FRANCE, MY BLOG, PÉTANQUE AND STUFF ON MY MIND

This week, my blog blew past 750,000 views on its way to 1,000,000. Like my age, it's just a number. But it's an impressive number nonetheless.

BREAKING BOUNDARIES When I was programming late-night blues or weekend world music on our local NPR affiliate back in the USofA, I was constantly getting myself in trouble. For instance, my blues shift began at 11PM and I was supposed to sign off at 1AM. Since it was the last programming of the day, and since we were going to close down the station until the morning shows began several hours later, I kept playing as long as I wasn't too tired and I knew that night owls were still listening. But no, the station manager said. Sign off time was sign off time. And by the way, don't talk too long, even if folks tell you that they like your "This Day In History" commentary. And while we're at it, don't break format. Just because Tinariwen, a Tuareg group of Algerian origin, feels like a logical progression of blues/rock, it ain't the kind of blues that most people who listen are into. Refrain.

Boundaries like that have always bothered me. I view boundaries as challenges. Sometimes, that attitude gets me into trouble, like at the radio station. More of often, breaking boundaries has led to personally satisfying outcomes. I suppose that's why this blog jumps all over the place. France. Food. Politics. Random opinions on random subjects. For some people, that's breaking format. I do get notified of the occasional Unsubscribe. So be it. No hard feelings. 

If you're still with me, thanks for sticking around.

LIVE AFRICAN BLUES

PÈTANQUE I suppose that you could describe pètanque as a cousin to bocce or curling. You send a ball (boule) down a court toward a target with the goal of getting your ball closer to the target than your opponent's ball. Relatively simple to learn and difficult to play with any real skill, outdoor pètanque courts (terrians) are visible in about every village in France. In Quarante, we have a sizeable steel building dedicated to indoor play, a boulodrome. In all the years that we've lived here, the boulodrome has only hosted one day of pètanque annually, a round-robin match called a concourse with the proceeds going to charity. Otherwise, community yard sales and Christmas markets and other non-pètanque uses have filled the venue.

A local restaurant has a pètanque court for the use of its patrons and some folks convinced me to join them. It can make for a fun summer evening, played with teams of friends, some with a more competitive spirit than others, followed by a beer or a glass of wine. So I wondered why the boulodrome remained empty. Long story short, I gathered some of my friends at the local bar and we decided to pursue a more intensive use of the boulodrome. We contacted the mayor, worked through some typical French bureaucracy that is still ongoing after two years, and eventually got possession of a set of keys. We now open the boulodrome to the public every Tuesday, Friday, and Saturday evening. Not a big crowd, but growing as the word gets out and the weather moderates. It's a story of how grass-roots community action is a thing, even in France. I'll dedicate a full post to the story in future.   

CLIMATE CHANGE If you haven't been paying attention, I have news. I've said it before. Climate change is real. I can't say whether it's due to the burning of fossil fuels, part of a natural cycle, or failure to pay proper obeisance to Oden. But climate change is real. Here in the south of France, months of searing heat and severe drought were preceded by windstorms that downed whole forests and have been followed by downpours causing widespread damage due to flash flooding. We've lived in the region full time for 12 years, not a lifetime sampling but long enough. Heat and drought have become serious, escalating concerns. Not believing that the change is real will have serious consequences, regardless of whether the language of change is scrubbed from government websites as in the USofA. 

I don't know if anything can be done to moderate the changes. I do know that, if the changes are inevitable, we have to prepare for the consequences. I've discussed this before. In the case of agriculture in France, the strict rules regarding what grape varieties can be grown in which regions to qualify for various wine appellations must be loosened and new strains that are heat and drought resistant must be developed if viticulture is to survive and thrive. The rules regarding importing cattle feed in some cheese producing regions have already been relaxed. (Interestingly, some farmers have insisted on abiding by the old rules for the sake of tradition and the taste of their product.) 

Zoning and planning needs to take into account sea level rise and flood plain management. We'll need smart, principled politicians and an informed electorate. Piece of cake, right?  

MY STEPSON We all need a purpose in life, the reason that we wake up every day knowing that we are needed, that we have responsibilities for the health and welfare of others. For me, that reason is Séraphin. His mother works in Paris but has a second home in Quarante. I water the plants in the garden. I turn on the boiler so that she has hot water before she arrives. And I keep a supply of cherry tomatoes on hand to feed Séraphin. Called a tortoue in French, he looks exactly like the Eastern box turtles of my rural New Jersey roots. He comes running when he hears my footsteps. (Yes, turtles can approximate running.)  He'll probably outlive me, but that's OK. It's enough to have been an important part of his life.

SOUTH OF FRANCE: TYPICAL DAY IN THE LIFE

The autumn morning broke crisp and clean as new money. The very air had shifted, from summer heavy to light and fresh with the promise of better days ahead. The afternoon sun would heat us up, perhaps uncomfortably so. But the slight morning breeze predicted that a particularly hot summer was breathing its last.

A group of us meet three times a week at the fountain in the church square. It's been a while since the town has run water through that fountain, in part because of a persistent drought, in part because kids can't seem to resist throwing stuff into it, clogging up the works. But it remains a convenient place to meet. Everybody knows how to find the church. That's important because not everyone who joins our walks lives in the village full time. Owners of vacation homes or folks just casually visiting our village who have learned of our walking group can easily find their way to the church.

