la fille qui rit

Tag: france

• Nudes and No-No’s

  Posted at 9:30 am by Gabrielle Gassin, on July 23, 2019

  

  It’s quite common practice, in Australia, that when one female is enjoying the summer sunshine by the ocean, she will conservatively be wearing a two piece swim suit, covering both boobies and below. More exotic and daring it is, to have sacrificed the top piece in order to encourage that highly esteemed all-over tan. Customary practice, however, is it for this to take place further along the lapping waters where innocent families won’t be exposed to such promiscuity (yes, you know what I’m referencing close friends and family!).

  Among us Australians, it’s common knowledge that European beaches do not support the same ethos. Along the mix of pebble and sandy shores in the south west of France, women of all ages, shapes and sizes surrender their bikini top to support that special  areola tan. Perfectly fine if you ask me. In fact, I encourage and promote it, for the de-sensationalising effect it has on BOOBS. Boys and girls of all ages are exposed to breasts of all dimensions, perhaps thus helping growing minds become accustomed to difference and normality. Anyway. I say go ahead! Brown your nipples! Stripping down is what we do at the beach and generally also when the warm weather enforces it. At home in Australia, I have very little washing to do in the summertime because we trot around at home in our cozzies, trying to keep cool. This is not a rule just for women, either. Don your speedos and euro trunks, men! Nobody likes a board shorts tan, and being bronzed is the sun’s gift to everybody.

  With this practice occurring everywhere at any moment, nobody on the coastline bats an eyelid – except for me, when I see breasts the colour of mahogany, which just looks not quite right, in my opinion. What does elicit a bizarre look from the locals, however, is when it comes time to depart the seaside. Yes! You are basically naked on the beach,

  BUT DO NOT THINK TWICE ABOUT LEAVING THE BEACH WITHOUT YOUR CLOTHES BACK ON.

  Second glances and scowls await you, conveying a judging eye if you so much as take on the sidewalk with naught but a towel covering up such immorality. Ten metres away, people are all but naked! But apparently, it is not common practice to leave the beach with only a swimsuit on. Mostly, one is still wet from swimming, one is quite sandy AND one has a lot of things to carry. Clothes back on is the last thing I personally want to do. I usually don’t bother with “shoes” either; I can’t think of anybody ever enjoying that wet, sandy-feet-on-rubber feeling. But apparently, European beach goers have time for that. One time I saw a woman put JEANS back on before packing her things away, and you rarely see people straying from the sand without having replaced their footwear.

  Alas, we butt heads again with French customs. But we must agree to disagree on this unspoken subject. I shall not re-dress to leave the beach if it doesn’t suit me!

  Photo courtesy of some very daring young women on a secluded beach in Australia, somewhere.

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  Posted in Culture, Travel | 6 Comments | Tagged culture shock, france, French beach customs, Pays-Basque, Travel

• “New Home”

  Posted at 4:01 pm by Gabrielle Gassin, on June 11, 2019

  

  Every Sunday for the last two point five months has been “moving day.” We have been shuffling around France in our little Berly Car (a Citroën Berlingo) with the majority of items belonging to Arlo (pram {do not travel with this one} bag of books, bag of toys, scooter, snow toboggan, etc) from Paris heading south namely, to try and find a place that was suitable for us to settle down for a while.

  Each and every place has had its ups and downs, its plusses and minuses, as does every other faculty of life. But if you read this post or even this one or god, even this one, you would already know that this journey has been more difficult than original anticipations had allowed. If there is one single lesson I have learnt over the last couple of months which was acquired solely on this voyage, it has been that perseverance pays. I have a newfound respect for people who do this – uprooting their perfectly good lives to do something really challenging. Because it’s actually not easy at all. And if you’re reading this and thinking, “hey, I did this. It was easy!” and you’re in the same situation as me, then please TEACH ME YOUR WAYS, O WISE AND WELL ORGANISED ONE.

