I had to take J to the airport this morning which was something of a departure for me as I usually only go as far as the bus stop with the kids and then get back into bed to watch Breakfast TV with a nice cup of tea. But this morning was a bit different, not only as I had to venture further afield but the clocks were an hour ahead so when the alarm went off at 6.30am it was really only 5.30am!
I perform this silly charade twice every year – looking at the clock and working out what the ‘real’ time is, so J’s flight isn’t really at 9.30am it’s 8.30am and the kids wont be home from school at 5.30pm, it’ll be 4.30pm. The problem will come when it’s 9.30pm and time for them to lay their sleepy heads down and go to bed – they’ll still feel wide awake and all hell will break loose! Time to get the studded belt out I think – mother’s away so I can whip them!
Anyway, on the way to and from the airport, particularly in the village, you see the real France waking up and going to work. There are the local workers who all head for Tourrettes’ two cafés/bars for their morning shot of caffeine and maybe a glass of pastis with which they start the day. The same workers can also be seen to be heading to and from the boulangerie to get their baguettes for lunch and possibly a croissant for breakfast which they take to the cafés and have with their miniscule cups of thick espresso coffee.
That’s one of the little things I like about France. Even though the cafés have a small basket of rolls and croissants to sell, they don’t object if you bring your own in and sit there and cover the floor in crumbs. It’s all part of the service.
Then there are the people who have to drive to work. The men driving like lunatics with misted up windows and headlights on full beam (why can’t they see the little light on the dashboard?). The women with cigarettes hanging from a hand loosely holding the steering wheel or, even worse, dangling from their lips and covering their face in wisps of smoke, making them blind to any hazzard on the road.
The maniacal way they, both males and females, hit roundabouts at speed with absolutely no thought of letting anyone else know whether they are going straight on, or round to exit one or two. The woman driving beside me who dropped her lipstick in mid application and without a second thought just bent her head down to pick it up and literally disappeared from view. The grand-prix race when you get through the péage (toll booth) and six lanes disappear into two in the space of about 50 yards and all those little white Peugeots and Renaults are screaming at their mechanical limits trying to beat the guy with the battered old Honda Jeep – me!
But then you leave the hustle and the bustle of the coast and you get back to civilisation and to the supermarket where there are even more workers feeling the baskets of baguettes to try and find the warmest one so that it’s still fresh for lunch. And I think – I’ve never seen ANYBODY out here buy a ready-made sandwich. Why would they when a newly-baked, warm baguette costs 69 cents and you can get fresh ham and tomatoes and make your own delicious lunch for less than €1.50?
Warm baguette in hand and a bottle of drain cleaning fluid (strange combination – eh?), I head back to Tourrettes and come across the guy who is employed as the village street sweeper who looks a trifle less harassed now most of the leaves have disappeared from the trees and he can concentrate on cigarette ends. The cafés are now empty of their breakfast customers and are getting ready for lunchtime, when the same workers once again, will descend on the village to partake of their two hour lunches.
I’m tempted to stop and have a café crème but I can’t – I have a blog to post!
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