This first picture appeared in the French edition of the Huffington Post, and from the light, was probably taken immediately after the result was officially announced at 8 p.m.  (We could tell a good two hours before that–by 6 p.m., that is–that the results being announced on Belgian sites would indeed be confirmed, when, the Socialists having put the word out that they would hold their victory celebration in the Place de la Bastille, the sky was suddenly full of the sound of heavy helicopters, soon to be followed by truck after truck of CRS riot police.)  So this picture could have been taken any time from 7 p.m. to maybe 8:30.  These are a whole lot of people.  I didn’t take the picture, but I’ll vouch that at 9:30 p.m. there were this many and maybe more.  See below.

At about 9:30 p.m., Ann and I and Penelope (of the Red Wheel Barrow bookstore) went out to see what was happening.  It was clear that François Hollande was not going to make it to the Place de la Bastille for several more hours.  (In fact, he had only just left Tulle in the center of France, and didn’t reach the Place until about 1 a.m.)  The actions of the crowd therefore displayed a certain ambivalence.  On the one hand, there were large groups of people streaming along rue Saint Antoine–the most direct route–toward the Place, late starters like we were.

There were people in most of the windows overlooking the rue Saint Antoine, most of them partying, and whenever any of the people in a building would wave at the people on the street, they’d be greeted with loud cheers and shouts and whistles.

At the same time, though, many of the people who had already reached the Place de la Bastille had  been there in some cases for up to four hours, and were faced with the prospect of a further long wait, so many were flowing in the other direction, away from the Bastille, either going home or in search of food and a place to sit.

Food trucks, which the police had allowed past the barricades on rue Saint Antoine were, as the French are wont to say, “taken by assault.”   (We were impressed that the cops had had the sense to let the food trucks in.  That contributed a lot to keeping the crowd good humored during its very very long wait.)

Trying to avoid the crush, we jogged up the rue de la Bastille, where it was reassuring to see that important cultural institutions like Bofinger did not feel threatened by the prospect of a Socialist president.  It was, you can see, calmly proceeding with its late Sunday dinner service, unconcerned by the crowds streaming past.

On the other hand, rue de la Bastille did us in.  Anyone who has heard my lecturette on why the boulevard Beaumarchais is the first boulevard in the world (explicitly so named), and how we know that, already knows that this little street was, until the construction of the Grands Boulevards, the only way in and out of the walled city of Paris to the east.  The police barricades effectively recreated that situation, and now as then this little street was hopelessly inadequate to the task of moving that much traffic.  Throw in two EMS vehicles which were stationed there in case of emergency to gum up the works further, and you had created a bottle neck we simply couldn’t get through.  Even with me leading the way, at more than 100 kilos and swinging my metal cane like a cossack, we were simply stalled, and ultimately pushed back by the crowd leaving the Place along this little street.  There was a lesson in hydraulics there, I suspect.

So we turned back.  At that moment we gave the situation about one more hour of relative calm before crowd and police tempers finally snapped and the riot started, but when we got home and turned the TV back on, we saw the PS had done a clever thing on their parts: the stage had been set up on the Place, and it was now populated with musicians.  As it is known to do, music soothed the savage breast, and made it possible for the crowd to maintain its cool for another 3 hours until Hollande finally made it in from Le Bourget.  And then at the end, how did the police get him into the Place–no mean feat?  (Ha! you didn’t think of that little problem, did you?)  I think they took him through the Bastille Métro stop.  The station itself had been closed by the police for hours, of course.  I think they took him to one of its distant entrances, walked him down and under the crowds, then popped him up at the exit right in front of the entrance to the Opéra.  Or so it seemed on the TV.  By this point, most of the musicians were looking exhausted, and were grateful that they could relinquish the stage to the politicians.

The evening before, at my second Cinco de Mayo party, two couples solemnly maintained that Sarko had a surprise to spring on the Socialists, but having myself been in that position all too many times in the past, I could recognize the undertone of desperation in those declarations.  And so a good time was had by all.   Or mostly all, anyway.

