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| Further to our previous blog, this shot sums things up nicely. the woman with the pink arm has just exited the Pharmacy loaded with free drugs (thats the plastic bag on the table) Before heading in the direction of the bar she makes a side trip to the Spar Store to pick up half a dozen packs of ciggies. She then headed for the bar and sits down next to us, immediately lights up a smoke and orders a rose. The barmaid in black brings out the drink, then sits down to have chat about the drug purchases. Old pink arm immediately offers the barmaid a ciggie which she gratefully accepts. .This scene is so much the norm its barely worth commenting on. As an aside check out the produce tester in the background. This guy was fast . It only took him five minutes to purchase his single potato and he didn't need any help in the process |
Thursday, 31 May 2012
We rest our case
The Daily Grind in La Garde Freinet
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| The Village. this shot was taken from our apartment which is about 900m away as the crow flies |
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| The village main street. The guy in white in front of us is the chef from the restaurant directly opposite, downing his nightly cassis prior to firing up his stoves. The chap in yellow is a a real character and the owner the restaurant with the orange umbrella. this guys is a real class act and knows how to work the punters as they stroll down the street. Guys,if you haven't already done so you really need to make time in your lives for this sort of experience. you won't regret it for one minute |
The Daily Grind in La Garde Freinet
There is no two ways about it . After spending a week in the village of La Garde Freinet one gets the feeling that this would be the ideal location to film the sequel to 'Groundhog Day'.
Around 6pm these last few evenings we plonk ourselves down under the awning of Le Petit Bar which is located in the middle of the village main street. This is about the hour where the residents realise that the lunchtime siesta is over and start venturing forth to do whatever before they get on with their next meal.
Three nights into this routine and you realise that each evening's activities is basically a full repeat of what went down the previous evening and on and on.
The village Mayor Jean-Jacques Courchet fronts up for a drink with the locals and any French speaking ex-pat who feels like chatting.
At some point in the piece the priest (attired in full battle gear) fronts up to each and every bar and restaurant to chew the fat with various parishioners.
Lots on kissing, hand shakes,the full routine.
Retired ex-pat Poms flood the bars, order endless numbers of beers, talk their heads off whilst appearing to be really enjoying themselves.
As for the locals, once seated they guard their single drink for hour upon hour and talk amongst themselves at a volume level one notch up from whispering.
This national mania for soft talking must play merry hell with the hard of hearing.
The grocery store with all the fruit and veg on display out the front has a continuous flow of villagers carefully assessing, squeezing, prodding, inspecting and then selecting their two potatoes or their three tomatoes for their evening cook up. You can see their cogs working.'Am I going to purchase one potato or go mad and have two?' Sometimes when leaving they stop to show friends their potato.'Take a look at this potato. What are your thoughts?'
Italian and Belgian house builders arrive en masse and attempt to drink the bars dry. Their boots covered in dust and still in their work clothes they swarm into our little bar laughing, joking and flirting with the staff and patrons then settle down in the back to a quiet rumble.
At around seven every night a good looking woman in her early forties ( who Julia has identified as the town whore ) arrives at our bar decked out in high heels, skin tight jeans and a see-through top that leaves nothing , but nothing to the imagination.
My feeling is that if you have got it you might as well flaunt it, and she does , in bucket loads.
Bar owners, their staff, and restaurant owners and staff all wander around to each others premises to have a good old natter whilst at the same time smoking up a storm. I'm now convinced that smoking is a condition of employment when it comes to French service industries.
Meanwhile old men and women stroll up and down the street, stopping at every eatery and bar for a chat while collecting their plastic bottle of water from the town fountain. There are always dogs working the street, children playing, the odd cat going from restaurant to restaurant and pigeons doing acrobatic fly-bys down the main run way.
