Asterix and the Presidential Elections

  

Read any Asterix book and you will get the impression that all events in France are celebrated with a banquet, a meal, a coming together of friends to eat, drink and be merry. How many of us have wondered if this was just the comical writings of a fanciful duet highlighting a pseudo stereo-typical ideal of the French lifestyle?

Everyone wants to vote in France

However, it seems that René Goscinny and Albert Uderzo hit this particular view on French culture pretty much on the head.

As I was discussing plans for my first weekend in Provence, I was told not to make ANY plans for the Sunday. ‘I need to vote’ she tells me. ‘OK, well that’s 10 minutes sorted then, what about the rest of the day?‘ Says little old confused me. After it was explained over a coffee and stern look, I discovered that voting in France is more than just a democratic right. No it is almost a duty and it is not taken lightly by anyone.

And because of the popularity it shaped the entire day. Almost all the TV stations had live coverage, people passed each other on the street and checked each other was voting. Even in the bakery that morning, the lady serving said to us ‘n’oubliez pas de voter’ whilst handing our baguette over. All day with her freinds, everyone was talking about the candidates and what would happen if they did, or did not get into power.

 

Asterix, eat your heart out, but leave this for me

As early evening approached, we were together with some good friends talking about politics and the state of the world. My French is pretty poor so keeping up was both interesting and totally confusing. With cheese, wine, bread, and other extravagant food related items starting to appear I notice that the TV channel had a countdown timer on it. I assumed it was for the closing of the polling stations. I was wrong, very wrong!

As 8 o’clock grew closer I noticed people were starting to move onto the edge of their seats. The pace and volume of the conversations in the room was heating up. Even the rather over stylised television coverage, mostly hosted by young blonde women in low cut tops, was becoming harder to ignore with music rapidly increasing in pace and amplitude.

This wasn’t the timer for the closing of the stations at all, this was a timer for the results! No waiting until morning to see who got 1st, 2nd or 3rd like in the UK. This was almost German style efficiency, and no sign of a French man on strike anywhere. As the timer got down to the last 10 seconds silence fell, all I could hear was the racing heartbeats of an entire nation. Then a sudden intake of breath, no one moved………….. The result…………. and then back to full steam debate about what this all meant, and of course eating and drinking.

Now all the parts of the puzzle made sense. This is a day for more than just an election. The gauls were voting a new leader for the village and the feast was part of the tradition. Take note of Asterix and Obelix. They can teach you more than you might think about the French!

 

French men don’t get fat

  

There is a best selling book you may have heard of, by Mireille Guiliano called “French Women Don’t Get Fat”. This very title kept rolling in my head as I was spending my very first romantic week end in Paris with my girl friend this Easter. And as hours were passing by, I started wondering if by French… she meant Parisians?

Spend sometime on any RER or TGV and you will be reassured that some French women do get fat. I have been there, all squashed against the window as they sit next / on top of you. Just like at home.

No its not French Women but Parisians that don’t get fat, men and women. You see, it is simply impossible, at least without a lot of work and dedicated gluttony, to get fat when you have to walk half a mile just to get your bread. And the French ALWAYS insist on FRESH bread.

I found this out the hard way. Saturday morning and I awake next to my long distance love.  “I will pop out and get une baguette and les croissants, ma chérie” says I, in the hope to impress her with my chivalry. Almost an hour later, I am back with baguette and croissants and she is happy. My feet however are not!

Look how far away we are still. My poor feet!!

Wind the clock forwards to later in the afternoon. After walking the length of the Champ de Mars to the Eiffel Tower and then along the bank of the Seine, she suddenly remembers she had promised her sister to pick up some more Nespresso for the coffee machine. Well… you know, this is not a case where you jump in your car and drive to ASDA. In the French version of this, she grabs my hand, pulls 2 metro tickets out of her handbag, and drags me down the stairs of the closest station.  “Where do we get the coffee ma chérie?” “Nearest shop is on the Champs” says she (NB: les Champs is local slang for Champs Elysées apparently).

By the time I know it, I am changing lines at Châtelet Les Halles, the worlds BIGGEST underground station. Really this thing is massive, looking after something around 750,000 passengers a day. You can walk for half an hour just to change lines, even more if you are blonde and find yourself looking at the wrong train.

Any one with a belly must be a tourist

By now I am thinking I must have lost a good few pounds in weight over the day. Using the mad rush as an excuse we  stopped at a very nice looking Café.

Relaxing and enjoying the simple pleasures in life, a cold beer, my French girl by my side and my throbbing feet were being forgotten about. But then who turned up but the pee pee fairy. Off I go in search of the local convenience only to find it wasn’t in the slightest bit convenient.

Little did I realise that just to use the loo would require climbing up and down 2 flights of stairs. Shattered and exhausted it was becoming very clear that even the belly expanding pastime of beer swilling could not produce excess calories.

Watching the thin and even thinner population of Paris passing by it was clear. It is not French women that don’t get fat, nor is it French men, it’s Parisians. It is almost implausible to think that a Parisian could get fat. A mile walk for bread. Several miles to get to and from the office and even a mammoth task to go for a pee.

 

The first weekend at my chez moi

  

It started with what seemed like a good idea at the time ‘Come over for the weekend, stay at mine’ harmless words, what could go wrong.

In a normal relationship with a girl within driving distance, it is normal to be seeing each others houses in small doses. A living room here and there, a kitchen for an hour and so on. But in a long distance relationship it all changes. Suddenly there was a girl that had never stepped foot in my home before that was going to be spending a long weekend and have time to see every detail, every crack, and every unpainted skirting board.

Then I remembered an old advert from the 80’s with the tag line…….  ‘You never get a second chance to make a first impression’ GULP!

So what do you do when you suddenly start to notice all the little things in your house that might not give such a good impression???? BLONDE PANIC!!!!

Thats the cheese sorted, now for the cake

After the initial panic settled down and I started to think rationally, and repainting the whole house not really being an option, my thoughts turned to coming up with a plan. Part of that plan was going to involve food. Desert was sorted. My cooking skills may be average, but I make a cheesecake from another dimension. Based around a childhood memory of my Nan’s cheesecakes, and a lot of mistakes in the kitchen perfecting it.

Meanwhile, a blog I had been following for a while The Urban Potato Eater was talking about romantic food and even ideas for dates. The blog follows the experiences of a trainee chef and had given me some great ideas. Things were starting to take shape at last.

 

 

Now I had my plan. The house was OK but in no way perfect, so all I had to do was keep her distracted with an old photo album or two, some good music, great conversation and food.

With everything in place there was one thing I was not taking into consideration, well three things if I am honest: My pets. You see. you can explain to friends and family that you are having a romantic weekend, but pets……. The jealous dog, it seems, was the least of my problems though. Even if he was watching us every time we got close to each other. But the cats…. oh no the cats……

Are those new toes in the house?

What I had forgotten to mention the night before is that I have a cat that likes toes, especially toes that escape the bed clothes early in the morning. 5am and out of nowhere, an exploratory single claw attached itself  onto the new and interesting big toe of the French foot, she hit the roof with a YELP!!!!. Good morning dear! just didn’t seem fitting. Of course the same thing happened the next morning too.

There really is very little you can do about pets. I guess the good part about the distractions from pets was that my tired house guest was a lot more interested in them, than any cobwebs in dark corners I may have missed. And maybe next time she will learn to sleep with her feet under the covers. But I doubt it.