Where we walk depends on who is walking. There are folks who like a full-on hike, 10k or more. Up hill and down. Serious exercise. And there are folks, mostly older, sometimes frailer, often wiser, who prefer a brisk hour on level ground and a leisurely coffee at the finish. I generally decide the route because I'm the one who sends out the weekly email with times and places. On this particular Wednesday, I chose the path leading to the donkeys. Some new folks were with us, folks with kids, folks who hadn't yet had their picture taken with the donkeys. It's a thing. Walk through the village and down a hilly path. Turn a corner. And there live a family of donkeys, coming to the fence when they hear us talking. Coming to the fence because they expect the carrots that we always bring. We're evenhanded. Carrots are cut into pieces and each donkey gets a chunk in their turn. We show the kids how to place the carrots in the palms of their hands so that the donkeys can slurp them up. Walkers take pictures to show back home. It's a thing.

We continue down the hill. Past the donkeys and the turnoff to a rugged camp in the woods guarded by gnarly-sounding dogs. We don't explore that turnoff. The well-used path deteriorates. It's still a path, but more an animal trail, twisting around shrubs, climbing up short rocky washouts. We stop to view a cluster of buildings across the Quarante River, just a good-sized creek where I come from, but it's a river here and it bears our village's name. A stone bridge, washed out for decades, used to connect Domaine Peche Laurier to the village. Formerly a wine domaine, the vines have been sold off, a party room and apartments have been added, and the domaine has been converted to a destination wedding venue. An alley of plane trees leads to a statue of Mary beside the Quarante in front of which vows are exchanged. A far cry from the living room of my Uncle Jack, the town's JP who married us in New Jersey.

Eventually, we loop around to the paved road leading back up the hill to town. The sun is full up and the sky has turned that particular shade of blue that I find hard to describe. Just blue. BLUE. You'll know it when you see it. And because it's so clean and clear, we can see the Pyrenees, a tad over a 100km away. When the morning mist clears in late fall or winter or early spring, you can see snow on the mountains from here.

It's a bit of a slog up the hill for us old folks. One foot in front of the other. We reach the outskirts of the village again, mostly newer homes in lotissements, the French term for a set of contiguous building lots - developments. ('Newer' is a relative term. In a village over 1,000 years old, a 1950 build is new.) Dogs warn us that they are on guard, sounding vicious. But they're well fenced and just doing their job. Then it's down hill to the Bar le Quarante, just Bar 40 to us. 

For some folks, the fellowship around the table at the bar is the most important item on the agenda. New owners have taken over Bar 40 recently, two young couples anxious to make a go of it. Johanna generally takes our order, cheerful and working hard on her English because there are a surprising number of English speakers in such a small rural village. (The table may include French, German, Italian, Swedish, Dutch, and/or Colombian walkers in addition to the Brits, Americans, Aussies and Kiwis. English is the common language.) The most popular drink is a café crème, an espresso bulked up with foamed milk. A few regulars prefer an allongé, an espresso with double the water. Tea, Perrier, and even a decaf crème might be ordered. And finally, one beel is tagged onto the order. (A beel is our name for a simple espresso. It's what Bill orders. Every time.)

So, we sit and we chat. Maybe half an hour, maybe more. New walkers introduce themselves. Folks with holiday homes keep us up to date. Someone notices that a house has come on the market. Does anyone know the backstory? Political discussions are allowed, political arguments are not. Casual polling indicates that the average expat leans left politically, but certainly not all of us do. So we keep politics mostly on the down low. 

Eventually, someone puts coins on the table for their share of the tab. Creative accounting ensues. Occasionally, someone announces that they are paying for the table, usually the result of the unwritten rule that the party on vacation who is leaving for home treats the rest of us on their last day. Since that leaves us regulars off the hook, we will sometimes pick up the tab ourselves.

When I get home, there's enough time before lunch to get a few things done. Clean the kitty box. Take out the trash. Do my daily crossword. Work on my blog. 

Then lunch.

Then a nap. 

Then there might really be serious stuff to do. But the important stuff has already been done. A walk among the vines in the south of France for exercise. A coffee in the local café with friends. I'm not certain that I remember exactly what I expected retirement to be, but I doubt that it could have been as good as this.

CHEZ JEANNETTE: ANOTHER QUIRKY RESTAURANT REVIEWED

Some restaurants are easy to describe. This one has a standard white-table-cloth-and-crystal vibe with food and prices to match. That one cares more about appearances than quality and smothers everything in a goopy brown sauce that tastes like it came from a jar. The reader can begin making a judgement about places like those after just a sentence or two.

Some restaurants demand a more nuanced discussion. Enter Chez Jeannette in Aigues-Vives. Not because the food isn't well-sourced and properly prepared. It is. Not because the service isn't cheerful and attentive. It is. But because this ↓ is the way two of our party were served the 20€ menu of the day - family style in the center of the table.

The pork was perfectly roasted, the new potatoes properly cooked, and the ratatouille featured veggies fresh from the garden, not overly cooked, and with crisp onions.

Or how about desserts consisting of homemade preserves over crème fraîche? Have you ever had marmalade made from sweet red peppers or poppy petals?

We were served little bits of quality charcuterie and a few leaves of salad at the start. Having opted for the 26€ menu for the steak, my charcuterie was slightly upscaled and I was served bits of cheese before dessert.

