The tougher than expected transition into French life cannot be shaken and no matter what we do we, or perhaps more accurately I, seem to be push us further down hill as we attempt to claw our way up the ladder of acceptance.
We had heard about a fantastic winery that had a wine store where one can buy a 5 or 10ltr drum and with literally a gas pump hose in hand fill it with your favorite plonk. This holy grail is called Sylla. (Aptly familiar sounding name of an enthusiastic wine drinker I know).
Arriving at this winery gas station I left the crew in the car and entered. Wine out of a gas pump shouldn’t be a tough place to navigate but I had clearly underestimated how serious the French take their wine. As I walked in I was surrounded by the full Sylla spread in bottles, boxes and gas pump. There were people lining up bottles to taste, others eating a wine pairing lunch and others talking knowledgeably to the sommelier on hand. Showing up in a sweaty t-shirt and dirty shorts with sunglasses balancing on my head left me much to be desired and consequently few people came running to ask if they could help.
It was time to take the matter into my own hands and so I walked up and asked it I could taste the gas pumped wine. Disapprovingly she sent me the bar. I straightened my t-shirt, centered my sunglasses and confidently headed over. The som looked round and with a sigh asked if he could help. I asked for a taste of his very best gas pumped rose and reluctantly he poured the smallest tasting he could. I had seen a Belgium couple in action who were swigging and spitting with confidence so I was keen to get this right. I took a sip, squelched, sucked and grinned and then as delicately as possible spat in the very fashionable oversized Bordeaux glass next to me. The som gave me a look that would flatten Medusa and sarcastically pointed to the actual spit bucket located 12″ to my right. I had spat in the decoration.
I needed to regain some kind of face so asked to try the more expensive rose. This did little to gain me brownie points as I was now clearly classified as the “cheap-bastard-who-has-no-idea-what-he-is-doing-and-is-going-to-make-me-work-even-harder.” More squelching, sucking and grinning took place until thirty minutes later I departed with two bottles of the good stuff and five liters of the pumped stuff. The women at the checkout was clearly not fooled and was happy to see me leave.
It had been a hot day and so it was time for the communal pool in St Martin de Castillon. The boys were over excited which meant stern conversations about good behavior followed by unrealistic threats if they failed to do so. As we approached the pool we noticed how few board shorts were being worn but having spent four weeks in Italy we were used to this. We paid our dues and walked into the changing area. One is then required to walk through a toe bath of sorts and a sign that clearly states you required are to shower prior to entering the pool. Having been dealt a tough hand in the wine store I was keen to get this right but had lost all confidence. We waited for someone to walk through first and in true form someone barged past us and walked through toe bath with flip flops on ignoring the shower sign. Wearing ones shoes did seem counter productive to attempts to stay clean but pretending like we owned the place we marched forward with flip flops on and never stopped to shower.
As we came through the other side you could feel heads turn and glare. To make matters worse we were rather unceremoniously flagged down by the life guard. With confidence I said bonjour. He looked at me pointedly and in a grave tone asked if I had les shorts courts. What should have been a simple question to answer I suddenly found myself having an internal dialogue on how does one define “short shorts.” This surely is a matter of perspective. The best answer I could come up with was j’ai ces shorts. He shook his head sadly but told me that he would let us swim today but tomorrow we would need to have our own short shorts. Realizing that this was not a question of fashion but a legal requirement I was keen to get this conversation over with though I had to ask “why?” Was this a hygienic thing? I should never had asked. All I heard was non, mais… followed by mumbling that went on for eternity. At some point before closing he stopped and released us to find a spot in the shade.p and the onlookers returned to whatever they were doing before we arrived. We were back down to ignorant tourist status.
Trying to anticipate further upsets we sent off four rather bemused boys to enjoy the pool as long as they did not jump, run, talk, breath, swim or even get wet. It didn’t take long until we came across a couple from Battersea whose husband’s family grew up here and he told us that short shorts were required at public swimming pools. Why, you may well ask but it seems few have the answer. Certainly no Battersea or lifeguard. After much research Camilla found this pocket of information. 
Despite this set back we thought we would try our luck again the next day and via a quick trip to the hypermarche we arrived fully clad in our family “budgie smugglers.” We came, we saw, we swam.
Feeling that we were starting to blend in we didn’t want to upset this delicate balance so we thought it best that Zach change in the changing rooms when it was time to go home. The changing rooms were co-ed with co-ed restrooms to boot. This, I thought was progressive, but then so were some of the female swimsuits around the pool. As I was finishing getting changed a women came into the changing room and Nico suddenly appeared as if by magic loudly announcing his desire to pee.
“So go pee” I rather unhelpfully said.
“But where do I go” said Nico
“In the loo, dear Liza, dear Liza in the loo” I equally unhelpfully retorted.
“But I don’t want to go in the loo” came the reply. I was quickly losing ground and as I was grappling with the logic that all of a sudden my son could only pee in a urinal Zach upped and left. Zipping up my shorts I demanded he come back.
“No!” He shrieked back. Feeling my temperature rise as the farce that was starting to unveil in front of our new community I insisted on knowing why. “Because you change these cubicles here Dad!”
A child that couldn’t use the loo and a father who changes in public. Our status sank to new lows.