French Fairyland

Sometimes when I walk down the street, (probably more often when I walk around here in my suburban ‘hood actually), I really do believe that I’m walking through the opening scene of Team America.

That’s the scary thing about this film -  just far away enough to be a joke, just close enough to be almost true – brilliant!

There are people who DO dress like the French people in the film (including the little boy in the sailor suit), there ARE butterflies fluttering past (I had 2 fly in through the window of our apartment last week), and the street-scene is pretty much spot on (except that the Eiffel Tower isnt close enough to crush the Arc de Triomphe).

If I walk to our  local shops in the afternoon,  I step out onto the footpath into a sea of beautiful green leafy trees lining both sides of the street. Garden beds are built into the “nature strip” (as we call it in Australia) with a range of plants, shrubs, colourful flowers, the occasional vegetable (who knew that rhubarb and spinach make great decorative plants?) all arranged in an artistically natural landscape design (which is changed with the seasons).

I walk 50 metres, and pass by a public garden/children’s playground. It has a gate surrounding it so that parents can let their toddlers run around in relative safety. This garden encourages kids to run on the grass, lie under the big shady trees, and there’s a big sandy section with heaps of kids play equipment.  Every afternoon the park benches are full of nannies, parents, grandparents watching the kids play, breastfeeding their bubs, rocking prams, and generally chit-chatting with all the other care-givers. As parents and kids leave the playground, the kids are encouraged to say good-bye politely, and as they go their separate ways, the kids yell back to their friends “see you tomorrow! goodbye!”.

This is usually the point where I start to feel like I’m a marrionette in the Team America movie: the sun will warm me, dappled light filtered by the green leaves, a cool breeze will caress my face, I’ll inhale deeply the smell of beautiful damp earth, fresh grass, slightly perfumed flowers. Children will walk hand-in-hand with their grandma, skipping and laughing, old men will pass old ladies in the street and say “good afternoon, girls!”. It’s all 100% true, I’m living it – but how can this be real?

Next, I pass the Town Hall. This is the most imposing building in the neighbourhood, especially with the big manicured garden out the front. Here’s a photo of it: it really doesnt do it justice, but you get the idea.

Its just beautiful. Not too brash, not too cutesy, not a 1980’s architectural disastrous interpretation of a shed (like the one in my hometown). During winter they drape kilometres of white fairy-lights over the windows and around all the manicured trees – a real winter wonderland.

Continuing down the road, I arrive at the commercial section of the “village”. It’s a cute little strip of the main street with a posh supermarket, chocolate shop, a few “old men” cafes, a jewellery store etc. Every thing you could need.

There are a few fruit and vege shops, including my favourite  semi-organic one, that only sells things that are in season. The owner writes up receipes for the fruit/vegetables that are in their peak that week on the blackboord out the front. She always seems to be spending a whole lot of time chatting, and not much selling, but I get the feeling that this is the reason people keep coming back to her shop

There are 3 butchers in the strip, which sounds a lot, especially when you consider that there is also a supermarket a few steps away. But the French dont believe in skimping on quality for the sake of a few centimes, so every butchers shop is full of people (and the meat aisle in the supermarket is, accordingly, very small, and only used by old age pensioners and Australians who dont know any better…..). The “worst” butchery on the street (so I was told) is actually, probably my favourite because it’s so quirky and strange. It’s run by a son (in his 60’s) and his mother (in her 80’s). He runs around the shop (there’s no “counter” as such), and out the back in the fridge, rummaging for the perfect piece of meat or whole guinea fowl that someone has asked for. His white apron is usually covered in blood smears. He has an old (REALLY old) wooden (!!!) chopping bench. It’s probably 10cm thick or more, but it’s been used so much in one area that it’s created a big sloping hole, where the thickness is noticeably less. I’m totally sure that an Australian health inspector would shut the place down, but hey, we’re in France, and they’ve been selling meat like this for years and no one died (that they know of). Once he wraps your meat, you take it over to a little cash register, where “maman” (Mum) is sitting patiently.

“How much is it?” she yells to her son.

“Ten euros.”, he replies.

“HOW much?”

“TEN!”

And she rings it up on the register calmly. “Ten euros, please, Mademoiselle.”

On the same strip, in a covered hall, there’s the indoor market three times a week, where I have been known to cry over salad leaves.

There are 3 boulangeries. One of which I have refused to return to because their bread tasted like cardboard (of course, they are the cheapest in the ‘hood). The second, well, it does a nice sesame seed baguette, but everything else is just so-so (not enough salt I think).

The last one, and my favourite, always has a queue winding out the door. It has the best bread: lovely, sour crusty baguettes, soft on the inside, with just enough salt. Our neighbour has boycotted them because they use a coin machine connected to the cash register. You order, they ring it up, you put your coins in the machine, et voila! He refuses to accept the industrialisation of a (in his opinion) basic human interaction. If he cant put coins in the hand of a human for his baguette, its NO ‘PAIN’ FOR YOU! (Of course, he loves ordering rugby jerseys and Nespresso coffee capsules over the internet…..).

And the dodgey tea shop that I’ve so far avoided, turns out to be a coffee shop as well, which buys and roasts it’s own beans, in shop. I passed the other day and watched as the owner stood out on the footpath and sorted through his latest delivery of coffee beans to pick out the imperfect ones, and smell that smokey, musky odour of roasting beans.

By the time I’ve done my shopping, I’m usually on a ‘France-High”. I’m sure I float back home and up the stairs, a slight smile on my face, and the beautiful Zen forehead and eyebrows, relaxed and smooth.

90 euro massage v daily trip to the shops? Same effect.

Somebody pinch me. Do I REALLY live here?