Shaw’s French Bread by Adam Pieniazek, flickr
The French are a strange race. I have heard it said that they are like their bread: crusty and hard on the outside, soft and malleable on the inside. Because of this, the veneer of standoffishness occasionally slips and we are given a look at what lies beneath. I can exemplify this by relating one little incident that happened when my wife, Sadie, and I were holidaying on the Riviera in 2003.
One Sunday morning at church in Menton, an elegant lady, approaching her seventies (if not already there), old and thin but carefully made-up and well preserved, did the readings. She was appropriately articulate and devout. if she was perhaps a little self-aware, she occasioned no comment from either Sadie or myself.
The French Riviera, pixabay
Later that evening, Sadie and I were passing through a cobbled square, surrounded by restaurants and alive with the bustle and chatter of the many diners on the pavements, eating al fresco in the soft, warm air. Out in the centre of the square was a Ukrainian folk group, dressed in full traditional costume—red jackets, black trousers, and riding boots for the men, and a colourful peasant dress for the sole woman who was ululating in a language unfamiliar to me. The men were playing a variety of instruments, including a huge balalaika, an accordion, a violin, drums, and a guitar. The music was gloriously evocative of the Russian steppes, of gypsy peasantry, of love and gaiety, of loneliness and loss. These people could play! Unsurprisingly, Sadie and I ensconced ourselves in a corner and sat down to watch, to listen, to enjoy.
ancient French country church, flickr
Shortly after that, the lady who had read at church that morning emerged from a street opposite us and perambulated regally into the place, eyes demurely cast down, concentrating not on seeing but on being seen. Catching sight of the musicians, she paused. As she stood solo in the middle of the square, her straw boater with its red silk ribbon, her pale-blue chiffon scarf, her colourful wide-skirted dress, and her little golden shoes became inevitable objects of scrutiny from the ringed spectators.
As she listened to the music, the top half of her body began to sway and, shortly after, her entire body began to undulate. With her eyes fixed firmly on the musicians, she began to move her feet in little steps—a little step to the side, a little step forwards, a little step backwards. Moments later, she took the chiffon scarf from her neck and, with both hands stretched above her head, she began to dance, making musically inspired configurations in the air with the scarf. Soon she was whirling, reversing, spinning, weaving, and occasionally stretching out one leg, toe pointed elegantly to the ground, in sudden dramatic pauses . . . and this lady, remember, was at least seventy! Smiling at the band, she continued her amazing performance until the music ended. For a moment she bowed and, eyes looking ground-wards, she held her hands apart to receive the applause, the whistles, the cheers, of her “fans,” before regally resuming her interrupted stroll out of the lighted square and on into the surrounding dusk.
Sadie stood up to speak to her as she passed us, complimenting her on her performance and telling her how much she had appreciated it.
“J’aime la dance,” she responded grandly. “J’aime beaucoup la dance!”
I thought the whole episode was bemusing, perhaps even amusing, but Sadie enjoyed the lady’s performance immensely. She later surmised that the lady must have been “on the stage” at some point in her life and had lost none of her old skills. Mais, qui sait?
As I said: the French are a strange race.
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