Am I a traitor?
So.
The French beat us. 20-18… and NZ is out of the Rugby World Cup. In the Quarter Finals. I don’t think many people thought that would happen.
And to think I got up at 8am to watch it… dragging Shannon with me. Who only realised quite near the end that it wasn’t actually the final of the world cup - and then couldn’t comprehend why we’d gotten up so early to watch it.
I was ready for us to win. Had a load of witty remarks about how disgusted the French must be with the presence of the NZ Rugby ball, or countless posters of Dan Carter all around Paris.
But no. We’re out.
A repeat of 1999, we won’t hear the end of it for a while. As one (foreign) workmate said on Friday, he’d hate for New Zealand to lose because then the whole country would go into mourning for months.
He’s not too far wrong.
I realised only once I got home from the supermarket that my choice of lunch wasn’t overly patriotic - a loaf of French bâtard bread, and a roll of camembert.
Ah well.
France 2004
Found a bunch of my old posts about my time in France via Google Desktop Search (caches everything!) and web.archive.org.
Put them all back online, under the day they were originally posted. A couple of good stories in there, worth checking out (or rereading) if you’re bored 
Departure
Onwards and Outwards
Arrival
Paris, la cité de l’amour
The Family
First Real Day
French Markets
New Zealand invades France…
…defaces local landmark.
Seriously though, this marketing campaign by NZ Tourism is one hell of a way to get noticed.
It’s an inflatable marquis, which is going to be used to hold ‘Government Functions’ during the Rugby World Cup. Some evenings the government representatives will be getting pissed elsewhere, so interested parties can hire it for a private function for 5000 euros. Somehow, the mayor of Paris gave Helen and the Tourism folks permission to put it up on the lawn in front of the Eiffel Tower! Rugby fans do odd things some times…
Where shall we have the office party this year? Inside a giant inflatable rugby ball of course!
French Markets
I had trouble sleeping that night. I crashed when I got into bed, but I was wide awake at 3am. My body thought that it was mid-afternoon, as it would be back in New Zealand. I was not impressed.
That next morning, I got up of my own accord at a more normal hour, and went downstairs to find Jean-Luc, who showed me where everything for breakfast was kept.
It was quite a surprise. Everything was sugar-coated.
No muesli, no cornflakes. We had cocoa-puffs, frosted cornflakes, toasted baguettes dripping with Nutella, I couldn’t believe it. All my childhood, sugary breakfast cereals were not allowed, except for the rare treat. Yet here, it was staple. And the same in every other house I had breakfast.
But hey, I wasn’t complaining.
After I had suitably feasted (I must have eaten two large bowls, I was starving. My stomach was confused as to why I wasn’t eating a hearty dinner) and cleaned up, Jean-Luc, the kids, Gaël and Enora, and I, went to Saint Romain for the local market.
The town square had been covered with stalls, selling fresh meat, cut in front of you. Chickens and rabbits innocently do rounds in small pens, awaiting a buyer for that nights dinner, or the Sunday Lunch. The kids loved the rabbits, wanting them as pets. It was not to be.
There were stalls selling clothes. Sweatshirts, jeans, shirts, underwear, everything you need laid out on a table, ready to buy along with your veges and meat.
Jean-Luc made his purchases, while the kids showed me a few of the stalls. They were quite excited, talking away to me, gesturing exuberantly. I followed none of it, just smiled and nodded, uttering the occasional “oui” for good measure.
We have farmers markets in New Zealand, but they are nothing like this. This was fairly small in scale, but to me it was utterly amazing.
I learnt to love the markets. They were places to get bargains in pretty much whatever you needed, along with some of the freshest, and cheapest foods you could get. They’re also a much nicer place to shop, you can go leisurely at your own pace, can make small talk with and bargain with the sellers. It’s much more intimate than the cold stores that spread aggressively throughout France, threatening the survival of the marché. Thankfully the french, proud as always of their culture, refuse to let such a large part of it die.
I need to speed up these entries a bit, it’s time I started jumping from one event to another. It seems I’ve been writing about every little detail that happened every day. Since I said that I would like to cover my experiences last year, 44 days ago, I have only covered my flight to France, my arrival, and my first day. In 8 posts, probably totalling around 6000 words, or more.
Bah, I’ve always been long-winded.
France, First Day
“Ben?”
“Ben?”
mmmm…. whatisit…. ?
Groggily I open my eyes.
Wha-? Where am I?
I takes a little while for everything to come back. The plane flight, the train, the smiling people picking me up a the station.
“Ben?”
‘Yes?’ Crap. ‘Oui?’
“Est-ce que tu veux prendre le petit dejeuner?”
