OUR FRENCH VILLAGE'S MUNICIPAL ELECTION

 

 

Shortly after we arrived in our little French village of Quarante in the spring of 2014, we attended a ceremony in the town hall square. Maybe it was 14 July, what we would call Bastille Day. A wreath was laid. The volunteer fire and ambulance corps stood at attention as the Marseillaise was played. There was speechifying. And when it was over, Mayor Gilbert Rivayrand invited those assembled to share a glass of wine in an old chapel across the street. 

 

Being new to the village, I decided to introduce myself to Gilbert. I stepped up, held out my hand, and said in practiced French,"Bonjour. Je m'appel Mr. Faro. J'habite à..." (I live at...) At which point, still holding my hand, Gilbert looked me in the eye and said,"Je sais ou vous habitez." (I know where you live.) Very matter of fact. A bit startling. But I guess that knowing stuff about everyone who lives in a small town is a mayor's job.

 

For all of the 12 years that we've lived in Quarante, Gilbert has been the mayor. We greet each other on the street. He asked us our opinion of the new caterer at a village affair. We've met once or twice to discuss village business. He's the only mayor of Quarante that we've ever known. But he's retiring and, just a couple of weeks ago, a new mayor was elected. I thought that y'all might be interested in the process.

 

In villages of our size and nature, you don't vote for a mayor and a town council as individuals. You vote for a list, a group of 15 or 20 citizens who, as a group, would be responsible for the administration of the village going forward. The top six on the list become the town council and choose the mayor from among themselves. The list is put together and is led by a person who wants to be mayor and, if the list wins the majority of votes, the members of the list chosen to form the town council are expected to appoint that person mayor. In our village, voters had two lists to choose from.

 

One list was formed by Loic Dété. A well-dressed, calm and confident retired administrator who was not considered a village native, having lived in the village for only a decade or so. Dété's campaign characterized Quarante as a village stuck in the past, a village that progress had passed by, a forgotten village. Finances had been poorly managed. Staff costs were excessive. His young, enthusiastic list would renew and re-energize Quarante.

 

Serge Ortiz was the principal of the second list. Everyone knew Serge. He had led the village maintenance team for years. His sons were local businessmen. As expats on the outside looking in without the ability to vote, it seemed to us that Serge was the logical next in line. And Serge had the advantage of Dété's early entry, complete with a serious social media campaign and a glossy campaign handout, so Serge could pick and choose what topics seemed to resonate and what topics to avoid.

 

Beside the fact that Dété only had a slim chance in the first place, his assembly sealed his fate. Each candidate held a meeting in the village public hall to introduce themselves and their list. Dété went first, a couple of weeks before the election. His assembly was well attended by quiet, curious villagers, most of whom needed to be convinced. After going around the room to give each member of his list a chance to say hello, Dété projected a PowerPoint presentation and, with his back to his audience, read from the screen with occasional commentary. It couldn't have been more boring and less welcoming. Forgotten village. Needing competent management. The question period was not very friendly. 

 

Serge's assembly took place just two days before the election, same room, twice as many people, completely different atmosphere. Handshakes and cheek kissing and a friendly buzz. During the question period, an attempt to bring up the negatives was met with boos from the crowd and a forceful response from Serge's second.  Clearly, the election was already over.

 

Elections are held on Sundays, France being a purposefully secular country, one that encourages voting. Serge won 80% to 20%.

 

One more French election oddity to learn. Depending on the percentage of votes that the losing list receives, the losers are entitled to a voice in the government. Dété will take the place of one person on Serge's list and have a voice, minimal as it may be. A French way of honoring the advice: Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

BUYING AND SELLING A HOUSE IN FRANCE: QUICK TAKES #6

 

Little things can trip you up. 

Just about everyone of a certain age has purchased a house at one time in their lives. I realize that the current common wisdom is that the old aspiration of owning your own home instead of renting may be passé, but I still cast my vote for the benefits and satisfaction of ownership. We have lived that philosophy. Cathey and I have bought four houses in our several decades of marriage and we’ve sold two. A third is on the market. (I’m open to offers.) Let’s talk about some of the oddities of the process in France.

 GETTING YOUR MONEY BACK

You never do, do you? Below is a picture of how the kitchen looks today and, under that, a picture of the kitchen the day that we bought the house. You just can't put a value on that kind of work. 

THE MAYOR

The latest hurdle to clear if you are selling a property in France is getting the signature of your mayor. Why? To ensure that the village does not have plans for the property. Playground? Parking lot? Whatever. The mayor needs to sign off.

Gilbert’s a good guy. He’s the only mayor I’ve known since we moved here and he’s recently been elected to another six-year term. The one time that I needed his signature, on a document concerning something other than a property sale, he was most obliging. Signed on a weekend. But as you learn the longer that you live in France, every additional signature on a document can add weeks to its completion. That’s why I am reluctant to complain about the occasional noisy party down the street or the crap oven by the sidewalk in front of the house next door. I don’t want to be the needy, pushy foreigner.

So I let stuff slide that my French neighbors might find unacceptable. There may come a time that I will want Gilbert to be my friend in City Hall. Like when we sell our house.

MANSPLAINING 

When we were signing our agreement to buy the house that will suit us better in the coming years, I was surprised at the level of animosity exhibited by Madame Villa, the owner. I don't know whether Monsieur Villa is her second husband or if, for tax/inheritance purposes, they decided to put the house in her name alone, but clearly the Madame was in charge. And the Madame was not happy.

It seems that the agent through whom we are purchasing the house had fallen out of favor. When he would call the Villa household to ask questions or provide information, he would talk to Monsieur. Monsieur would then relay the gist of the discussion to Madame. And Madame did not appreciate all of the mansplaining concerning a deal that she was coming to believe might not be in her best interests. You see, the day that we signed the papers, the house was advertised by a brand new agency for a higher price than we were paying.

My advice to you, free of charge and worth every penny from a man on the cusp of his Golden Anniversary? Don't mansplain stuff to a fiery old lady who holds the reins of power. If the decision is hers, stay out of the way. On second thought, don't just stay out of the way. Run, do not walk, to your safe space while the deal goes down.

THE PRICE OF PROCRASTINATION

Ya know that smudge on the wall that I left when I bumped up against it when my forearm was smeared with burn salve because I'd reached into our car's hot motor to grab an errant fluid cap? How about the unpainted plaster around the skylight? The roofing around it has been sealed for over two years. Speaking of plaster, how about repairing the bit at the bottom of the stairs that got kicked out a while back? And the shutters on either side of the newly painted front door are different colors, one set wears the new color and the other, the old.

I know that stuff like that looks funny to prospective buyers. They are simple jobs. I should have done the work in a timely fashion, But I procrastinated. I'm old. It's France. So what? Well, I'm trying to sell the house. Every little undone piece of work is a black mark. So I paint and I plaster and slowly, the house is getting into ship shape. Maybe I should bump the price.