I’d heard a bit about this scam but had never seen it, nor have I had it done to me. But the other day, while passing the Louvre, I saw a couple a few metres in front of me, with a tall man just to the side of them picking up what looked like a gold ring. ‘Aha,’ I thought, ‘this looks interesting.’ Sure enough, the man offered it to the male of the couple who shook his head, but then the other man sort of pressed it on him (I didn’t really hear their exchanges and in any case I think it was done mostly by mime, since it turned out that the couple didn’t speak much English or French). By this time, I had passed the couple and sure enough they were moving off, with the man holding the ring in his hand and looking rather mystified, with the scammer just behind them.

I asked the couple if they spoke French, but no. English? A little. ‘Don’t take the ring,’ I said. ‘It’s a scam, he’ll ask you for money for it in a minute.’ The couple were looking mystified. Who should they believe? Me, a complete stranger, and an interfering busybody to boot, or the ‘nice’ young man who’d just found a ring on the ground and offered it to them, for luck, since his religion forbade him wearing such things/wasn’t his size, etc etc.?

But upon hearing me telling the couple it was a scam, the ‘nice’ young man yelled at me in loud and very clear if accented English, ‘F@#$ you! F@#$ you!’ Strong evidence that my interpretation had been correct. The young couple hastily gave him back his ring, and scuttled off.

Apparently, what usually happens is that once the ‘target’ has taken possession of the ring and started to move off, the ring-finder then says to them that he’s hungry, could do with a few euros, would like some recompense for giving them something valuable, or some variation on this. I have heard of people parting with as much as 10 euros. There’s some more information on this scam on this Lonely Planet discussion site.

But I don’t like to encourage paranoia, either at home or when travelling, so I hope I haven’t done that. Still, it’s always good not to look touristy, and if this scam does happen to you, it’s probably best that you pretend you don’t understand whichever language the ‘ring-finder’ addresses you in!

En revanche, as the French say, I’ve had countless experiences in France where people have picked up my gloves, scarf, shopping list, magazine, that I have dropped, and returned them to me before I’d even realised I’d dropped them; and I want to stress that this is far more the norm than anything else in France.

It’s also a great excuse to visit the gorgeous Marais area (as if one needs an excuse!), and more specifically the Village Saint Paul, just near the bookshop.

Details of the sale:

25% off all hard-bound non-fiction books

Selected children’s hardbound PICTURE books: 12€

Selected paperbound picture books:10€ plus, buy 2  paperbound children’s picture books on sale, and get a 3rd one free (= 3 paperbound children’s picture books, 20€)

There’s also a big  table in the center of the shop, with every paperbound fiction title on the table only 10 euros (plus, buy 10, get an 11th free = 11 paperbound fiction books for 100 euros)

The shop is open 7 days, 10 a.m. to 7 p.m. except Monday 10-6 p.m. and Sunday noon (or sometimes a little later) to 6 p.m.

Built of bricks and stone, the construction took from 1544 to 1632, although the bridge was not inaugurated until 16 October, 1659, in the reign of King Louis XIV. The laying of the foundations took many years, and the first arch was not commenced until 1614. I presume it was the one nearest to the camera, since this is the side of the old city itself. Interestingly, the bridge is not symmetrical, and the highest point occurs above the third arch of the seven, rather than above the middle arch, as can be clearly seen in my photo. This arch is the largest of them, with a span of 30 metres.

Today, the Pont Neuf is still perhaps Toulouse’s most renowned historic structure, and used daily by thousands of pedestrians, cyclists and vehicles.

(guest post by photographer Andrew McRae)

The Garonne is one of France’s principal rivers, flowing 575 km from its origin in the glaciers of the Pyrenees, on the Spanish side of the border. It ends its journey in the Bay of Biscay estuary, La Gironde near Bordeaux, where it meets the Dordogne. Passing through Toulouse it is too shallow and bedevilled by treacherous currents for boats, and so its broad surface is often very tranquil, devoid of all traffic except the occasional rower or police launch. I saw the rather strange sight today of a man propelling himself along in the middle of the river while standing on a narrow kayak.

