Z is for Zen and the art of living in France

It has been just over a year since we came here to live and the magic is still very much alive.

Granted we are blessed to be living in a particularly lovely corner of France, but even without rose tinted spectacles, the positive aspects of life here far outweigh the negatives.

Plenty of expats will spin you stories of interminable red tape and inflexible bureaucracy. A plethora of fora (or is that forums?) has sprung up, affording the disgruntled and jaded the opportunity to moan about shortcomings of the French way of life.

My feeling is that in being here we have chosen this life. Granted, we can't vote so have no power to change the status quo. But we can practise the gentle art of gratefulness. We can appreciate the slower pace of life; enjoy the finer points of French cuisine and wine; participate in the community around us.

Zen may appear to be a cop out in the search for a topic beginning with Z, but I actually believe that to benefit fully from this life in France, we must be detached from the potential frustrations and focus on the joys of the French way of life. Acceptance brings peace and in the true spirit of Zen practice, observation brings understanding.

I hope my 27 observations this month have enlightened you a little and given you a taste of this life in France.

Post script: Z is also for Zut!

I cannot pass by Z without at least a brief reference to that marvellous word - Zut!

As expressive as any of our more vulgar anglo saxon expletives, it captures perfectly every moment of frustration or disgruntlement.

And it's not even rude. How cool is that?

Zut alors!

Y is for Y

Y. The shortest word in the French language and yet so very, very useful.

Y means 'here', or 'there'. It means 'of them', 'of it', 'of whatever it is you are talking about.'

Who would have thought such a little, one letter word would have such far reaching consequences?

"How many biscuits are there?" "Il y en a trois." I rest my case.

X is for XL

I am a big bird. I always have been.

One of the things I admire about French women is their sveltesse, their élégance.

It is probably true to say that the majority of French women are still slender. I say still, because I have noticed a marked increase in the last ten years in the number of overweight French women.

When I first started coming here for holidays, any fat woman would be guaranteed to be either British, American or German. Or sometimes Belgian. Now, if you spot a lady with a bit of avoirdupois, she is just as likely to be French. (This is not a sexist observation; there have been porky French men since forever.)

There is a marked difference in attitude to food amongst the girls we have staying here from the boys. Rarely will a boy shun a biscuit or dessert (though I have had some pretty faddy male eaters). But the girls are nearly 90% guaranteed to make a fuss about anything that might be perceived as 'fattening'. I know this is probably the case all over the Western world, but it is interesting to observe that the girls with legs like sparrows whose mothers are slender and élégante eat like sparrows too.

Macdonalds here highlights something too. Where franchises elsewhere in the world are maxing it up and offering bigger and bigger portions, the French version scales it down. There is a whole section of the menu devoted to petite faim and the children's happy meal has a compulsory bag of fruit or compote. They used to do a goats cheese wrap (sadly no longer on offer) and the petite salade comes with a hazelnut oil dressing.

The increase in the girth of many French women has brought one advantage. Years ago I would walk into a boutique to be greeted by a gazelle in thigh length leather boots, appraising my generous form with one haughty glance and declaring there to be nothing in my size in the store. Now at least, there is more available for ladies like me. And I notice the XL is no longer just big enough for an eight year old girl; it is slowly growing to meet the increasing demand.

W is for Websites

It is the end of April and time for declarations. The first quarter's cotisations and last year's tax must be paid (see I is for Impots).

It's no big deal and it happens everywhere, but here in France there is the issue of the websites to be dealt with.

All the official correspondence that drops into our boitolette tells us brightly that it is quick and painless to perform our declarations online.

The actual websites tell a mighty different story.

I am forming the opinion that the French are not as hot on websites and the worldwide interweb as most of the rest of the world. The favoured methods of communication here are still the telephone and, better, face to face. Email, the bedrock of failsafe correspondence, is only just easing its way into the French way of doing things.