OK. Just a little quirky so far. But you walk into an old house, no signage, and make your way down a hallway that opens onto a room with tables on the right that could be the restaurant dining room but isn't, continue down the hall to a room on the left with a television going behind the counter and walls covered with local posters and news clippings and, well, it's either your kind of place or it isn't. No plastic. Bring cash. Handwritten receipt. And the full rate for two 20€ menus and one 26€ menu, with wine and coffee? 66€ of course. Can’t you add?

We'll return.  

 

AMERICAN FOODS I MISS, FRENCH FOODS I'VE FOUND

 

I can't buy Nathan's Hot Dogs in France, but our butcher puts together a very tasty frankfurter (saucisse francfort). 

Folks say that there are places in France where you can buy a decent bagel. I've tried to find them. I've looked in Paris, in Toulouse, in Narbonne and Beziers. I really have tried. In the end, I've learned to bake my own bagels. They're not perfect, but they are a reasonable substitute.

And that's what you'll have to be prepared for when you move to France. There's stuff that you can find and stuff that you can't find. To be expected. France is all the way across the Pond from the USofA after all. Such differences (inconveniences?) are to be expected. But in most cases there are workarounds. That's assuming, of course, that you are not an expat billionaire willing to pay for the international shipping of a pastrami sandwich from Katz's. We're not. So here are some examples of what we miss and how we've coped.

Yes. Pastrami. As with most other foods, folks will insist that you can buy it here. They know a place. But here in the rural south of France, I stop at every butcher shop and provider of charcuterie. Honest-to-goodness pastrami is simply not to be found. Corned beef? Same. How do you put together a sandwich without pastrami or corned beef? I've given you a hint in a past post. Head to the butcher. Order a few thin slices of jambon blanc - cured cooked ham. Stop by the bakery for a fresh baguette. Slice the baguette lengthwise, smear on a healthy dose of creamy French butter, and layer on a couple of those slices of ham. It's a sandwich called simply jambon-buerre (literally 'ham-butter'). It ain't a classic pastrami sandwich, but it's a classic French sandwich and that's good enough for me.

French beef sucks. Not corn fed or fattened up in a yard. Grass fed. Not at all marbled. Chewy and gamey. I keep ordering pièces du boucher (butcher's cut) in hopes of being served a thick, well-marbled steak. It's a recipe for disappointment. Three workarounds:

1. Forget beef in favor of pork or lamb. In France, both meats taste as they are supposed to taste and the French know how to prepare them. Even if you weren't enamored of their taste back in the States, give the French version a try. Oh, and don't forget duck. I had a seared duck breast with tataki sauce last night that knocked my socks off. You might be surprised.
2. Patronize restaurants or butcher shops that specialize. Since we've arrived, dry-aged Angus beef has become available in many supermarket meat counters and in mid to high-end restaurants, some of which specialize with their own glass-windowed drying racks. You pay a premium, but if you are a true carnivore, you pay the price.
3. Get a delivery from 'Bacon by the Box'. They ship fresh, properly-packed Irish bacon and sausages and, among many other Irish grocery products, about every cut of steak you'd want. And shipping to France is free for a moderately-sized order. There are other such purveyors, but these guys seem to have the best selection and price.

It's a sad state of affairs when microwaving popcorn becomes your preferred method, but popcorn just isn't a French thing. They do sell kernels for popping, but usually not in sealed jars or vacuum-packed containers, meaning that they've been sitting on a shelf for awhile and become stale. I was a fool not to bring my Whirley Pop with me when we moved. (If you don't know what a Whirley Pop is, you are not a true connoisseur.) I do keep some jarred kernels around and occasionally pull out the air popper or shake a batch in our deep cast iron skillet, but I do sincerely miss my jar of Orville and my Whirley Pop. So, on occasion, I fire up the microwave and pretend.  

Barbecue is a noun in our house. Smoked brisket, ribs, and sausage are barbecue. They are not barbecued. They are barbecue. And the nearest barbecue available to us is either a caterer who doesn't have a brick and mortar restaurant or a smokehouse in downtown Montpellier well over an hour away. We did have a smoker of our own for a while. Cathey tried to make it work. But if you're used to the good stuff, a cheap smoker on our terrace just doesn't cut it. There's really no workaround. You buy a top-end smoker, buy the best beef that you can buy, and spend a couple of years learning how to make it work. Or you drive to the nearest smokehouses and hope that you find one that's got it right.

For our first several years here, the pizza available to us can best be described as crackers with toppings - thin, crispy crusts with mild tomato sauce and odd fixings. No pepperoni. No Italian sausage. Not enough cheese. At least they hadn't discovered pineapple. Yet. We've tried making our own pizza and, truth be told, they are better than our village guy. (Don't tell Christophe I said that though. He's a friend and a good guy. And he delivered during the COVID shutdown.) Lately though, two pizza restaurants have opened nearby. Sicilians. Real pizza. Still no pepperoni or Italian sausage. But soft, tasty crusts and interesting toppings. So the workaround? Find Sicilians.

You get the idea. I could get picky on the edges. Dr. Brown's Cream Soda? Never. Monterey Jack? Sometimes. Goldenberg's Peanut Chews? Thankfully, I know the guy who bought the company. But we're living in France, fer chrissakes. One of the great cuisines of the world. Forget the past. Live in the moment. Enjoy.

FRENCH BULLET POINTS THAT DESERVE FULL POSTS

I try to post on my blog once a week. I try to keep my blog mostly about our life in France. Occasionally, I miss a week. Occasionally, I stray off point. I try to keep a list going, bullet points that can be expanded to full posts. 

