Life in a Village

“Charlotte! Comment tu vas?!” The barman’s face lights up as I slump myself down on a barstool, taking off my backpack, work laptop inside. It’s 9pm on a weeknight and I’ve just finished another long workday. Koko* takes one look at me and pours me a glass of red wine. “Petit vin rouge” he announces. Koko speaks barely a word of English and those words appear more suited to the bedroom. He arrived in France 16 years ago from Turkey, not knowing a word of French. He’s learnt off the street and still has a very thick Turkish accent. It really tests my own French abilities, but he’s so cheeky and just adorable with a big smile that it’s easy to make the effort.

I love small village life. Most people think I live in Paris but actually I’m in a small village nearly an hour’s train ride from central Paris. Much as Paris is gorgeous to visit and I love wandering the streets there, rent is twice what I pay out here and that’s if you can actually find an apartment. They tend to be tiny apartments with windy stairs and only an elevator if you’re lucky. The general pace is one of stress – metros are crowded and people are pushy and shovey. I much prefer the tranquility of village life at the end of a long day where I can come home to my large, quiet apartment on the third floor. No elevator but you can’t have it all.

The village centre is awash with bakeries, butcheries, charcuteries, a fish shop, nic nac shops, tobacco shops (yes the French are still one of the world’s worst lot of smokers), patisseries, “cheap” mobile phone shops, and cafés. In fact I’ve never seen so many butcheries and bakeries in one village. I counted at least 4 bakeries and three butcheries in one street.

The outdoor marketplace is the hub of the centre and every Friday and Sunday mornings there is a fantastic market that draws everyone in to do their shopping. I usually go in on a Sunday where there are queues of people outside the bakeries and butcheries, all socially-distanced now of course. I love the fact that the butcher offers me a bone when he knows I want to do a slow-cooked beef and busily saws off one for me . There is no mince on display either – you have to ask for it, and they’ll take a slab of meat and mince it fresh for you.

At the market, it’s commonplace to strike up a chat with random strangers in the queue to discuss produce, where it comes from and what to do with it, and a general sense of satisfaction when everyone agrees together on what is best for the pecorino cheese you just picked up. You’d never get this in the rush of Paris. I love the cheeses.

As well as the Italian pecorino , there are, of course, a wide range of mostly French cheeses at the fromager’s stand. A woman asks me what is in the cheese I am getting. It’s the more Sicilian variety of pecorino with peppercorns. We discuss the stuffed vegetable dish I’m going to make with the cheese to be sprinkled on top, to nods of approval, despite it not being a French cheese. I just have to have a wee slab of Epoisse too – a gooey creamy cheese that is just to die for. I resist the Livarot, a strong Normandy cheese that I also love and the truffled goat’s cheese at 10 euros a ball. It is not uncommon for people to spend 30 euros just on cheese here.

Then there are the bars like Koko’s. When I picked up the keys to my apartment on my first day in the village, it was at Koko’s that I stopped for lunch while waiting for a very stressful visa appointment. After that he would wave at me until one day he offered me a drink to entice me in and to meet everyone.

Bars are not quite the same as in New Zealand. They’re a specific type of pub where people, mainly men, usually stand at the counter, and discuss the woes of the world with the barman. Some, like Koko’s, do have seating and outdoor spaces but life happens more inside. Everyone knows everyone, everyone has a nickname, and everyone seems to drink an awful lot of beer.

Everyone has a place too. Koko, the bar owner, is the one who decides what’s what. Everyone has a huge respect for him as owner and will do whatever he says. Then there’s Hamish* the French ex-military colonel with the very English name who wears dark glasses inside, is in his 70s but still works out every day, and sounds like the Godfather when he speaks. He can be found reading his book at the end of the bar drinking coffee after coffee before heading home at a respectable hour. There are many Portuguese, Turks, and Moroccans as well as French who pass their time “pour discuter”. This is a very multicultural village.

There’s the two businessmen who have been accepted even though they are not locals, because they spend three nights a week in the village for business. One has his own purpose-built wine cave with 735 bottles of wine in it. He says he needs to drink 100 of them in the next year. That’s two a week. Naturally we struck up conversation. We enjoyed a fabulous dinner one night talking all things wine and food and the next week he came to the bar with two bottles of reds that I’d always wanted to try and got Koko to order in platters of charcuterie and cheese (yes, Epoisse and Livarot included).

Finally, there’s Mr Mayor, so-called because he works at the local town hall. I’m not quite sure what he does there but he has long and intense conversations with himself at the bar as he downs pint after pint. Everyone looks after him, makes sure that he gets home ok. Remarkably he can speak English reasonably well but gets too shy. Some others can speak English and take turns practising with me and teaching me some street French. One guy tried to teach me Turkish. He spoke next to no English and not much French. It was an entertaining lesson in pronunciation.

“Merhaba” “Hello”

“Merrrhabar”

“No! No r . No French r. Stop r.”

I tried again. He shook his head and smiled. Third time lucky maybe ? “Yes! Better.” Next word. Again I failed. “No! Please no.” I got exactly three words down in half an hour before he needed to leave.

While Koko is cheeky and adorable he also can be very fiery and extremely protective. He is not a small man either. I learned a valuable lesson about acceptance one day. When I first came in I was asked if I was just visiting and I explained that no, I had moved to Arpajon and lived just around the corner. This seemed to satisfy everyone and drinks flowed. I was Arpajonaise now so I was OK.

One night a group of young lads were sitting out on the terrace having a few drinks and started talking to me. Being the kiwi that I am, I thought nothing of it, and started chatting away to them and having a few laughs. I could feel the eyes of the others watching us. Soon the lads invited me to a party which I politely declined. When they started to insist, out of nowhere Koko arrived like a rocket and exploded at them. They tried to placate him by inviting him to the party too, but he was having none of it and kicked them out.

Meanwhile I had been steered inside the bar and was being given my own talking to by one of the others. “You can’t talk to people like that, they are not from here, we don’t know them.” I protested “But they’re just a few young lads enjoying some beers, I wasn’t going to go with them.” “Doesn’t matter. What if they followed you as you were walking home? Men do that here.” I repeated my protests. “No, you have to understand, you can’t trust people here, especially if they are not from here. You are one of us, they are not”

Koko came back inside and glared at me with a face of thunder. It didn’t take him long to calm down however and soon he was laughing away and recounting how they’d invited him to the party too. But not before he’d given me a similar talking-to.

It is nice to know that I am considered a part of the community. It’s not easy to be accepted in France as a foreigner, but somehow this little bar in a small village seems to enjoy this strange kiwi woman who comes in to chat. With COVID19 and being far from home, it’s living in a village and this little bar that make these tough times that little bit easier.

Of course, now that we are locked down again, the bar is closed and not likely to re-open until at least mid January. I miss it, I really do.

*Not their real names

Koko’s bar on a sunny summer’s day