I’m taking great comfort in seeing that not all French are the pristine, classy, well turned out people that the Parisians portray themselves to be. In a self catering resort in the south of France, there are all walks of French life, and in this type of place you don’t find as much chic and sophistication as you would in Paris. They are on holiday, after all, with the first rule being to bare as much flesh as possible. This is understandable when living in a ‘mobilhom’, what constitutes basically a large microwave oven. I have no idea which parts of France these French people are from, but there is evidence that class distinction also exists in this country, we all have our versions of chav, thank goodness.
There are still, however, some things that remain exclusively French across the spectrum of classes. Their vanity for example. Only here would you see grandmothers shouting at their grandchildren to ‘jouer!’ at the poolside, swatting them away like flies, whilst they proceed to sunbathe topless, unashamed of the scars on their breasts from implants done quite some time ago. When they’re completely grey and saggy there has to be a point where those things just don’t matter, but not for the French. It matters very much for as long as they are on ‘display’.
There are still, however, some things that remain exclusively French across the spectrum of classes. Their vanity for example. Only here would you see grandmothers shouting at their grandchildren to ‘jouer!’ at the poolside, swatting them away like flies, whilst they proceed to sunbathe topless, unashamed of the scars on their breasts from implants done quite some time ago. When they’re completely grey and saggy there has to be a point where those things just don’t matter, but not for the French. It matters very much for as long as they are on ‘display’.
Interaction with children seems the same countrywide. Very little basically, with the odd slap for minor misdemeanours, I even heard one mother call her little girl ‘Vache!’ by the pool whilst giving her a smack. They are far too busy browning their boobs and smoking fags in the sun to play with their kids or swim in the pool, no wonder all the little Frenchies stamp on our sandcastles, they’re pissed off their parents didn’t help them make any!
And here we are, a week later, still making sandcastles but this time on the Paris Plage, the man made beach by the Seine. One of many great free events Paris puts on, and this year complete with Beach Rugby in honor of the World Cup tournament this year. In front of Hotel DeVille, Tom and the kids had a go whilst I watched the men’s Beach Volleyball on the next patch, oh la la.
Saving grace – the French are late risers therefore there is no rush to reserve your sunbed on the beach or by the pool (as with the Germans). Just get there before lunch and leave before tea when the hordes of French teenagers arrive, most with their prepubescent breasts on display.
Not so saving grace – We missed the finish of Tour de France on Champs Elysee because some plonker from Channel 4 invited us to a restaurant where they were filming Gordon Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares. They were filming as we arrived and upon first sight of our noisy and loud children we were promptly told they were fully booked. I saw Gordon from nose to torso through the small kitchen window, but a bloody waste of time.
And here we are, a week later, still making sandcastles but this time on the Paris Plage, the man made beach by the Seine. One of many great free events Paris puts on, and this year complete with Beach Rugby in honor of the World Cup tournament this year. In front of Hotel DeVille, Tom and the kids had a go whilst I watched the men’s Beach Volleyball on the next patch, oh la la.
Saving grace – the French are late risers therefore there is no rush to reserve your sunbed on the beach or by the pool (as with the Germans). Just get there before lunch and leave before tea when the hordes of French teenagers arrive, most with their prepubescent breasts on display.
Not so saving grace – We missed the finish of Tour de France on Champs Elysee because some plonker from Channel 4 invited us to a restaurant where they were filming Gordon Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares. They were filming as we arrived and upon first sight of our noisy and loud children we were promptly told they were fully booked. I saw Gordon from nose to torso through the small kitchen window, but a bloody waste of time.
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