La Psychologie Francaise

The more that I go back and forth between London and Carcassonne, the more I notice the differences in attitude between the two locations. Some are just down to the difference between big and small town (with a bit of Frenchness thrown in) and some are the difference between the French and the English. Both were demonstrated vividly to me on Friday evening after the ordeal of my delayed arrival in France.

The parking rules in London are draconian - unattended for five minutes in the wrong place and you have a ticket costing £40, ten minutes and you are clamped. My good friend Patrick was telling me last night that it's just the same in Chicago, where he lives most of the time, and where he has just been forced to pay for a permit to park outside his home. All of which make the parking rules here in Carcassonne an absolute joy. Where you do have to pay, it starts at 9.00am and ends at 6.00pm and the two hours of lunch between 12.00 and 2.00 are free, of course. If you buy a 'pay and display' ticket at 11.00am for two hours it will show 3.00pm as your limit, automatically taking into account the two hours of free lunch - how damn civilised is that? I have also been told that if you have paid to park and have a ticket displayed but have run over your time a bit, there is no way you will be given a ticket - I haven't tested this out but, given what follows it's not beyond the realm of truth.

So, after my late arrival on Friday, Chris and I popped down to the square for an early evening 'pression' and a catch-up on work and life. The road around the Place Carnot is quite narrow and parking spaces are few. Also, all drivers know that it is far easier to park by reversing into a space than trying to go in front first.

I didn't see the car coming as I had my back to the traffic flow but I saw it come past me and pull in nose first to the small space outside the pharmacy next to Bar Felix. No chance I thought, as I watched out of the corner of my eye whilst earnestly talking with Chris. Indeed, the driver made no attempt to get into the space and just left the car at 45 degrees to the kerb with it's tail sticking out into the road - a bit of film star parking of the highest grade. Just then I noticed two members of our local law enforcement agency standing opposite, watching every move, resplendent in their navy trousers, polo shirts with 'Police Municipale' emblazoned across the back, baseball caps and with handcuffs and guns on their belts. One of them started across the street just as the driver was getting out of the car. "Ooops", I said to myself and thought "You are in for a bit of a talking to'.

Think again - this is France. The 'PM' walked around the front of the car as the driver shut the door - he removed his cap and kissed the driver on both cheeks, exchanging a warm "Bon Soir" and "Ca Va". She then went into the pharmacy and he resumed his patrol with his colleague and the car remained precariously parked and causing an obstruction. If that doesn't sum up France, I don't know what does?

Later that evening I watched the opening game of the Rugby World Cup, being staged here in France for the first time. I have never known this nation to be so 'up for it' and behind their national team (I wasn't here for the football world cup in 1998 so can't compare). I walked into the bar just before kick-off and the tension was electric. When the French national anthem was played there were people standing up and singing along, which is always a spine-tingling experience when the anthem is as good as 'La Marseillaise', but I have never known it happen before. Mini rugby balls abounded and the 'tricolore' face paint was much in evidence. Even the poor, sole Argentinian fan had to endure the French colours being daubed on his face just after kick-off, but then again, he had the last laugh.

In case you don't know, it didn't quite go to plan and the French lost. Over the course of the two hours the cries of "Allez" became less vocal and by the end of the game the bar was subdued. At the final whistle the bar emptied. The so-called 'sages' were telling us that they knew this was going to happen and a nation uttered "dommage" (shame) or "cauchemar" (nightmare) depending on their point of view. There could not have been a bigger sense of anti-climax. Elsewhere in the world I know the fans would have had another couple or more beers and sang long into the night - in England, or Ireland, Wales, Scotland, South Africa, Australia or New Zealand - but here in France everyone skulked off into the night as if it had never happened or didn't exist - there was no optimism that the next game would be ok, just total I told you so (not) depression.

For myself, well, I wanted to snigger about the very real possibility of the French being knocked out of their home World Cup in the first round but actually, as an Englishman, I have witnessed the fervent national pride and expectation of a nation being extinguished by Argentina far too often - different code but same result - so come on Ireland, stuff the Argies and let the French play on if possible, otherwise the next month might see the promising Sarkozy government fall and a new French revolution!!