aunt Joannie arrives from New Zealand, the first of what will grow to be a steady stream of antipodean visitors. Far from being upset about me living on the other side of the world, family and friends seem only too delighted with the prospect of a Paris pad. Straight off a twenty-eight hour plane trip, Joannie is her usual boisterous, overexcited self. Within approximately sixty seconds of meeting Frédéric, she has done away with any preliminary formalities.
‘My husband made me promise not to mention the Rainbow Warrior,’ she tells him. ‘But you know, Freddo, I think I’ll feel a lot better if I just get it off my chest.’ And shooting him a wicked wink, Joannie erupts in whooping, helpless laughter. Although momentarily taken aback, Frédéric quickly joins in. Soon the pair of them are swapping smutty, silly jokes which they both find hilarious. Before long she is on the back of his motorbike, her joyful shrieks ringing down the boulevards.
Far from being affronted by this easy antipodean familiarity, Frédéric seems to adore it. He loves having people to stay and seems to relish his role as host, getting up early to buy croissants and baguettes and squeeze fresh orange juice for breakfast. Inevitably he gets called ‘Freddo Frog’, and a packet of the so-named chocolate frogs even arrives fromSydney friends as a joke. He seems to like the tickling, teasing humour. Although undeniably proud, the French can be excellent sports when it comes to poking fun at themselves. They can also be terribly self-critical, referring to ‘ les Français ’ in the third person as though they are a foreign, vaguely suspect people. Les Français sont tous des râleurs , is one frequent refrain. The French are all whiners. Too individualistic; hopeless with foreign languages. The French are hypochondriacs, they say, citing the way people expect pages of doctors’ prescriptions for a common cold. They seem resigned to their litany of French flaws, as though powerless to change them.
Although Australians have a self-deprecating humour the difference in France is that often they’re not joking. This isn’t something I had expected from the French. They seem to be able to view themselves and their country from afar, serving up frank self-criticism while remaining glaringly Gallic. It is another paradox in the puzzle these people represent. Frédéric’s deep pride in his country doesn’t prevent him from ridiculing the Republic.
Several months after Joannie’s departure a parcel arrives from New Zealand. It’s addressed to Frédéric. Inside is a card and a present—a white Greenpeace T-shirt with a commemorative message splashed across the front:
Rainbow Warrior
tenth anniversary of the sinking
It’s from Joannie, of course. Frédéric wears it everywhere. The T-shirt is a reminder of the 1985 bombing of the Greenpeace boat in Auckland harbour, carried out by French secret service agents, no doubt on the orders of PresidentFrançois Mitterrand. The vessel was scheduled to sail for Mururoa to protest French nuclear tests on the South Pacific atoll. France wanted to stop it. In the end, the international outrage over the sinking—which tragically caused the death of a Portuguese photographer—forced a moratorium on French tests.
The T-shirt arrives just after the tenth anniversary of the Rainbow Warrior sinking. Ironically, when the date of the anniversary came around, France was already at the centre of another nuclear furore. And oddly, it would have an unexpected impact on my future.
Several months earlier, in May, I’d received a phone call which had delivered exciting news. My application had been accepted by Journalists in Europe! I was one of about thirty applicants who’d been selected. The idea of the eight-month course is to give journalists a chance to deepen their understanding of Europe through work experience. There are regular field trips to write stories and scholarships cover basic
‘My husband made me promise not to mention the Rainbow Warrior,’ she tells him. ‘But you know, Freddo, I think I’ll feel a lot better if I just get it off my chest.’ And shooting him a wicked wink, Joannie erupts in whooping, helpless laughter. Although momentarily taken aback, Frédéric quickly joins in. Soon the pair of them are swapping smutty, silly jokes which they both find hilarious. Before long she is on the back of his motorbike, her joyful shrieks ringing down the boulevards.
Far from being affronted by this easy antipodean familiarity, Frédéric seems to adore it. He loves having people to stay and seems to relish his role as host, getting up early to buy croissants and baguettes and squeeze fresh orange juice for breakfast. Inevitably he gets called ‘Freddo Frog’, and a packet of the so-named chocolate frogs even arrives fromSydney friends as a joke. He seems to like the tickling, teasing humour. Although undeniably proud, the French can be excellent sports when it comes to poking fun at themselves. They can also be terribly self-critical, referring to ‘ les Français ’ in the third person as though they are a foreign, vaguely suspect people. Les Français sont tous des râleurs , is one frequent refrain. The French are all whiners. Too individualistic; hopeless with foreign languages. The French are hypochondriacs, they say, citing the way people expect pages of doctors’ prescriptions for a common cold. They seem resigned to their litany of French flaws, as though powerless to change them.
Although Australians have a self-deprecating humour the difference in France is that often they’re not joking. This isn’t something I had expected from the French. They seem to be able to view themselves and their country from afar, serving up frank self-criticism while remaining glaringly Gallic. It is another paradox in the puzzle these people represent. Frédéric’s deep pride in his country doesn’t prevent him from ridiculing the Republic.
Several months after Joannie’s departure a parcel arrives from New Zealand. It’s addressed to Frédéric. Inside is a card and a present—a white Greenpeace T-shirt with a commemorative message splashed across the front:
Rainbow Warrior
tenth anniversary of the sinking
It’s from Joannie, of course. Frédéric wears it everywhere. The T-shirt is a reminder of the 1985 bombing of the Greenpeace boat in Auckland harbour, carried out by French secret service agents, no doubt on the orders of PresidentFrançois Mitterrand. The vessel was scheduled to sail for Mururoa to protest French nuclear tests on the South Pacific atoll. France wanted to stop it. In the end, the international outrage over the sinking—which tragically caused the death of a Portuguese photographer—forced a moratorium on French tests.
The T-shirt arrives just after the tenth anniversary of the Rainbow Warrior sinking. Ironically, when the date of the anniversary came around, France was already at the centre of another nuclear furore. And oddly, it would have an unexpected impact on my future.
Several months earlier, in May, I’d received a phone call which had delivered exciting news. My application had been accepted by Journalists in Europe! I was one of about thirty applicants who’d been selected. The idea of the eight-month course is to give journalists a chance to deepen their understanding of Europe through work experience. There are regular field trips to write stories and scholarships cover basic
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