Making Friends

There are lots of articles written in magazines with titles such as "Living France", "Moving To France" and "French Entree" encouraging new arrivals to get out there and mix with the locals.  Evidently, it's important to make friends, learn the customs, mingle, integrate.  To this end there are plenty of tips given such as 'why not drop into the Mairie with a bottle of whisky and a hello for the Maire' (I think in many countries this might be filed under 'corruption' but whatever); 'remember to greet passers-by in the street with a cheery 'Mesdames, Messieurs'; 'pop a petit annonce up in your local Spar / Bar seeking people to skill swap / chat with'; 'make sure to introduce yourself to your neighbours and invite them for an apero' etc. etc. 

Jolly good. So how have we progressed with these convivial suggestions?  Upon first arriving in Marseillan and forearmed with such advice, we did a quick recce of our neighbours.  Alex was concerned.  

More than likely we had (1) Russian pimps opposite (swarthy man seen with two mobile phones and two blondes counting money at his kitchen table = dodgy), (2) Irish terrorists on the run next to them (well connected man with Irish accent = no further justification needed), (3) a Belgian tax evader next door (quiet chap with beard and house keeper = highly suspicious) and (4) a certifiable nutter on the corner (lanky bloke fond of wearing a trilby, playing show tunes at top volume and polishing his garage door with a kleenex at midnight = say no more).  How were we going to make friends with this FBI fodder??  

We decided bypass our neighbours and head straight for the Mairie.  Encountering the Receptionist was an experience similar to fronting Siberian Border Control - a woman surely better employed by the defense forces as Interrogator or possibly Attila the Hun as Operations Manager - we did eventually manage to prevail upon her to post our petit annonce seeking nice people to chat with.  This yielded Didier, a very amenable bloke who manages a garden centre and whose wife has a shoe shop. We've been meeting for some weeks now, but Alex is still convinced he is a bull fighting fan, possibly even a secret matador (poster of corrida in living room = more than likely).

Previously, our Clermont petit annonce put us in contact with a talented stand-up comedian who has made several TV appearances on On n' Demande qu'a en Rire and has turned out to be a good friend, albeit almost certainly involved in international art fraud (tubes of acrylic paint seen in his living room plus roll of bubble wrap in garage = QED). Check out his one man show -

http://www.dailymotion.com/fr/relevance/search/yass/1#video=xt2g3c

Joining the gym has proved interesting and yielded much 'contact' with the locals, if not exactly friends. Charmingly, each new arrival to the work-out room greets EVERY SINGLE other person in the gym with a 'bonjour' and three kisses to the cheeks.  Yes, right in the middle of a set up comes Jean-Claude and the kissing commences.  By the time he's got through the kissing, his lips have had a good work out and his gym session is half way over.  Still, it makes one feel wanted.

Music has proved to be the most fruitful way of networking and having real fun, and we have Alex to thank for that.  

His piano playing for a couple of local bands has made for some memorable nights and jolly parties; last week, courtesy of singer Kerry, we spent a fabulous weekend at Chateau Les Carrasses celebrating St. Patrick's Day in true French style - wine tasting.  Unaware of local traditions, we turned up in head-to-toe green wearing our sparkly hats, tinsel wigs and flashing sunnies expecting a knees-up to "C'mon Eileen'. I guess you live and learn.

What of the neighbours?  Well, whilst the French are very keen on politesse it doesn't prevent them from being cold and rude if it suits. And it does suit a couple of our neighbours - their loss, we have decided.  As for the Belgian tax exile he is simply a kindly retired Belgian with a penchant for cleanliness; turns out the Irish terrorist is a friendly, helpful, well informed business man with loads of local insight; the Russian pimp is actually a talented musician who plays Django Reinhardt type jazz and has back-up singers.  The trilby wearing, tissue wielding nocturnal nutter is just a nutter.  Every village has one.  

Word on the street, though, is that a couple of Australians are moving in opposite.  Will the Mairie succumb to a case of VB?  Will 'Mesdames, Messieurs' be replaced by 'G'day Mate'?  Will the truculent Ghislaine be tempted to drop in for a cold one and a barbie?  Worst of all, will our proud claim to be Australians (very impressive to all French) rather than ten-a-penny Brits be brought under scrutiny??  Sleepless nights ahead at 5 Rue Auber....












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