Directly over the road from the bar is a Pharmacy which does a roaring trade . We were aware that the French are a nation of hypochondriacs however it's not until you have spent a few days plonked down directly opposite the front door of a Pharmacy that you really start to come to grips with what's going on here. These guys just love the place. As we sit swilling down another red endless stream of punters file through the front door of the Pharmacy and exit ten minutes later loaded to the gunnels. The proprietor must be making a small fortune. And that's one facility that doesn't close on the dot of seven. It's all free anyway with the wonderful French government catering for every Frenchman's sniff.
Julia tells me this ex-pat surge to Provence was accelerated by some English guy writing 'A Year In Provence' back in the eighties.
All I will say on this matter is that we will enjoy our week here and leave satisfied.
As to the thought of contemplating a longer stay in these parts, forget it.
We both agree that a move such as that would do our heads in.
Every day is just a repeat of what's gone before.
It's OK for us, as we lap up this lifestyle then simply fold our tent and move on.
In my opinion these beautiful southern French villages are locked in a time warp.
If you hang around one of these places for long enough you would become a basket case or worse.
Around 6pm these last few evenings we plonk ourselves down under the awning of Le Petit Bar which is located in the middle of the village main street. This is about the hour where the residents realise that the lunchtime siesta is over and start venturing forth to do whatever before they get on with their next meal.
Three nights into this routine and you realise that each evening's activities is basically a full repeat of what went down the previous evening and on and on.
The village Mayor Jean-Jacques Courchet fronts up for a drink with the locals and any French speaking ex-pat who feels like chatting.
At some point in the piece the priest (attired in full battle gear) fronts up to each and every bar and restaurant to chew the fat with various parishioners.
Lots on kissing, hand shakes,the full routine.
Retired ex-pat Poms flood the bars, order endless numbers of beers, talk their heads off whilst appearing to be really enjoying themselves.
As for the locals, once seated they guard their single drink for hour upon hour and talk amongst themselves at a volume level one notch up from whispering.
This national mania for soft talking must play merry hell with the hard of hearing.
The grocery store with all the fruit and veg on display out the front has a continuous flow of villagers carefully assessing, squeezing, prodding, inspecting and then selecting their two potatoes or their three tomatoes for their evening cook up. You can see their cogs working.'Am I going to purchase one potato or go mad and have two?' Sometimes when leaving they stop to show friends their potato.'Take a look at this potato. What are your thoughts?'
Italian and Belgian house builders arrive en masse and attempt to drink the bars dry. Their boots covered in dust and still in their work clothes they swarm into our little bar laughing, joking and flirting with the staff and patrons then settle down in the back to a quiet rumble.
At around seven every night a good looking woman in her early forties ( who Julia has identified as the town whore ) arrives at our bar decked out in high heels, skin tight jeans and a see-through top that leaves nothing , but nothing to the imagination.
My feeling is that if you have got it you might as well flaunt it, and she does , in bucket loads.
Bar owners, their staff, and restaurant owners and staff all wander around to each others premises to have a good old natter whilst at the same time smoking up a storm. I'm now convinced that smoking is a condition of employment when it comes to French service industries.
Meanwhile old men and women stroll up and down the street, stopping at every eatery and bar for a chat while collecting their plastic bottle of water from the town fountain. There are always dogs working the street, children playing, the odd cat going from restaurant to restaurant and pigeons doing acrobatic fly-bys down the main run way.
Directly over the road from the bar is a Pharmacy which does a roaring trade . We were aware that the French are a nation of hypochondriacs however it's not until you have spent a few days plonked down directly opposite the front door of a Pharmacy that you really start to come to grips with what's going on here. These guys just love the place. As we sit swilling down another red endless stream of punters file through the front door of the Pharmacy and exit ten minutes later loaded to the gunnels. The proprietor must be making a small fortune. And that's one facility that doesn't close on the dot of seven. It's all free anyway with the wonderful French government catering for every Frenchman's sniff.
Julia tells me this ex-pat surge to Provence was accelerated by some English guy writing 'A Year In Provence' back in the eighties.
