Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
half a bottle of the kind of alcohol that would floor one of the Easter Island statues and you
have a heady mix and the kind of fuzzy thinking and lack of limb-control that starts wars,
never mind putting a halt on burgeoning neighbourly friendships. I went to shake the hand of
one of the nieces and then for some reason got it into my head that I then had to kiss her as
well, so started leaning precariously over the table, losing my balance and falling on her as
she let out a scream.
I picked myself up, apologised profusely and, in lieu of having any actual French language
in which to explain myself, acted out the fall again in order to illustrate that it was a genuine
accident. Unfortunately, this just had the effect of making the poor girl think I was going to
jump on her again, and she cowered back into her chair, clearly terrified. Monsieur Le Boeuf
thought the whole thing was hilarious and poured more drinks, but the nieces obviously felt
uncomfortable in my presence so when we did eventually leave a full hour later, I wasn't even
offered a handshake. She could barely look at me.
It's like walking a kind of social tightrope and I can't be the only one to have inadvertently
mixed alcohol and etiquette to such a disquieting effect.
Some people even use it to play politics. The mother of one of Samuel's friends, well at least
he used to be a friend, doesn't like me. I don't know why; maybe she has a female relative left
traumatised by falling Englishmen. But we see each other often enough to have to go beyond
a handshake and she keeps changing the rules. We meet at least twice a week at the school
bus drop-off point - one day it's one kiss on either cheek, the next it's one kiss on the left, two
on the right; the day after it's the other way around. Then it was two on each. 'Four kisses!'
she said, admonishing me for my lack of manners.
The next time I went to do four kisses and she leaned back out of the way like a batsman
avoiding a bouncer, two kisses clearly being sufficient on a Tuesday afternoon as any fool
knows.
I consider myself a man of the world, I've entertained foreign ambassadors, eaten with Be-
douin tribes in the desert, played pool with the Russian Mafia, lived rough and stayed in the
finest hotels on the planet. Never before has my protocol even been questioned, let alone
challenged, yet after nearly six years in the Loire Valley I've become, socially at least, a gib-
bering wreck.
As if that weren't enough, my language skills were still not what they should be. I can
handle linear situations - conversations with doctors, insurance people, mechanics and the
like, where you have some idea of where it might all lead and where you can brush up on the
vocabulary beforehand - but the subtlety, nuance, slang and sheer pace involved in a lively
French discussion over dinner or at the school gates for the most part elude me. Part of what
holds me back is that I can always rely on Natalie, or even the children, to translate for me
and when they do so, I tend to just nod like I definitely understood anyway, but I just wanted
confirmation. Nobody is fooled.