Here are some to consider...

Order a café in France and you are served what Americans call espresso. It comes in a tiny little cup that is not bottomless. That's OK. You learn to sit with it in front of you for more than an hour, just hanging out and watching the world go by. Perfectly satisfactory way to spend an idle morning.   

Whether you call it global warming, climate change or use some other descriptive, Mother Earth is pissed and letting us know. Defunding studies and scrubbing terminology from websites will not affect outcomes already barreling down the pike. Seek higher ground. Now.

A sandwich in France only needs three ingredients - a fresh-baked baguette split lengthwise, a full schmear of creamy French butter (lightly salted), and a slice or two of jambon blanc - deli ham sliced to order by your local butcher. It's called a jambon beurre. You can add other stuff, but you're just gilding the lily.

A Facebook friend that I have never met personally posted a screed about Israel recently that was so full of horse hockey that I felt the need to respond. Of course, he doubled down. The amount of asserted 'facts' that were simply garbage was astounding. It has become impossible to have a serious conversation about the Middle East given the manner in which the narrative has been controlled by folks with agendas. 

In theory, capitalism gets it right. The marketplace can and should provide workers with a fair share of the of the fruits of their labor. Consumers should be able to trust that their purchases are safe to use and environmentally friendly. Entrepreneurs should be able to bring their ideas to the marketplace without encountering a regulatory system that favors monopoly over competition. In other words, capitalism should be about creating a fair marketplace, not about rewarding the accumulation of capital. How do we get there?

We live in a small square in the center of our village called La Placette - literally The Little Square. Three small streets feed into it. If you stand in the middle of the square, you can easily see three number 2s without turning your head: 2 Rue de la Placette, 2 La Placette, and 2 Rue Saint Antoine. Amazon drivers short circuit from the confusion.

 

PRIMARY RESOURCES FOR MOVING TO FRANCE? HINT: NOT FACEBOOK

I was planning on writing something frivolous this week. Maybe commenting on changing the name of Lake Ontario to Lake Obama. Or wondering whether Reblochon, Cantal or Bleu d’Auvergne will taste different because the milk cows will be allowed to eat a higher percentage of imported fodder. (Stick around if that sounds weird. I'll explain at the end of this post.) That was the plan. Then, I read a Facebook post from an American family considering moving to France. A question was asked. What will they need to do in order to satisfy the requirements for a visa? 

Advice solicited. Advice received. Stupid, contradictory advice given as though being read from the Gospel.

As I read those comments, I remembered how our own journey began. In 1999, when we first considered moving outside of the USofA in retirement, Facebook wasn't a thing. Zuck was a teenager, a poor nerdy teenager having trouble hooking up. I had to actually do real research. In the intervening years, Facebook has indeed become a thing. Zuck is no longer a teenager, no longer poor, and I would guess would have no trouble hooking up. Still a nerd, looks like to me. But I digress. Facebook has become a morass of AI-generated garbage, a battleground for keyboard warriors, a font of content seeking to monetize engagement. There are a gazillion sites touting their connection to Americans in France, English speakers in France, English speakers in every department in France and every city in France, driving in France, investing in France, living in France, dying in France. Unfiltered. Wild West. 

Save Facebook for shits and giggles after you get a handle on things from research in the real world.

What did my research uncover? How did I mobilize resources to accomplish the move? I have been reluctant to name names. I have preferred to give generalized advice. But that previously-mentioned post on Facebook changed my mind. Some stuff needs to be said. I'll be relatively brief and to the point. Do your due diligence.

Start with the website of the French embassy in the United States. The English version is not the easiest to navigate, the answers to the question of obtaining a visa are not clearly laid out in bulleted form. But you'll be sent to https://france-visas.gouv.fr where you'll find FAQs, checklists, and the actual online form that you can fill out without submitting to get comfy with the process. Go to the source. Always go to the source.

I will now demonstrate that I may be opinionated, but I am also flexible. I came across Allison Lounes on Facebook. (Imagine that.) I have found her to be on point most of the time, with only the occasional nit to pick around the edges. I would certainly trust her when it comes to decisions around relatively uncomplicated visa questions. Here's her website. https://www.yourfranceformation.com/ffv/. 

For more complicated matters that require multiple areas of expertise beyond visas and some serious hand holding to go with it, friends swear by French Connection HCB. https://frenchconnectionshcb.com/ They sorted problems across multiple countries, schengen and otherwise.

Two publications of interest have served us well. International Living helped us settle on the Languedoc (now Occitanie) as a desirable retirement location. https://internationalliving.com/ While here, we subscribe to The Conexxion. https://www.connexionfrance.com/ English language news and guides that used to be very Brit centric but now recognizes that they have an American audience.

Finally, two real estate sites. With a huge database of properties searchable by price and by region, I still subscribe to notices from French-Property.com just to keep up with the market. https://www.french-property.com/ Poke around the site. Lots of info arranged around adverts because, after all, it's a real estate site. And then there's Freddy Rueda. I've bought and sold two houses from Freddy who specializes in the expat market. His agents all speak English and are all very accommodating. It says something that the agent who sold us the house that we bought in 2004 was still with Freddy and showed a house that we were selling in 2022. https://realestateoccitanie.com/

I hope that this helps. Questions in the comments will be answered as best I can.