The graceful Pont Neuf was built between 1544 and 1632, and inaugurated in 1659.

(guest post by photographer Andrew McRae)

My latest find is a delightful little shop, a boutique-atelier, at no. 4 Quai de la Daurade, just near Pont Neuf, before the Ecole des Beaux Arts. The intriguing name, Mapie des Vignes made me look twice, as did the sign in the window, ‘Mes créations a vos mesures’ (‘My creations made to your measurements’). Mapie (short for Marie-Pierre) is the name of the shop’s owner/designer, and Mapie des Vignes is her own label.

The concept is that she has several of each of her designs made up in the shop, so that clients can order the pieces they like, made especially to their exact measurements.The designs are stylish and simple, in beautiful natural fabrics, some of which she also sells by the metre.  I bought some orange silk to line a skirt-in-progress, and some black wool threaded through with coloured ribbons, also for a skirt.

The boutique also hosts other créatrices and their collections of textile art—be it brooches, embroidery, jewellery, or other creations. At the time of my visit I saw these beautiful felt brooches, in the shapes of flowers and butterflies. Also in the shop was a colourful range of rings and earrings. There’s absolutely no excuse for anyone in Toulouse to be unable to find the most original  Christmas presents.

This concept has really been brought home to me again since I arrived in Toulouse just over a month ago. Although I’ve visited this city a couple of times before, and know a handful of people here, I’m still a stranger, and have to spend long hours alone slaving over a hot keyboard, in order to get my work done, although I’m not complaining as that’s the reason I came here in the first place. Very different from my busy life in Melbourne, where I often long for enough solitude to get my research and writing done, my lifestyle in France gives me a little glimpse into what it must be like for people who are socially isolated or have few friends—no matter what country they live in.

In France, however, there are numerous markets, and I always make this one of the centres of my life, shopping each day for the few things I need, deciding what to cook based on what looks good and affordable that day.

In Toulouse the historic Marche des Carmes is a few steps down the road from where I am staying. Apart from the comforting sights and smells of markets, they are also wonderful places for social interaction.  And in France, the most important place in the market is arguably the cheese stall.  On my first day there, faced with the bewildering array of French cheeses, I asked the fromager for some recommendations, and he gave me tastings and also advice about the different cheeses. He focuses on a different two or three types each time I go there, and I’ve come to refer to these sessions as my ‘cheese tutorials’.  I excused my ignorance of French cheeses to him by explaining that I was Australian. In turn, he told me how he learned about Australia in the English courses he took at university, and also how his business was originally owned by his great-grandparents.

On one occasion during my ‘tutorials’, when he was giving me two morsels to taste and compare—one of one-year old Comte, and the other aged for two years, I noticed in my peripheral vision that the queue  behind me was quickly lengthening. I turned apologetically to the woman next to me, although my mouth was too full of cheese to do much apologising, but she was smiling and nodding — probably in approval that a foreigner was interested enough in her culture to learn about this important part of it.

As for the Comte, I prefer the older of the two, and when I bought more of it this morning, I was informed that this particular one was aged ’26 months’!  To complement it I bought a creamy mild cheese, and a blue d’Auvergne, as this gives a good contrast of cheeses to follow after the main course and before the dessert. But I’m not going to give you any more details than that. You’ll just have to ask your fromager yourself.

But last time I was there, in January and February this year, I did decide I needed a few covers to bring home, and went searching in a fairly large homewares shop in the rue du Faubourg Saint Antoine, near where I stay in the 12th arrondissement.  Their range was not large and rather underwhelming, but it was my last day in Paris and so I quickly purchased three of them.

But when I saw some much more interesting cushions in my local vintage shop  Memoirs, and for a reasonable price, I decided I would put my authentic Paris ones away and replace them with these. My French-named. Pomeranian-Chihuahua, Louis, agreed to help with the modeling. Yes, he is wearing a hand-knitted tuxedo, and if you look closely you can see the bow-tie.

