades after moving to France I have finally done it. Got the thing I swore I could not live without yet somehow managed to survive sans all these years.

When we first decided to move outre-Atlantique, discovering that France is a country where people live, for the most part, without air conditioning gave me pause.

“No A/C? Seriously? But it gets hot in the summer. How do you sleep?”

The answers were always nonchalant. Prefaced with a Gallic shrug. It’s no big deal. We open the windows. Close the shutters during the day to keep the sun out. Go away on holiday to the sea.

I had little choice but to give it a try. Adapting to life in a new country while working and raising a family took every bit of my energy. But I have sweated my way through too many French summers. Struggled for years to understand why there are no screens on windows, except for a few especially mosquito-prone regions. Kicked off the duvet and the sheet and slept in my birthday suit as the curtains billowed in the breeze. Worse, as not a breath of air stirred the still heat of an August night in the furnace of a city apartment. And I still don’t understand why the French don’t have air conditioning.

For some reason people here always found the idea of a Canadian coming to France and demanding air conditioning funny. I’m not sure why. Any humour in the situation completely sailed over my over-heated head. I’ve posted before about my faulty thermostat. In my family we go lobster red as soon as the temperature hits 25C (75F) and don’t cool down until the first snow.

I tried to explain to my French friends and family that in Toronto we are less concerned about the cold in winter than the heat of summer. “It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity,” I said, trotting out the old refrain from my childhood. My arguments fell on deaf ears.

Mais…it’s only for a few months a year.
So’s winter.
Oui, mais… we are generally away on vacation for a month.
That still leaves two months.
Oui, mais… the really hot weather only lasts a few weeks.
Define hot.
Yes but it’s expensive. It’s a waste of energy. It’s unhealthy. It makes you sick.

In fact the only thing that held me back, other than the cost, was believing that it wouldn’t be effective, would be too noisy or create a different set of problems.

Then, last year, we sweated through our hottest summer yet in the Haute Savoie. This is far from being France’s hottest region but let me tell you, it was warm. Most nights found me tossing and turning and finally sleeping in the basement. I skived off work most afternoons as the temperature in my office on the second floor became unbearable.

This April, I began to look for a supplier of ‘climatisation’. Found two in our area, one of which actually showed up, told me it was entirely feasible to cool the two hottest rooms of our house and provided a quote for a split system – that is, with an outside unit on the balcony and an inside unit up on the wall.

To my considerable amazement, we now have two of these systems in our house. They are quiet and efficient. The temperature is comfortably maintained at 22 C.

I would be tempted to break into the hallelujah chorus at this point but for the fact that the weather has so far been cooler than expected. As mentioned in last week’s post, I turned on the A/C anyway. And last weekend we had a massive hail storm.

But I won’t let it rain on my parade. The advantage of a split system is that it also does heating.

Bring it on!