A refreshing douche on a hot summer afternoon, or: the kindness of the French

On Tuesday I had a travel day, from Rotschuo/Brunnen/Basel/Paris. It was fairly uneventful until the last legs of the journey. At Basel a very classically handsome older man was seated beside me. Beyond the standard Bonjour, comment allez-vous? he promptly fell asleep behind his classic Wayfarers. He was a most intriguing individual for some reason, and I really wanted to know his back story. Anyway, after a few hours he woke up and I was writing on my iPad which intrigued him. He hadn't seen an iPad before and wanted to see how they worked. Anyway, one thing led to another and we started chatting. Turns out he is a French actor (both theatre and film), and before you ask, no he was not Gerard Depardieu (although you would be forgiven for thinking that ol' Gerard is the only Frech actor in existence.) We had a wonderful conversation in broken English/appalling French and he gave me a train ticket before we went our separate ways at Gare du l'est.

Unbeknownst to me, there was a hideous train strike on the Metro on Tuesday. I am not sure of the French translation for complete clusterfuck but it certainly was one. I was asking a guard who spoke no English what the hell I should do, given that all trains to my destination had been cancelled, when a kindly and chic French woman called Barbara grabbed my hand and dragged me through the revolting, breathless underground and took me on an alternate route to get to my destination. It was hot and I was tired and also wearing clogs (idiot) with a massive suitcase in tow (double idiot) and I am so grateful to Barbara for her kindness in delivering me, two hours later, to my station. Hilariously, Barbara is of the age when women experience The Change and was undergoing some unpleasant hot flushes in the already-stuffy Metro Underground. She kept saying how much she wanted un douche which means shower in French. I wanted to tell her that unfortunately I could not provide her with a shower but if she really wanted a douche there are plenty of Australians I could introduce her to, should she ever be in the neighbourhood.

Additionally, no less than three different, handsome and charming Frenchmen carried my extremely heavy suitcase up and down long flights of stairs on this journey. Babes, all of them. I asked Barbara if this was normal and she said "yes, but because you are young and beautiful." I assured her that nothing similar had ever happened in Australia and nor was it likely to.

Within two hours of crossing the French border, all my expectations regarding the French as a deeply unpleasant and derisive people were utterly shot to merde. Between the actor, Barbara and the three lovely suitcase-haulers I had to accept that the French are in fact as lovely and helpful as anybody else (and in the case of heavy lifting they are especially agreeable).

I arrived at our Parisian apartment two hours late, sweaty and exhausted, but was greeted with such warmth and excitement from my six girlfriends, who had been waiting on our eighth-floor balcony for me, with telefoto lenses on their cameras as though they were professional paparazzi. We squealed, we walked through our neighbourhood and ate omelets at a charming little bistrot before going to heaven again yesterday. More to come.

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