For readers who remember Memoirs being  just near the corner of Victoria and Errol Streets, in North Melbourne, it has recently moved a block east along Victoria Street, and is now at no. 422.

Yes, I know this is in Venice, but it was the best picture I have of my French coat.

As our winter in Australia is quite short (even here in Melbourne!) if compared to that of Northern European countries, our winter coats spend a lot of time in spare-bedroom wardrobes, or in storage in garages or attics. So if you buy a coat in France and bring it home (and there are gorgeous coats and fantastic bargains to be had in the sales), you’ll need to be careful or you may be unwittingly providing a wonderful feast for the Australian ‘clothing moth’, and ruining your beautiful coat at the same time.  I found this out the hard way…

When I retrieved my beautiful French winter coat (bought from Boutique Betty in the Place d’Aligre in the 12^th) out of storage in January to take on my trip to France, I was devastated to find it had been damaged by moths. I had stored it, along with several other woollen coats, in a wardrobe in my garage. The garage is weatherproof and dry, but possibly humid after the many storms of last summer and the long unusually wet Melbourne winter that preceded it. The damage was not extensive—and mainly looked like small tears around the sleeve cuffs, with a little less-noticeable damage on the collar.

What I could not understand was why the other wool coats and jackets had escaped any damage at all. One of them even had some evidence of the moths’ eggs, but no damage, which was quite mysterious. The only common factors of the undamaged coats were that they were all made in Australia, had not been used as much as my French coat the previous winter, and had each been dry-cleaned at least once.

When I went to research the clothing moth, correct name Tineola bisselliella, I found that although introduced at some time in the past to Australia, it has not been recorded in France. This would suggest that our wools here are possibly pre-treated to be moth-repellent (an assumption that the CSIRO fact sheet would seem to support), which they are probably not in France; the previous dry-cleaning of the other coats might also be a factor in their non-infestation, as this apparently dries out the fabric, reducing the attractiveness to moths, who like moisture. They also like any presence of human sweat, which would explain why my coat was mostly damaged around the collar and cuffs. It is quite light-coloured and certainly did not look dirty to me, but a few molecules of sweat are probably a feast for a moth caterpillar!

I promptly had the coat dry-cleaned, bought some thread of the exact colour, and mended the tears as invisibly as I could.  I also transferred all the coats to a wardrobe inside the house, which I filled with mothballs. I have since found that lavender bags will do the job just as well and smell much better, so I will be getting some of those (they can refreshed with lavender oil).

So for anyone bringing a coat home to Australia from France, I would recommend getting it dry-cleaned even if you haven’t worn it, and then keeping it in the wardrobe with your current clothes even if it’s high summer here. Oh, and put lavender bags in the pockets and on the coat hanger.

Carriera Tripiera is Occitan for rue Tripière, in the city of Toulouse, which has maintained its Occitan heritage and language by having street signs and all signs in its Metro system in the two languages, and reflects the very individualistic nature of France’s fourth largest city, with its strong Spanish influence. Friends in Toulouse told me that very few people speak the language in the street, however.

An earlier photo, uploaded in 2009, from ‘The Pink City’ was taken while standing in the popular and trendy shopping street, Rue de Saint-Rome. A few metres away from that location I found the tiny street of rue Tripière, almost mid-way between the Pont Neuf and the large Capitole square. This year I took my camera into the narrow lanes which wind their way around this area.

According to Wikipedia ‘the name Occitan comes from lenga d’òc (i.e. òc language), which comes from òc, the Occitan word for yes.’ It is still understood in much of southern France, Catalonia (where it’s an official language) and even Calabria in Italy. In the mid-19th century about 40% of the French population were Occitan speakers, but that proportion has dwindled to about 6% today. One of the many descendants of Latin, it is well over 1000 years old and most closely related to Catalan among existing Romance languages.