Cows. As promised. Certain French cheeses, such as the ones mentioned above, have rules as strict as French wines. (For instance, up to 10% of the juice of the grapes making up wine in Bordeaux can come from outside of Bordeaux and the wine can still be labeled Bordeaux wine.) What the cows eat effects how the cheeses taste. Of course it does. So a high percentage of the feed for cows in the protected cheese areas must come from within those areas. Because of recent droughts, if the dairies would not be allowed to increase the percentage of imported fodder allowed, cheese production would have to be curtailed. So accommodations have been made. We'll see if there are hoots and hollers if the taste changes.

BUYING A CAR IN FRANCE: UPDATED

 As you may have recently learned, I consider cars to be disposable drivetrains. That is, if the body of a car does not show signs of rust or major previous body work, everything else is replaceable. Even the motor. Especially the motor. I routinely have purchased cars with well above 100,000 miles on the clock. If the rest of the vehicle, from the body to the tires and brakes to the transmission to the suspension, if all is in good order and recently serviced, it is not beyond the realm of possibility that the motor will blow for some reason beyond my responsibility. While some might call it throwing good money after bad, I have always worked with good, competent mechanics. I have replaced a couple of motors under such circumstances with bench-tested used power plants with perfectly satisfactory results - continued, relatively bug free motoring at a cost substantially under that of starting over. 

Coming to France, I was entering unknown territory.  Twelve years ago, the most reliable cars using the most economical fuel were European made and diesel powered. In France, Renault, Peugeot, and Citroën. At the time, I had never owned a diesel and I had no preference. A friend took me to a road on the southern border of Beziers known for its long stretch of used car dealerships. Shady reputations. Comes with the used car territory. After a couple of stops with no joy, we found a small lot that featured a couple of promising cars, in particular a clean looking Citroën Xantia, a stylish sedan with back seats that folded flat to create decent storage. With the owner watching, I did my dance. Popped the hood. Started it up and let it idle while I walked around and poked and prodded for rust or filler. I put a rag over the exhaust and it almost stalled. No leaks. No little drops of oil under the motor after idling for enough minutes to get hot and to concern the salesman. Time to drive it. Front end felt solid at speed. Didn't pull under hard braking. 5-speed shifter a little loose but not a concern. After 15 years and 130,000 kilometers on the clock, to be expected. So I bought. 2500€ with new timing belt. Inspection good for two years.

My Xantia gave me four good years and was running just fine when the AC gave up. You need AC here. New AC parts were just no longer available for a system that old and used parts wouldn't work. So I went looking again. This time on leboncoin, the French equivalent of craigslist without the personal ads for traveling companions and nude models. Over the years, I had discovered an interesting class of European MPVs that I wanted to try. Smaller than a minivan, taller than a station wagon, modular seating. Both Renault and Citroën had good-looking models. Nothing shaking in the lots that I had visited prior. Two parking lot meetings with private owners were a waste. A Renault Scenic in the side lot of a garage in an industrial park looked hard used. But behind it, shoved into the weeds at the back of the lot, blocked in behind rows of cars on both sides, a bright red Renault Megane station wagon caught my eye. I asked if it could be pulled out. It could. I did my dance. I drove it. I made an offer throwing in the Xantia. And for 3000€, I drove it away, drove it all the way to Spain from right off the lot.

I wasn't quite through with the Xantia yet though. A parking ticket came in the mail two years later. Apparently, the garage hadn't complete the process of taking my name off the registration before they resold. The town cop and a local lawyer shrugged in a very French way, suggested that paying the fine would be less of a hassle than contesting it, and told me how to separate myself from the Xantia online if I had the paperwork. I did. Advice that I took. 

Ruby gave us eight good years. (What else would you name a bright red car? You name all your cars, don't you?) Then, after a pleasant dinner with friends in a town not far from us, a wild boar decided to cross the road in front of us, one assumes to get to the other side. Pow! By the time that I stopped and got out to take a look, the boar was gone. So was about 1,000€ gone from my wallet to the local body shop. And so was my entire front end suspension gone, according to the inspection agent about a year and a half later. (French cars are inspected by businesses dedicated to the task every two years. Independent. Very strict.) I argued that I had been driving down the expressway at 130kph - about 81mph - without a shimmy or a shake, even under hard braking. Solid as a rock. But you can't argue with the inspectors in France. You either do the work prescribed or you are illegal. To pass the re-inspection would have cost more than Ruby was worth. Back to the drawing board. Back to leboncoin. 

 

I considered electric or hybrids, but used vehicles in my price range had the range of a bobsled on dry land. And France was discouraging the manufacture of new diesels for environmental reasons. What to do? The answer came to me late one night. I really did like my old Renault, they still made the same model with the same motor. Screw the environment. I started looking and immediately found several Renault Megane station wagons in our price range, about 4,000€ give or take, clustered in used car dealerships not far from us. I made three appointments, one after the other. At my first stop, I once again did my dance. Very clean in and out. Complete mechanical history. New cambelt. Drove like a dream. I didn't waste time. Canceled the next two appointments and bought on the spot. Seven years newer than Ruby, a bit wider, a bit heavier, a bit more civilized. After several thousand kilometers, about 5% less gas mileage, probably due to the extra weight and seven years of improving the exhaust system. Comfy and utilitarian and a decent sound system too. The French call the color marron, also the term for a chestnut. I suggested the name Marnie. Cathey suggested Coco(a). Guess.