The French adoption of the internet appears slower than the rest of the world and more creaky. These government websites are densely written with gobbledygook; it takes hours of trawling through scribble to find the nugget of information you are seeking. But most infuriating is the fact that after two hours of going through the process of signing up for online declarations (quick and painless I was promised, remember), I am told that I cannot make any declarations just yet. I must try again ultérieurement (later). I must wait for the website fairies to grant me permission.

Elsewhere on the internet, French websites often fail to cut the mustard. Maybe its because they are still used to a formal way to communicating (just take a look at any official letter), but they often feel the need to cram their pages with text that is never going to be read and that only obscures the more important details. What exactly is your address and what are your opening hours?

Today, I shall abandon my laptop and drive the 45 minutes to the offices of URSSAF. I shall be handing them our declarations in person. It feels much safer that way.

V is for Vélos

Ah the bicyclette! Yet another symbol of all that is French!

It's the middle of Spring, the Easter holidays are underway, and we are awash with lycra and hard hats.

You have to schedule at least an extra five minutes to get to the supermarket because you are bound to come up behind a padded botty raised above a razor sharp saddle, beetling its way up one of the steep hills round these parts.

Don't get me wrong. I like cycling. I bought a shiny new(ish) blue one only the other week and plan to ride it along the only flat bit of road we have round here.

Personally, I think the purpose of a bike is to take in the countryside at a leisurely pace. I cannot share the enthusiasm for masochistic peddling when all you can focus on is the tarmac beneath you.

But the French will take their vélos so damn seriously. Even in midweek you can come across coteries of middle aged gentlemen got up like Ninjas, riding three abreast. They take up so much room.

And you rarely see people riding bikes in normal clothes. If a cyclist is wearing jeans they are probably a tourist and German. The French believe you must look the part. Lycra tops, lycra tights, little socky shoe things, and helmets with ski slope profiles presumably for improved aerodynamics.Vive la Tour de France and vive the garb that goes with it.

U is for Urgences

Healthcare in France is said to be second to none.

There are a few bureaucratic hurdles to be negotiated by the incoming foreigner, and it can take up to two years to be recognised as a valid member of French society, but once you are in receipt of the gilt edged Carte Vitale, your health is in very safe hands.

Let me explain. Healthcare in France is not free, but most people are entitled to at least 70% off the cost of it at the point of delivery, providing they have the magic green plastic card. In addition to this, you can choose to pay for top up insurance which will then write off the remaining 30% you generally have to pay yourself.

So, providing you have the carte and even better if you have a mutuelle insurance, you can benefit from superb care and services.

My forays into the French healthcare have been illuminating. I sliced my finger on a glass and was stitched up in double quick time at the local A&E. I visited my GP about some 'wimmins' troubles' and had scans and blood tests done within the week. The very nice young man with the scanning machine gave me the results and the pictures then and there - how impressive is that?

But my most entertaining brush with the urgences was a year or so ago when I was experiencing a little bother with my heart. A tourist at the time, I had private health insurance so I called the company to ask where I should go for a check up. I think the girl on the phone was new to the job and she leapt at the chance of an all out 'all points' alarm call.

I was told I shouldn't drive myself to the hospital and that transport would be sent. I strolled round to the local creperie with my son and friends to wait for the car. Embarrassed was not the word when I saw an ambulance parking up at the end of the road. Horrified does not describe how I felt when I heard the chopper flying in across the bay.

A very nice paramedic had me strapped and monitored before I could splutter "I say, this really isn't necessary!" Then four hunky policemen in black polo shirts and stubble helped load me into the helicopter. My friend stood by with the camera and helpless laughter.

It was a fabulous ride along the north Brittany coast in an August sunset. It was marred only by the fact that I was prostrate and had to crane my neck to see the azure water crashing against the rocks.

Suffice it to say, on arrival at the hospital I was thoroughly tested and kept in overnight, to be released the next day with no sign of any real problem.

That episode alone convinced me this is a good country to be in if you are at all worried about your health.