All I will say on this matter is that we will enjoy our week here and leave satisfied.
As to the thought of contemplating a longer stay in these parts, forget it.
We both agree that a move such as that would do our heads in.
Every day is just a repeat of what's gone before.
It's OK for us, as we lap up this lifestyle then simply fold our tent and move on.
In my opinion these beautiful southern French villages are locked in a time warp.
If you hang around one of these places for long enough you would become a basket case or worse.
Tuesday, 29 May 2012
Saint Tropez
We were there once before maybe thirty years back with our friend Heinz.
Nothing has changed over the years.
Driving into this small beach town is a nightmare dodging, weaving and braking to avoid missiles coming at you. The hairy-chested middle aged Latharios with their parchment-skinned trophy-wives completely own these winding hillside roads. There are also ribbons of Kamikaze motor cyclists screaming past you taking risks on each turn then disappearing off into oblivion leaving just a whiff of fuel fume for us to suck on.
The town is full to overflowing with locals, tourists, the wealthy, those that aspire to a wealthy lifestyle, and yes ,a few down and outs (but not too many).
The sun beats down as two opposing factions strut their stuff.
Wandering along the quay side is a seemingly endless stream of gawking tourists (us included) who are just amazed by the sheer opulence of the floating gin palaces that are moored to the quay.
We are not talking a dozen or so super yachts here.There is floating wealth on show as far as the eye can see.
On the boats the various crews get on with their daily chores, completely oblivious to the hordes staring at them from a couple of metres away.
However, it's the body language of the yacht owners (and their cling on friends) that is of real interest.
The scenario is basically what you see when you call into a zoo and check out the monkey enclosure.
On one side are the tourists staring at the ship board monkeys all with the collective thought running through their brains along the lines of, 'why in hell has life dealt me such average cards on the money front? I would give my right arm to be reclining on one of those aft deck chairs right now, sucking down a pre lunch Bollie'. Oh well, I might as well walk over to the bar across the road and order a double expresso.
Meanwhile the rich and famous onboard (and their less affluent friends) are staring back at the tourists with a look of complete indifference on their faces.
We're not fooled for one minute.
We know damn well that these guys feel they have earned the right to look down at we plebs wandering around the quay in an aimless fashion.
I must say we enjoyed the whole spectacle and did our bit watching the watchers from the safety of a very nice brasserie.
And as for the yacht owners and those living in St Tropez, all I can say is that word of the world's economic problems haven't reached the ears of these privileged few.
These guys live in their own rarified time zone.
Do we want to go back to St Trpoez on any future sojourn to France?
Not in this lifetime.
It's all just a little too 'bling'to take seriously.
Sunday, 27 May 2012
It's Friday. It's fight night
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| One of El Lobo's victims (thats the one attached to the wall) |
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| The man himself. Nowadays he has changed camps and raises bulls in the vain hope that one of his stars will take down one of his former competitors |
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| I know, its not politically correct to admit one enjoys this stuff, however if we denied that it held a certain attraction we would be lying, and we can't have any of that |
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| Beemed in 24/7 from Spain. Its a bit like Sky's Rugby Channel, with just a little more mayhem and endless gore |
It's Friday. It's Fight Night
Last night in Arles. Friday nights in Christchurch and the punters watch rugby. It's league in Australia, soccer in the UK and boxing in the US. In some parts of South West France on Friday night there is only one game in town and it's all about gore, and lots of it at that. Down to the central area of the old city (The Forum) for drinks . As had been the case on previous nights our first port of call was a wine bar called The Toubadour.Charlie, the old Parisian who owns the bar has decorated the place as some kind of shrine to his recently retired Arlesian Matador son, the one and only self titled El Lobo. Apparently the son was the real deal and dealt to any number of bulls over the years, however politics play a big part when a Matador attempts to get into the big league in Spain, and regrettably El Lobo just couldn't get the breaks and saved face by way of early retirement back in 2005. (I bet a heap of Arles based bulls heaved a collective sigh of relief when they heard that news)
Julia and I went to a full on bull fight in the main Madrid bullring back in the late seventies. I remember walking away from that experience and swearing I would never watch another fight and yet here we are gulping down reds whilst night after night watching live fights beamed out onto Charlie's wide screen TV courtesy of some Spanish 24hr bull fighting channel. It's a weird experience watching a spectacle that should run against your principles. And the funny thing is, Charlie kept on telling Julia that the this spectacle pits man against bull. What a crock. By my reckoning when we had left the bar the score was Humans 12 and Bulls 0.
