There is a small town in the south-eastern corner of France not too far from Toulon known as Six-Fours-les-Plages, or Six-Fours for short. While it is spelled "Six-Fours", it is not pronounced as Americans say "six fours" (or most English speaking people say it, I assume). It is pronounced as the French say "six fours", which is something like "says fohrns" as best as I can remember.
But the pronunciation is not the point. The point of this little diatribe is how I ended up in Six-Fours and learned that the French really aren't that rude. This all came about after I spent a day walking around the South of France near Toulon. See, I had been staying at the Novotel, about two and a half km from the harbor of Toulon, and had yet to secure a rental car.
Which I did not see as a problem, because I love to explore areas I visit by walking around without benefit of a tour guide or even a guidebook. Just wandering out and about, down streets that pique my curiosity or toward whatever looks to be interesting or worthwhile.
So, by two in the afternoon, after several hours of meandering about primarily in the direction of things that looked rural (walked past a quaint little vineyard replete with a winery) and away from things that looked urban (the very industrial inner-city of Toulon), in what was to me an ideal way to spend the day in the South of France, I found myself lost in the little French commune of Ollioules (that's pronounced "Ooo - ells"...as best I can remember)
I state it was to me an ideal way...however, I was at the time with my then-wife, and my then-wife really didn't get into all the walking about lost as readily as I did. The part where neither of us spoke or could comprehend much French didn't help either - toss in the hunger that had built up after all the walking (on a very light French breakfast of cheese and bread with a glass of orange juice), and the mood was getting a little testy to say the least.
Ah, but fortune smiled upon us. We stumbled upon a nice cafe that was serving up pasta for lunch (what I thought was spaghetti, except it came with a raw egg over it as opposed to a hearty meat sauce). Even better than the lunch was the American we met there, an ex-pat who had married a Frenchman and now lived in Ollioules. She was gracious enough to get us oriented and point us in the direction of the Novotel in Toulon.
The then-wife and I ate our lunch and headed back towards Toulon...only to promptly lose our bearings again.
This is the part where it gets good.
The then-wife and I had stopped in front of a Real Estate office to discuss the possibility of getting a cab or at least finding a bus. Being that we had no idea how to find a cab or a bus, I decided to attempt to communicate with the men staffing the Real Estate office. Using a combination of poor French (Excuse moi...parle Anglish? Les touristes...de trouver..car) and gestures (hands on a steering wheel), I somehow managed to convince the office staff that we were desperately in need of transportation.
Although It may have been the pleading look in my eyes that did it - that look men give to one another when they need to be saved from the wrath of an upset wife. It's universally recognized by men as a distress signal.
Except they thought what I was saying and doing meant we wanted to rent a car and got out a phone book and looked up a car rental agency to find us one. I wasn't aware that it was a car rental they were securing and not a taxi until 30 minutes later, when a small Mercedes pulled up in front of the Real Estate office and a very polite young woman jumped out and asked us if we were the Americans looking for a car (In fairly decent English, to my relief).
I replied that we were looking for a cab and that I must have made a mistake conveying that to the gentlemen inside the Real Estate office. The polite young woman wasn't fazed - she asked how long we were staying, I told her a couple of more days, and she stated that we could rent the very car she had driven up in for about $80.00 American, plus gas, for the next couple of days, and that would be far less than the cost of a couple of cab rides in Toulon.
The then-wife and I looked at each other and without a word agreed that we were going to rent that car. The polite young woman told us we had to go to the rental office to complete the paperwork, so after a few "Merci bien beaucoup's" to the guys in the Real Estate office, we hopped in and were taken to the rental agency.
Which was in Six-Fours. A very pretty postcard of a seaside village just 15 minutes from Ollioules. The rental agency people were very quick and efficient, and within a half hour of getting the paperwork done (Thankfully, I had my International driver's license with me), the then-wife and I were happily driving through the narrow streets of Six-Fours in an A series Mercedes. The A series is not sold by Mercedes in the U.S. - it's a small economy car that I believe the folks at Mercedes believe would lower the prestige of the Mercedes name if it were introduced to the U.S. market.
It was a fun little car to drive though, and speedy, too. We went up the coast to Saint Tropez on the French Riviera, and laid out on the beach with the very rich (and very topless - ooh-la-lah!) French sun worshipers. We drove along the winding and weaving roads that somewhat skirted (and somewhat did not - lots of curvy road over small mountains - on which, I must confess, I imagined I was James Bond) the Mediterranean coast back to Six-Fours.
The day we had to return the car we decided to eat what would be our last dinner in France (we were off to Spain in the morning) in a seaside restaurant in Six-Fours. Again, we spoke little French, and none of the staff spoke English, but that was okay as every item on the menu was illustrated with large photographs. The then-wife and I decided that what looked to be lobster with mussels, clams and anemones looked delicious, so we ordered that.
Like your average Americans we anticipated a steamed lobster tail that we could dip in delicious hot melted butter, and a few steamed clams, and finally a few chilled oysters to wolf down. Nope. Everything was served "Froid". I had noticed the word on the menu but I had no clue what it meant. It means...cold. And in the context of this particular dish, it meant raw and cold.
When the huge, iced platter of seafood arrived at out table both of us stared in confused amazement. We tried our best to tell the waiter that something was not right, that we thought the food would come out cooked, but it was to no avail. He could not understand us. However, a few minutes after bringing the food to our table he returned with a young woman.
This young woman was the restaurant owner's daughter. She had gone to school in the U.S. and could speak English. She explained to us that most seafood was served cold and that included all the soups and sauces. She told us that about the only thing they had hot on the dinner menu was coffee.
Well, we made the best of it, picking at the various items (and I do mean picking - eating a winkle meant using a little steel spear the size of a hat pin to extract the soft meat). Everybody on the staff must have thought we were the two pickiest eaters on earth because when we finished we each had taken exactly one small bite from each item.
After the table had been cleared we ordered a couple cups of coffee - had to cleanse the palate. The owner's daughter came back out and asked if we wouldn't mind one more cold dish - a desert treat that the hotel was famous for. The then-wife and I hesitated a moment then shrugged an okay. A minute later the waiter came out with two tall glasses of what was called "Mont Blanc", a whipped cream covered delight that was scrumptious!
Those people of the South of France, who didn't know us and owed us no favors, all extended themselves to help us enjoy our short stay. Whenever I chance upon a citizen of France visiting the States I make it a point to be as nice and helpful as I can.
Which has scared a few of them - the movies and television have really given us large bald men bad reputations. Most of us are actually quite alright.
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