I can’t make wild statements like that without offering a few little moments that have happened over the last week or so:

I am in Collioure. A very busy but totally delightful picturesque seaside town.

I have booked a small restaurant that has wonderful reviews and describes its cooking as French Asiantique. I have no idea what that means, but it sounds interesting.

There are just 6 tables outside and four inside. It is run by two women. One is front of house and the other is the chef. The front of house woman is large and attractive with shoulder length blond hair, and appears to be pregnant. One never likes to ask, just in case! Her name is Angelique. It’s not, but I will call her that to be nice. I have one of the outside tables. She tries to rush me through dinner, but with little success. I am enjoying the food and the place.

It’s 9.30. A couple of tables have left but it is still busy. I am waiting for Angelique to come outside as I would like a cappuccino.

Moments later she appears with a plate of food in her hand. I wonder who it is for. It turns out it is for her. She walks across the pedestrian street with the plate to a chair that has been placed there, and sits down. She begins to eat. She takes her time. After a while three of the tables are trying to catch her attention. She ignores us.

Then the chef comes out with another plate of food. She joins Angelique who says something quietly to her. I take it she is complaining that we won’t leave her alone. She gets up and the two of them walk a hundred yards down the street to another two chairs. They sit and enjoy their dinner together, like a couple out for the evening. One of the tables starts calling to them very loudly. They want to leave, and they want their check. They are totally ignored. It is 15 minutes before Angelique returns and normal service is resumed.

If only France didn’t have the French.

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We are in Toulouse. A city that doesn’t appear on anyone’s radar. And yet it is rather beautiful.

I decided I would like to have a hair cut. I spent a while practicing what to ask for in my best school boy French. Once I felt confident, I went in.

There were 5 chairs in the barber shop, but only one barber, and he was busy. I took a seat and waited. The barber acknowledged me and called somebody out from the back. A tall fit looking man of around 40 came out. He had a beard and longish hair that needed a cut or at least a brush. He walked straight past me and out on to the sidewalk, where he took out a pack of cigarettes, removed one and lit it. He casually leant against the wall where I could see him and took his time enjoying his cigarette. Then he walked back inside, straight past me again, to one of the chairs. Then he turned round and nodded at me.

He was ready, I guess!

I walked over and sat down.

He looked down his very long nose to examine my Lamboutin boot.

Then he looked at me. He said nothing, just raised one eyebrow.

I contemplated getting up and walking out, but instead, using my best French accent, I told him how I wanted him to cut my hair.

“Quoi?” he replied rather brusquely.

I repeated it paying particular care to my pronounciation.

“Do you speak English” the barber says in perfect, but heavily accented English.

“Oui”

“Then I suggest you use it. It will be much easier for me to understand”

If only France didn’t have the French.

………………………………………………

We are in Camon. We are there becasue it was voted one of the most beautiful villages in France.

I am not sure why. A bit of red bunting doesn’t make it that beautiful. The town was dying. Many of the houses were crumbling and boarded up. There was one cafe. It was busy with locals. Half the tables were filled with youths smoking joints and sharing a coca cola. The other half were filled with the very elderly drinking cheap glasses of red wine. Presumably anyone between those two ages had left town long ago.

They all stopped and stared at us.

We ordered two capuccinos.

We had already discovered on our travels that the going price for a capuccino was 2.50 euros, or if it was somewhere fancy, 3.50.

The capuccino was terrible.

We went to the counter to pay. Infront of us was a group of the youths paying for 1 drink. The waitress held out the tip jar to them. One of the youths took the toothpick out of his mouth and put in in the jar.

They all laughed

Then the waitress told us our bill was 15 euros! For two capuccinos!

And she held out the tip jar

Unfortunately I didn’t have a toothpick.

If only France didn’t have the French.

……………………………………………………

We were in Lagrasse, another village anointed as one of the most beautiful in France. This village deserves it. It is everything you think of, when you think of a French village.

Here the narrow streets are lined with well cared for houses, and the main street is full of restaurants.

It’s lunch time. All we want is a coffee, and the restaurants are unwilling for us to take a table and just have a coffee. Understandable. We finally find a place that just serves coffee. There is just one person sitting outside.

We go inside. It is a tiny space lined with different coffees and teas, with an elaborate espresso machine. Perfect! But there is no one there. We wait for a few minutes. No one comes. We look for a bell to ring. There isn’t one. We look outside. The only customer is still there. He looks round at us and then returns to his food and coffee.

We wait a few more minutes. Then we walk over to the customer and ask if he knows where the owner is.

He tells us he is the owner, but he is having his lunch.

We can sit and wait, he says. He will come over to us when he has finished.

If only France didn’t have the French.

…………………………..

And now I really should leave France for safety reasons. We move on to Portugal and a cruise on Allura, Oceania’s brand new ship, which will take us to New York