I made certain that all necessary paperwork was complete this time. Ruby's carte gris (title) voided. Application for the new carte gris submitted. There's no separate registration document in France. The title stays in the car and is handed over in a traffic stop with your license.

One last thought. An all-electric Megane is available at about 35,000€. Recharge cost minimal. Even at the ridiculous current price of diesel thanks to the war against Iraq that America won several weeks ago, I can drive Coco for the next eight years, purchase price and gas included, for one-third that price. 

So far, so good. If I have to buy again, I'll post again. Fingers crossed.

FRANCE: THE BEST SINGLE BIT OF ADVICE

 

Lots of folks are throwing content onto the interweb about moving to France. Rightly so. A small but growing segment of American society is considering the benefits of packing up and leaving the USofA, and those benefits can be substantial. From nomad content creators to retirees on fixed incomes, countries on just about every continent provide a more satisfying lifestyle at a more affordable cost than is available to them at home. It's a simple question of the math. From the quality and cost of groceries to housing costs to healthcare costs and outcomes to cultural opportunities, the USofA has been dropping down the list of desirable, affordable options year after year. Yes, it don't come easy...he said, channeling Ringo. (It's a song, for the children in the group. And Ringo is the name of one of The Beatles. And The Beatles were...oh, never mind...) Not easy, but doable. And it's getting done.

About 125,000 Americans are resident in France, not by any means the largest expat community in France, but still one of the largest American expat communities in the world once you get past Mexico, Canada and the UK. We live in a rural community of about 1,600 souls in the south of France without any particular geographical or touristic attraction and a couple of dozen Americans either live in the village permanently or spend considerable vacation time in property that they own here. In cities like Paris and Bordeaux and Marseilles, large and thriving American communities exist, sometimes to the consternation of long-term expats who would prefer that Americans be less insistent on broadcasting their heritage. 

For those of you considering making the move to France, there are books and books and magazine articles and books and books and newsletters and consultants and books and books. By all means, do your due diligence. I spent 15 years studying before we moved and we've lived here for 12 years. I've made many mistakes and continue making mistakes. But I have found the one piece of advice that is the most important. Two words. Get Frenchified.

Get Frenchified? What the hell does that mean?

To be Frenchified is to mimic being native French. You won't succeed, but you should try. I first used the term in connection with my car, a trusty Renault diesel-powered wagon that was 13 years old when I bought it and that ran faithfully for 8 years and 100,000 kilometers thereafter. I would be driving it today if I hadn't had a late-night conversation with a wild boar. I was initially attracted to the Renault's perfect-looking body. In my view, cars are disposable drivetrains. That is, if the body is solid and rust free, pretty much everything else is replaceable. In short order after purchase, driving down one of the narrow village streets designed more for horse carts than motorized vehicles, I swiped the corner of a garden wall taking a turn. I was mortified until I began taking serious notice of the cars parked adjacent to mine. Each, even the newest of them, had a scratch or a ding or a dent. They had been Frenchified. Now my Renault had been properly Frenchified too.

What does being Frenchified mean in a discussion about moving to France? 

Learn the language. You don't have to be fluent, but it's a Romance language. It's just not that hard to learn the basics. Learn your address and phone number in French. We carry little cards with us that have our names and address and phone numbers and email addresses. We give them out to avoid confusion if we must. But rattling off your address and phone number is a necessary part of daily life in France.

Say Good Morning. Please and Thank You would be nice. You don't have to do the cheek-kissing thing. But everybody gets a Bonjour. Your waitress. The shopkeeper. EVERYBODY.

Drive European. A Renault. A VW is acceptable. Even a Dacia will do. (A Romanian maker but owned by Renault.) Ford has a European presence. Don't. Just don't.

Get a French bank account. Get a French phone number. Read a French newspaper. Listen to Radio Classique. If you must, watch France 24 - English-language TV news - instead of CNN or BBC.

Learn the basics of football (soccer) and rugby and pétanque. The Western Europeans aren't sending armies after each other any more, but they do meet regularly in more structured, and usually less fatal competitions. Your favorite bar will extend hours and/or open on days normally closed to accommodate fans during major competitions. And if you are serious about becoming Frenchified, you will definitely have a favorite bar.

You will never be mistaken for native French. Cathey and I, dressed from head to toe in clothing bought in France, without uttering a single word in any language, are consistently greeted with an English Hello as soon as we walk through a shop door. Can't be helped. We've done everything that we can to get Frenchified. We've mostly succeeded. The effort is as important as the result.  

TONGCOCO: RESTAURANT HOT TAKE

 

Pop-up beach restaurants come in all shapes and sizes. Two distinctly different examples of the genre sit within meters of each other on Serignan Plage. We've visited Latino Beach several times. It's as close to a full service restaurant as these pop-ups come, and as well-appointed as a restaurant packed up in a container for most of the year can be. Apparently, I've never written a review. I'll correct that next time that we visit. 

This week, we visited Tongcoco - just Coco as we learned it. Different vibe. Looser. More bar than restaurant. And with the same wonderful view and beach access, for sure. But just a touch more folksy and less formal. And family friendly too.

The menu is limited, mostly tapas and salads and a sandwich or two. But portions are reasonably generous and served hot. I had wings and frites. Tasty and a full meal. The girls had salads. I have to say, the garlic shrimp were kinda bland. The French are not known for hot spices. We asked for help and were given a small cup of sauce piquant that the French use on pizzas along with a bit of hot mustard. Did the trick. 