  We have found our feet. They had disappeared, like I was in the final months of pregnancy again. We were swimming in the Atlantic ocean with no land in sight, trying to keep our two year old human child afloat, and dry. It was hard work. It wasn’t physically hard, except for lugging suitcases, shopping, and a tired boy up many flights of stairs, but it was psychologically exhausting. And there are certainly two ways to look at facing things each day:

  1. “Glorious! (smilingly) Where are we going to be living this time next week? What trials and tribulations and blockages by the French Government await us tomorrow? How thrilling and worldly!” OR
  2. “How do we create stability in such a capricious environment, for our child? How do we explain moving from one home to the next, when he’s just become comfortable? How do I find a job when we don’t even know where we will live? What does this French parking fine mean?” among others.

  Now, I can laugh at it (a little bit). But it reminds me of the aftermath of giving birth to my son, with no pain relief. I was adamant that I would be truthful to all my female friends who wanted to know about it…that it was f-ed. The pain is so extreme that you forget what you’re enduring it for. On a lesser scale, this has been that. And like that too, a marvellous gift was the result – Arlo. And now here we are, stationed in the south-west of France for the foreseeable future, with the French language at our fingertips, and the hospitality and generosity of the French-Basque people leaving us open-mouthed.

  We spent the last two weeks living in the granny flat of a typical Basque home in Anglet. And man, did we hit the jackpot with this one. Attached to their home, a couple in their mid 70s and early 80s have become Airbnb Superhosts, sharing their place with strangers every few weeks. Danielle became like a grandmother to Arlo and a mother to Shane and I, dispersing kisses and cuddles in her lovely, warm grandmotherly way at any moment. Willing and able to help with every request or enquiry, she’s a person that when you meet her, you can’t not immediately feel comfortable and welcome and taken care of. Remi, a little more reserved at first, drew Arlo’s attention as he tended his garden of lettuce and tomatoes and kept very active around the back yard and front yard, cutting branches, trimming the grass, cleaning out the garage and picking cherries from the tree. The moment Remi became less reserved may have been the time Arlo spat out a piece of potato and placed it into his hand, and he graciously ate it.

  Both Danielle and Remi have a siesta after lunch every single day which, in my opinion, is one of the reasons they are so fit and well in their seventh and eighth centuries of life. They host family and friends very regularly for dinner, coffee or afternoon tea, and they eat the food they grow in the garden every day. We developed a relationship with these people that we will maintain as long as is humanly possible, and we will be forever grateful for how they have aided our transition to life in France. Shane even got Remi doing morning meditation by the end of the two weeks; a certain achievement, especially with a strong language barrier (neither Remi nor Danielle speak any English). I knew we had found something special when we were welcomed into our accomodation with a beautiful traditional Basque cake – (see it here) big box tick for old sweet tooth over here!

  Breaking our fast at midday on moving day was something else, too. Danielle and Remi had us over for apéro, with a couple of petit glasses of Tawny Port alongside some biscuits and nuts being the prelude to Remi’s private trumpet performance; of which he had not played for 14 years. Arlo was on Remi’s level after he had poured him two small glasses of apple juice, despite my attempted protestations. Apparently, “un peu du sucre, ce n’est pas grave!”

  So this is just a little update for all who are interested in our well being. WE ARE GREAT. We have secured a home with a spacious garden, across the road from a running track and football field, 1.5km to the beach and in 10 minutes from the centre of Biarritz. In Anglet, which some would argue, is even better. I have never applied for so many jobs in my life, and I’ve learnt some valuable skills in writing cover letters and curriculum vitae in French. We have made friends who have all been so generous with their time and willingness to help us adjust, and Arlo already speaks more French than Shane (haha).

  More to come, sometime soon.

  Peace oXo

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  Posted in Fear, Motherhood, Travel | 0 Comments | Tagged Challenge, Fear, france, Motherhood, Parenting, Pays-Basque, Travel

• Flour Fiend

  Posted at 4:32 pm by Gabrielle Gassin, on May 17, 2019

  Can you get fat from broccoli? A seemingly ridiculous question to ask the universe, but relevant (to me) as I approach my seventh week of living in France. Ahh, France. The country of passion. Of cheese, of wine. Of sleeping in, of late evening dinner bookings and overdressing when it’s not that cold. Of nothing happening before midday, of no breakfast, of espressos first thing in the morning, at midday and mid-afternoon, and certainly after dinner. Of well behaved children and people who smoke as if it’s good for their health. Of fabulous art, wonderful poetry, and a language of devine melody. Of dessert at any time of the day, pastry, and lastly (for now; this list is not exhaustive) but certainly and absolutely not least… the country of bread.