By the time we returned to our hotel we had agreed that we had seen enough fights for one night, so we called it quits and went to bed.
But just we were finally dropping off we were woken by hissing, screeching and spitting cats from the roof next door. This eventually died down and it was all quiet on the front so sleep took us over.
Then the main bout of the evening hit with avengence around 1130 when we were woken to the screams of a couple who live in the house next to our second floor room in the hotel.
And let me tell you this was the mother of all domestic disputes. Our best guess was that this epic altercation involved the senior male member of the household and either his wife or a daughter.
This was a take no prisoners epic. We figured out fairly early on that the guy must have thrown the woman out of the house then locked the front door.
This woman was not going quietly. She gave us more hissing and screeching like another moggy.
We are not talking mild mannered Kiwi type disputes here. This was fully blown Latino temperament in the extreme.
We were in a bit of a fix as outside it was still around thirty degrees so closing the double glazed windows simply wasn't an option as we would have been gasping for air in no time flat and the wooden shutters couldn't block out the racket.
Sleep was simply not an option so we just lay back and listened in as this drama unfolded.
Julia translated for me and the endless repeated lines of abuse appeared to be
"Bitch", "Bastard" , "You tell me" followed inevitably by "No, you tell me"
Questions and abuse followed by a return serve.
These attacks simply didn't move on.
Times passing, 1130, 1230 , 0130, 0230 and there is still no let up.
By this stage the woman has started slamming the street side window shutters in some kind of act of defiance .
The guy must have relented at this point as the argument moved indoors.
Too late , some angry neighbour had finally had enough and called the cops.
Now this is interesting territory. Our French friends and ex pats living in France have all told us that when it comes to the authorities you steer clear of the Gendarmes who have a reputation for acting first and asking questions later. The regular police on the other hand are regular guys and OK.
Down the street come three vehicles with blue lights flashing.
The scene below our window was pretty impressive.
I had hoped that we might see the Gendarmes in action and were a little dissapointed to see that they were only regular cops.
That aside, these cops proceeded to turn off their engines and then lined themselves up against the wall of a building opposite the target house.
Normal procedure, safety first.
At this point our room is flooded with blue light as was the street below now awash in blue.
The whole scene turned into one of deathly silence. The cops weren't saying a word, the on lookers were keeping their distance (that's us ) and staying mum.
Then on a signal these cops proceeded to open up the shutters of the downstairs windows of the targeted house and to flood the downstairs living area with light from half a dozen incredibly powerful torches.
And all the while no one is saying a word. This was all pretty dramatic stuff and was far more satisfying that sleep.
Then finally a cop knocks on the door with a large truncheon.
Out comes the male.
In a low and very threatening voice the cop lays down the law and finishes of with a "don't force me to come back and arrest all of you".
And that's that.
Until 0530 when this couple started round two and this time their dialogue was ferocious . Screaming! My God, a Hollywood actress wouldn't have been in the same league.
The end play was that the guy finally exploded. This level of anger must have clicked something inside the woman's brain as she then sprinted off down the street, all the while screaming at the top of her lungs.
Street theatre , there should be more of it!
It's just a pity that one has to wait around to nearly midnight before the first act takes place.
And as for the two hour intermission between three and five in the morning, I reckon someone should give serious thought to shortening the break to maybe ten minutes.