With cold beers for me and various softer drinks for the girls, we spent a leisurely two hours, shaded with a bit of an onshore breeze, for about 20€ per person. We'll return. 

 

VEGGIE SHOPPING IN FRANCE: ACTUAL REGISTER TICKET

I've discussed the cost of living in France often enough on these pages. In general. And in general, we've been surprised at the affordability of a fulfilling lifestyle here in the south of France. I'm not talking about simply existing, keeping our heads down, eating three squares a day, and keeping the cats fed and healthy. No. I'm talking going out to eat reasonably often to restaurants that are way beyond fast food burgers and fries, going to concerts with ticket prices ranging from a passed hat for free-will donations to national/international artists charging $50 a ticket and more, going to the beach and sipping a cold one while watching the tide roll in. Yes, we watch our bank account and occasionally have to hitch up our belts when the car needs work or the the dentist decides that an implant is the solution. But that word 'fulfilling' comes to mind - a life in retirement beyond mere existence that you imagine you deserve after a lifetime of work.

Part of the affordability question centers on groceries. I've played around the edges before. Let's do a deep dive. Let's talk veggies. Grand Frais is a grocery chain throughout France that specializes in fruits and vegetables from around the world but with an emphasis on local produce. Understand that in Europe, local produce has a slightly different meaning than in the USofA. Back home, you can certainly buy locally grown fruits and veggies in season in many parts of the country, but odds are that for most of the year, California and Florida producers are as likely to represented on your table as the farmer in the dell. In France, with Spain as a neighbor in one direction, Italy in the other, and North Africa a short ferry ride to the south, 'local' is a relative term.

The actual grocery receipt for a shop at Grand Frais is shown below. Lots of stuff beyond veggies - pasta and rice and yogurt and such. We'll get to meat and poultry soon. Grams and euros have been converted to pounds and dollars at the current rate. Keep in mind, these prices are for the best, freshest produce that you can buy.

Carrots: $1.04 per pound

Limes: $2.60 per pound

Celery: $1.30 per pound

Green Beans: $2.07 per pound

Cherry Tomatoes: $1.30 per pound

Batavia Lettuce: $1.30 a head

Fresh Coriander, Parsley et al: $1.13 per bunch 

 

Now for some miscellany. 

 

8 Brioche Burger Buns: $3.41

Red Label Free Range Eggs: $5.25 a dozen

Premium Feta: $0.44 per ounce 

 

THREE 19.90€ ($22.75) LOCAL LUNCH MENUS IN FRANCE

If you haven't figured out by now that one of the neatest perks that life in France provides is the quality of the food, you just haven't been paying attention. I'll do a deep dive into the quality and price of fruit and veggies at the grocery store in a subsequent post. Today, let's do lunch. 

At first glance, one might conclude that lunch choices in France don't differ that much from what's available in the USofA, particularly in such small cities near us as Beziers and Narbonne. Both with populations under 100,000, they host chains painfully familiar to Americans - Burger King, McDonald's and KFC. In Paris recently, I've seen Popeye's and Whataburger franchises.  And France-specific joints also dot the landscape. I've reviewed La Pataterie, a chain with franchises throughout France that serves burgers between patties of hash browns instead of buns. (But the beer is cold.) Pizza is ubiquitous, some with cracker-thin crust, some wood-fired. The best is Sicilian and we have a couple of good ones close by. Believe it or don't, pizza vending machines are a thing. I've had the urge to try one. I have resisted the urge.

 

Bar food can be interesting in the States. In my old stomping ground of Allentown, PA there's a place called Ringer's Roost that has an interesting menu of mostly fried food. And Stahley's has been around for 60 years and knows how to put together a cheese steak. I've enjoyed lunching in both joints and I have nothing against American bar food. But the lunches served in local bars here in France, one within walking distance, two more that I'll discuss a short ride away, differ substantially in quality from similarly situated American establishments. And are probably cheaper as well. Again, it's been awhile. You decide.

 

BAR LE 40

Quarante is the name of the town that we live in. Quarante is also the French word for 40. Thus, the local watering hole has taken the name Bar le 40. (The reason for a town founded by the Romans a bunch of centuries ago being named for a number is a topic for conjecture to this day.) Bar le 40 sits near the center of our little village, a couple of hundred meters from our house, and is open for a morning coffee and croissant plus full lunches and dinners from Tuesday through Saturday. Closed Sunday and Monday. Dinners feature relatively simple fare - burgers, dinner salads, steak and fries. But the lunches can be a treat. 

 

The lunch menu features daily specials that are announced at the beginning of the week. Fridays are always seafood. Choose a small salad or an assortment of charcuterie to start. (Charcuterie is French for little pieces of ham and sausages and paté or whatever to pick at, maybe accompanied by a gherkin and butter and slices of baguette.) Then the special of the day. Then the dessert of the day or ice cream. This week's specials, excluding the fish on Friday were:

Tuesday: grilled hanger steak with sauce Bordelaise and mashed potatoes,

Wednesday: grilled chicken skewers marinated in honey/mustard sauce with rice, and

Thursday: pork tenderloin with smoked paprika sauce and new potatoes. 

 

Start plus main plus dessert plus a glass of wine = $22.75 at the current exchange rate. Less than a DoorDash combo meal and not the same old, same old.