  If there’s anything I haven’t missed out on thus far (Here are other things I have whinged about in the past, and here too), it is DU PAIN. God, they really do it good. The bread supplied to the French people on an hourly basis really puts the rest of the world to shame. Australia, with its neatly stacked supermarket shelves, and even bakeries, cannot be compared. Yes, we have choice down under, and more now than ever before. Behold, the rise of the artisanal bakery! But I would personally exchange our aisles, lined row after row with sliced white bits of western-ness, with one local boulangerie. I would vote for all bread to be eliminated from said shelves, if it meant access to ONE single shop which supplied freshly baked bread regularly, The French Way, so that even on a Sunday evening at 5pm, you could wait five minutes for a fresh baguette. That is how much the French love their bread. And I don’t blame them.

  I have mentioned le pain in other posts, namely here and probably again here, and that’s because of the exquisite nature of the stuff. They don’t just make it once in the early hours of the morning, they keep it coming fresh over the course of the day.

  Enter a boulangerie, and you will see: wooden box-like structures to hold baguettes (of which there are myriad kinds – ha! And we all thought a baguette was one single long “breadstick,” oh, the shame) and glass cabinets full with bread-related delicacies; croissants, croissants with jambon and fromage (not close in comparison to what we have down under) croque monsieur, croque madame, croque chèvre. They do things with that involve sausages, cheese and pastry that you never thought possible. The selection of quiche is like nothing you’ve seen before and will tempt even those who usually refrain.

  You will have never seen so much melted cheese in one location, and you will salivate involuntarily when you observe such a place of flour filled dreams. I often wonder what their weekly demand for butter is. The smaller baguettes (called sandwich) which are filled with things, are stacked all the way to the top of the cabinet, in anticipation of their daily consumers. Camembert, fromage de chèvre, jambon cru, salade. The choices are endless and exotic; yesterday I even saw one with framboise.

  La formule du midi entitles you to a savoury, a sweet and a drink, but you get stuck halfway on a dessert choice; there are no finger buns for you to frown upon so it’s much harder to refuse. Pain au chocolat? Croissant aux amandes? Flan? Paris Brest? Cheesecake? Mille feuille? The speciality of the region? Sugar receptors are on high alert as you question your nutritional values.

  The choice you’re faced with in a boulangerie is one of the better, luckier things you get to decide upon in your day. Pour moi, a fresh baguette (tradition française) with its tough, crunchy exterior cannot be beaten. The way the flour springs off the top and into the air, hovering, stationary, as you rip it apart, is a moment I regularly look forward to. How the butter melts just a little bit with the warmth of the soft interior; it’s like a tiny landscape of delicate peaks, which spring back up as the knife finishes its task.

  Can you get fat from broccoli? No. But exposure to the above can see a woman get a little curvy round the edges from just inhaling the air in a boulangerie, so it seems. Or perhaps it’s the daily addition of a baguette at lunch and dinner time, which means that even our normal standard of healthy meals are contradicted with carbohydrates.

  As if the zipper breaking on a pair of jeans wasn’t warning enough, alarm bells are humming steadily between my ears now. But how do I stop it? Just saying no is harder than it seems, the bread is just so darn delicious! Moving to a place of isolation looks like it might be the only way around this dough filled dilemma.

  PS For more information on French bread, read here. They have a Bread Decree, for god’s sake. I love them.

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  Posted in Health, Travel | 0 Comments | Tagged baguette, bakery, boulangerie, broccoli, flour, france, French bread, French traditions

• A “fear of death” experience (quick one)

  Posted at 8:03 pm by Gabrielle Gassin, on May 6, 2019

  I used to think joggers and jeans were a hideous fashion faux pas, and those that indulged in such lamentable fancies were obviously extremely unfashionably inclined. LOOK AT ME NOW. LOOK AT ME NOW. Quite literally, I wear shoes that double as runners everywhere I go. I brought two pairs with me and they’re not going to last me the year, that’s for sure. Anyway it’s probably something to do with parenting, again.