Oh god. What? Petit dejeuner, that’s breakfast. ‘euh, oui, attends’. My groggy mind slowly begins to turn, the realisation hits me that this is real. That I have to speak French. Oh, crap.
I look at my watch. It’s 11am. I’ve been asleep for 16 hours. Yet I’m exhausted. I feel as though I could easily sleep another 16.
I pull on some clothes, and leave my room, and see Jean-Luc down in the living room smiling up at me.
“On doit aller faire les courses. Tu viens avec nous? Tu veux prendre le petit dejeuner avant?”
Shopping. I was going with them. Something about having breakfast first. I responded with a non-committal grunt / oui, still trying to get my bearings.
He shows me where the shower is, and I clean myself up. My first shower since I left New Zealand, god did I need it. I get properly dressed, and go downstairs, to find Jean-Luc waiting for me to go shopping. I figure I must have said something wrong, he thought I didn’t want breakfast.
Which wasn’t really that bad, as I wasn’t hungry at all. My body thought it was 11pm.
I put on my jacket, scarf, and gloves, yet still acutely felt the cold as we headed outside to the car.
We pulled into a small looking supermarket at the next village, Saint Romain, called Champion. Inside, I was amazed at the amounts of mass-produced packaged food. All I could see was plastic. Ham sold in packets of two, four, or six slices. Hundreds of different kinds of yoghurts, desserts, anything in plastic punnets, all individual servings of course.
Jean-Luc bought a few things for lunch, while I looked around absorbing everything I could.
back at the house, he set himself to preparing lunch which I went back up to my room and began unpacking my belongings, settling myself in for a year. It still seemed so surreal. I couldn’t really believe it was happening.
I heard Jean Luc calling again, and went downstairs for lunch,where I experienced my first meal “a la francaise”. It was nothing flash, but was delicious, and interesting. It was, of course, four courses. Which in itself had me stunned. We began with half a grapefruit en entrée, followed by the actual meal (I believe it was lamb, or something). Then came my favourite part of any meal, the cheese. Jean-Luc walked over to the fridge, and got out a plastic container of at least four different types of cheese. I mean, sure, everyone knows that the French are very cheese, but to see there on the table the equivalent selection of cheeses that one in NZ would see only at the most flash of dinners was quite an anticlimax. For dessert, I think we had “rix au lait” or creamed rice.
I couldn’t wait till the next meal. I was full and satisfied, but still, I couldn’t wait. Call me greedy if you will.
First thing on the agenda for the afternoon was to enrol me at school.
It was about a 20 minute drive from our township of La Cerlangue to Lillebonne, where my school was. On the way, we had a very-much one way conversation, with myself attempting a few times to say a few things but finding it easier to sit back and listen. We drove through a few villages on the way, each with it’s own ancient church. La Cerlangue had one from the 13th Century. I couldn’t believe it.
Better yet, as we were driving though the forest, I glimpsed something that really caught my attention. Something solid, non-forest like poking through the trees. I kept looking, and suddenly it dawned on me exactly what it was.
A castle.
Oh my god. A castle, a fucking castle not ten minutes from my house.
We rounded a bend, and there it was right in front of me.
(Photo taken from bottom of hill looking back up, later that year in Summer)
I was so excited, I wanted to stop the car right then and check it out. I didn’t ask though, I just stared in amazed wonder. I’ve loved castles since I was terribly young… and here was one, a real one. Jean-Luc could tell I was amazed by it. He told me that it was the “Chateau de Tancarville”, had been built in the 12th Century, and inside it’s ruins another had been built in the 18th Century.
I passed it twice a day, six days a week, for the following year and never got sick of seeing it.
We continued on towards Lillebonne, where yet another historical wonder awaited me. As we drove through the center of town, I looked right.
(Again, photo taken in Summer)
And saw a Roman Theatre. Dating from the First Century AD. I was bowled over. I couldn’t believe it. A castle, and now a roman theatre! Not only that, but not two minutes further up the road, on the left, was yet another castle.
History was surrounding me. It was everywhere, everything was covered in layers and layers of it. It was amazing.
At school, Jean-Luc conversed with the school secretary, much of which flew completely over my head. The obligatory remark was made, however, when she learnt that I was from New Zealand.
“Ah! Le pays des All Black! Est-ce que tu joues au rugby?”
No, I don’t play rugby. She seemed thoroughly taken aback, as in, how could a New Zealander not play rugby?! If you saw me, you’d understand. My friends would understand.
Back at the house, I was in sensory overload. Two castles, and a roman theatre, thousands of years of history… I wanted to be out there and seeing it all.
Unfortunately, my body didn’t agree. It wanted to know why I’d been seemingly up all night, and wanted nothing more than to sleep.
Jet lag does suck.
Early night for me.
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