 

LA BELLE EPOQUE

In a little collection of small businesses and restaurants in a small town down the road about 20 minutes, La Belle Epoque calls itself a brasserie. I suppose that a bar with decent food can call itself a brasserie if it wants, although to me the appellation implies a bit more upscale establishment. Not the La Belle Epoque is in any way seedy. It's just a bar with decent food. And speaking of the food...

 

La Belle Epoque posts the lunch special of the day on Facebook every morning at about 9am. The special changes daily and includes a start, a main, and a dessert. One of the starts is typically a charcuterie plate like the one mentioned above. One of the mains is typically a steak with sauce - might be pepper or parsley butter or Roquefort. Tiramisu seems to be a favored dessert. If those three standard choices don't interest you, try picking from one of the recent menus:

* Rustic salad with mushrooms followed by sauteed pork with olives and panacotta for dessert,

* Gaszpacho followed by grilled pork tenderloin in garlic cream with lemon tart for dessert,

* Fresh melon with ham followed by breaded turkey in mushroom sauce and panacotta for dessert,

* Salad with goat cheese followed by stewed Basque chicken and yes, panacotta.

 

Again, $22.75. If you are worried that you won't like the day's special, you have to check in early to make your plans for the day. But then, there's always charcuterie and steak if the special doesn't suit. 

LA BONNE FRANQUETTE PIZZERIA

On a main road between Quarante and La Belle Epoque, La Bonne Franquette has recently reopened after a bit of a makeover and upped its game. Of the three I'm talking about today, this is the one that comes closest to being a full-on restaurant. Oddly, although it calls itself a pizzeria, La Bonne Franquette only serves pizza in the evening. France. But the lunch menu is varied, very French. 

 

I'm not going to translate. Check out the slate. This is the sort of thing that you will see when you visit a rural restaurant in France. You should be able to recognize gazpacho and salad. Thon is tuna. Enjoy figuring out the rest.

PART 3: 12 YEARS OF SPORTS IN FRANCE

 I grew up a roundball fan. In the USofA, that meant basketball. Watching Bill Russell, Bob Cousy, and the rest of the Boston Celtics win and win and win made me wanna be them. Well, maybe I didn't want to be Jungle Jim Loscutoff, the guy designated to come off the bench and give a hard foul. But then again, maybe I did want to be Jungle Jim. Anyway, I played full court five-on-five at the Y until I just couldn't keep up any more. But I did keep up with the latest news. Even today, I wonder why LeBron's longevity has elevated him to GOAT status when he's spent his entire career snubbing teams that invested in him and flopping his way to the foul line. (GOAT = Greatest Of All Time) And if you're French, ya gotta love Wemby. (If you don't know who Wemby is, you are neither French nor a roundball fan.) But seeing as how I do live in France now, basketball must take second place to both football (soccer) and rugby. Third place? Whatever.

France has been in the finals of the World Cup of football (soccer) three times during the past five Cups, winning once in 2018, four years after we moved here. Very big deal. We watched the finals at a local bar. After the win, a bonfire on the street melted the tar, leaving a scar in a main thoroughfare that remains to this day. The experience was a heady one, particularly since I already knew a bit about the sport. My first broken bone came as a result of a collision playing soccer (football) during a grade school match about 65 years ago. Even so, before the match in 2018 I decided that it was necessary to brush up on the sport. As a result, eight years ago I wrote the following:

I don't have a television and I don't miss it. But the World Cup has started and my European friends will be paying careful attention, particularly my Brit friends starting at noon tomorrow. So I found a site that streams all of the matches for free and I am trying to pay attention. Here's what I have learned so far.

Things get going on a very nice lawn in front of groups of drunken men in color coordinated clothing. Women can be in the stadium, but only if they don't wear shirts. Meanwhile teams of men who forgot to shave kick a ball back and forth, sometimes even kicking it with their heads. The object of the game seems to be to find creative ways to fall down and, if you are standing, finding creative ways to kick the ball past your own goal tender and into your own net.

It seems that the world champions lost convincingly to the Netherlands, apparently due to superior cannabis. At least I think that's right. I can't understand the announcers. They're speaking British.

Although Quarante seriously celebrated the France's World Cup football (soccer) championship, the truth is that this region of France is not football (soccer) country. We are, rather, a hotbed of rugby. Two of the top three pro rugby clubs with the most national championships all time in France come from our region - Toulouse and Beziers. And as an amateur club, our very own boys won the national championship for their tier a couple of years ago. As a result, I clearly had to brush up on the rules.

Like football (soccer), rugby is played on a manicured lawn about the size and shape of an American football (not soccer) field, except that the netted goals are replaced by goal posts that, you guessed it, are similar to the goal posts used in American football (not soccer). The game begins with the team in black performing scenes from Michael Caine's movie ZULU while the team in white warms up by attempting to swivel their heads back and forth, difficult to do considering that they have no necks. Eventually, a ball looking suspiciously like an American football (not soccer) is put in play. The teams throw and kick the ball back and forth until they get tired, fall in a heap, grunt and groan with their heads next to each others bums, until the ball squirts out from underneath the pile and the running and kicking begins again. When the referee gets tired, he allows one of the teams to score by trying to kick the ball through the goal posts. The other way to score is by belly-flopping, ball in hand, into the opponent's end zone. Points are awarded for style and degree of difficulty. The winning team is the team ending the game with the most intact ears.

Somehow, I don't think that my friends in Quarante, my French friends in Quarante, will appreciate the humor.