  Moving on and the photo below was taken onboard as we traversed the treacherous Mediterranean seas to peruse Les Calanques, a national park full of breathtaking, vast rocky outcrops and gorgeous little coves with turquoise coloured water. In this picture, I look happy, and that’s because I was. I was, because that moment was captured right before my denial about not being sea sick went overboard. Along with the sense that I was going to be able to get off that boat safely, with my family intact. I.E, not in a rescue situation. To be fair, the man we bought tickets off warned us, asking if we still wanted to go because the wind was really up and the swell was huge. Shane looked sideways at me when he asked, and I said “YES! We will still go. I don’t get sea sick.” Meanwhile, we had just bought a lot of lunch to eat in the form of “sandwich” (baguettes) and dessert – pain au chocolat aux amandes – none of which you would be interested in eating, if the possibility of becoming sea sick was within your realm of being. On the way out of the port, I was focusing on the horizon (thanks Jojo), and was doing really well. At this point, I was only worried about the boat capsizing in the enormous waves, and not vomiting up my lunch. I’m not joking. I consulted Shane after reflective thought about what exactly we would do when the boat flipped. Just to assure you that I’m not overreacting, Shane’s response was, “I have already planned it out.” Here is where you picture me having a silent fit. My fear consumed me as I established a firm grip on Shane’s thigh. On we went, through to the national park where the ocean was more reasonable, and I reflected jubilantly on living another day.

  The way back had me full of anguish again. I had to go and sit out the back, get sprayed in the face with ocean water and whipped with icy wind because my stomach was churning. Again, questioning whether or not we would survive to tell the tale of this perilous adventure. I sat out the back of the boat, trying to talk myself out of the urge to vomit and looking slowly at the people around me, wondering if these were the people I would die alongside. It sounds morbid I know, but when the captain decelerates and the engine goes off so that the boat can drift over the waves (I use drift, but that word connotes a sense of calm and tranquility, of which this voyage was anything but) you really seriously question the need to go sight seeing. Stupid tourists. Arlo learnt a new French word on this trip, “mouillé,” which means wet. Shane has informed me that whilst I was out the back, a wave hit the front of the boat where they were sitting, before they were forced inside (so they weren’t thrown into the water.) Now, we all know that events which inspire heavy emotional ties, whether negative or positive, make a sturdy imprint in the hippocampus. My child is scarred from this trip. He’s also one step closer to becoming bilingual. JOY.

  I just wanted to share the novel experience that could be called a “close encounter” whilst still fresh in my mind. Now I’ve also shared my biggest fear! Calm ocean = yes, King tide = no.

  

  This photo below is my all time favourite of these two males. There can’t be a better one!Deceitfully calm, non?This last photo looks like I am going to give that lucky lady a little kiss on the temple. Arlo not so happy about it?

   

   

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  Posted in Fear | 1 Comment | Tagged europe, fears, france, marseille, mediterranean, ocean, Parenting, travelling

• On Chamonix et cetera.

  Posted at 6:50 pm by Gabrielle Gassin, on April 22, 2019

  We’ve just finished a week in Chamonix Mont Blanc, popular for winter sports and an all around mountain and woods based good time. I’ll tell you something though… Vianne Rocher from Chocolat is absolutely a hoax, because there is no way a person can live in a place with that sort of supply of chocolate and macarons and be as skinny as she is in the film. I am in no doubt both le pain and le chocolat chaud are catching up on me – two weeks in Paris with a boulangerie at your literal doorstep followed by this, and it’s no real surprise. It’s still disconcerting though, when that moment you put on a pair of jeans and they (lol) break at the zipper happens, or your tights are just a bit too tight and you have to struggle between squatting and standing repeatedly, to get them on. Anyway I’m telling myself it’s a small price to pay for the delicacies relished over a three week period. I always fantasised about experiencing a small-town chocolaterie like the one in the film. The chocolat chaud made from real melted chocolate with fresh crême on top… all goodies made through the French door in the cave style kitchen; a huge batch of chocolate bubbling away in a large cauldron over a real fire, and all that. Justification shall always make one feel better, I suppose. Anyway on an unrelated note, I have been equally startled and bemused by how many times I have recently used a public toilet and been forced to drip dry (for want of a better description, for the male readers.) At least five times over a one week period, with each time a toilet in a different area being used, I have realised too late that there is no papier. Coincidence I am sure, but baffling nonetheless.