Cheers
Julia and I went to a full on bull fight in the main Madrid bullring back in the late seventies. I remember walking away from that experience and swearing I would never watch another fight and yet here we are gulping down reds whilst night after night watching live fights beamed out onto Charlie's wide screen TV courtesy of some Spanish 24hr bull fighting channel. It's a weird experience watching a spectacle that should run against your principles. And the funny thing is, Charlie kept on telling Julia that the this spectacle pits man against bull. What a crock. By my reckoning when we had left the bar the score was Humans 12 and Bulls 0.
By the time we returned to our hotel we had agreed that we had seen enough fights for one night, so we called it quits and went to bed.
But just we were finally dropping off we were woken by hissing, screeching and spitting cats from the roof next door. This eventually died down and it was all quiet on the front so sleep took us over.
Then the main bout of the evening hit with avengence around 1130 when we were woken to the screams of a couple who live in the house next to our second floor room in the hotel.
And let me tell you this was the mother of all domestic disputes. Our best guess was that this epic altercation involved the senior male member of the household and either his wife or a daughter.
This was a take no prisoners epic. We figured out fairly early on that the guy must have thrown the woman out of the house then locked the front door.
This woman was not going quietly. She gave us more hissing and screeching like another moggy.
We are not talking mild mannered Kiwi type disputes here. This was fully blown Latino temperament in the extreme.
We were in a bit of a fix as outside it was still around thirty degrees so closing the double glazed windows simply wasn't an option as we would have been gasping for air in no time flat and the wooden shutters couldn't block out the racket.
Sleep was simply not an option so we just lay back and listened in as this drama unfolded.
Julia translated for me and the endless repeated lines of abuse appeared to be
"Bitch", "Bastard" , "You tell me" followed inevitably by "No, you tell me"
Questions and abuse followed by a return serve.
These attacks simply didn't move on.
Times passing, 1130, 1230 , 0130, 0230 and there is still no let up.
By this stage the woman has started slamming the street side window shutters in some kind of act of defiance .
The guy must have relented at this point as the argument moved indoors.
Too late , some angry neighbour had finally had enough and called the cops.
Now this is interesting territory. Our French friends and ex pats living in France have all told us that when it comes to the authorities you steer clear of the Gendarmes who have a reputation for acting first and asking questions later. The regular police on the other hand are regular guys and OK.
Down the street come three vehicles with blue lights flashing.
The scene below our window was pretty impressive.
I had hoped that we might see the Gendarmes in action and were a little dissapointed to see that they were only regular cops.
That aside, these cops proceeded to turn off their engines and then lined themselves up against the wall of a building opposite the target house.
Normal procedure, safety first.
At this point our room is flooded with blue light as was the street below now awash in blue.
The whole scene turned into one of deathly silence. The cops weren't saying a word, the on lookers were keeping their distance (that's us ) and staying mum.
Then on a signal these cops proceeded to open up the shutters of the downstairs windows of the targeted house and to flood the downstairs living area with light from half a dozen incredibly powerful torches.
And all the while no one is saying a word. This was all pretty dramatic stuff and was far more satisfying that sleep.
Then finally a cop knocks on the door with a large truncheon.
Out comes the male.
In a low and very threatening voice the cop lays down the law and finishes of with a "don't force me to come back and arrest all of you".
And that's that.
Until 0530 when this couple started round two and this time their dialogue was ferocious . Screaming! My God, a Hollywood actress wouldn't have been in the same league.
The end play was that the guy finally exploded. This level of anger must have clicked something inside the woman's brain as she then sprinted off down the street, all the while screaming at the top of her lungs.
Street theatre , there should be more of it!
It's just a pity that one has to wait around to nearly midnight before the first act takes place.
And as for the two hour intermission between three and five in the morning, I reckon someone should give serious thought to shortening the break to maybe ten minutes.
Cheers
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