  Chamonix was quite delightful, I must say. A little too touristy, exemplified by the haughty nature of some of the working people we encountered as well as the tendency by some to quickly continue an exchange in English, that had begun in French. It seems that a momentary pause to consider a choice could be mistaken as misunderstanding, thus prompting the language swap, and I found myself actually encouraging the French over the English – because that is one of the main reasons I am there. To speak French! What a revolutionary idea…to go to France and speak the language of the country. Just crazy. I do completely understand this propensity to switch to English, as many times I witnessed an English speaking person come into a shop without even attempting a bonjour. These people do not have my support at all. Imagine coming to Australia from a non-English speaking country and just outright speaking your own language…it seems disrespectful. I am certain it would be appreciated by the locals if you actually made some effort, as a foreigner.

  The chalets in the area are typical of the region, and generally nothing short of stunning. Huge timber structures built for holding masses of snow in the winter, some with stone roofing and all generally beautiful. I have been spending some of the period in which Arlo is asleep exploring the surrounds via foot, at a pace which could be considered by any seasoned runner as “slow.” I’ve seen some beautiful sites! In terms of exercise though, I was relatively stiff for about 48 hours after 3.5 days of snowboarding alongside Shane. Day three was the best; we went to Grand Montets – which we found out once we were there, is actually more popular for skiers. We discovered why upon our arrival at the top of one slope…I watched Shane (a seasoned snowboarder and generally agile sportsperson) slide down the first part on his butt with me calling out “BRAKE! BRAKE!” It was first thing in the morning and the sun hadn’t yet hit the snow, so it was like a concrete hill. When we tackled that one three more times later on, it became my favourite. The skiers had ripped it up a bit and the temperature had eased the cold hard ice. Overall I only had one hard fall on the way down at the end of the day – the type that makes you feel your brain move in your head (and no mum and dad, I wasn’t wearing a helmet. But I’m obviously fine…for now.) My untamed love for sliding down snow covered hills on a piece of laminated fibreglass stands unperturbed.

  Having been so close to Switzerland whilst in the French Alps, of course we indulged in a raclette feast. Our hosts had thankfully included a little raclette grill in the accomodation, so all we needed were our ingredients. Being a two year old, Arlo did not appreciate the effort or taste of anything involved in the meal. Never mind, his time will come.

  We have arrived at our next destination, Aix-En-Provence. It’s about half as noisy as Paris; I’ve only heard one siren since we arrived last night. We’re in a busy area with many winding, intricate streets jam packed with restaurants, bars, doggy poops (nobody cleans up after their dog in France) cafés, fountains, cobble stones, boulangerie and chocolaterie (someone help me). I’ve just been for my first run around the area and I really like the feel. There are lots of people around, despite the public holiday and many shops being closed. Our accomodation smells a bit gross and gets really stuffy if all the windows are shut, and it also needs a new floor and a fan in the bathroom. We had to rearrange the furniture to accomodate a toddler, but that may well be standard for every parent, everywhere she goes. Step one: where are the hazards!?

  One more thing – le pain et les croissants have been the best BY FAR in Paris. Undoubtedly. Flaky, crunchy and soft in all the right places. What is actually quite funny too, is how frequently I have seen people walking down the street munching on the much-coveted end of a baguette. It’s not a stereotype that French people eat bread. French people EAT BREAD. And I know why. Because it’s delicious, it doesn’t have as many preservatives (I know this because if you haven’t eaten it by the end of the day, it’s usually stale the next) and it goes with every meal. The French do lots of things differently to what we do in Australia, many of them better choices, in my opinion. I’ll touch on those next time.

  Ciao ciao : )

   

   

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  Posted in Travel | 1 Comment | Tagged Chamonix, chocolate, food, france, French, winter sports

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