Qu’est-ce qu’il y a dans un nom?

Strolling along the perfect sweep of the bay in Erquy, on the Emerald Coast in Brittany, I’m a woman on a mission. The little house we rent every year in October half term has no Wi-Fi, and while in past times this has been no problem, this autumn I need access to the internet. My earnest prayer (“Dear God, please send me some more writing work”) has been answered in spades by the good Lord and I have four articles spread over two clients which need to be amended and filed this week.

It’s no hardship to amble down through the town to the port every morning to a little café looking out over the harbour. They offer free Wi-Fi, so over a hot chocolate, I open my emails, amend my articles and write new ones. I haven’t heard a single English voice for a week (family excepted) and it’s bliss. I don’t speak French very well and my writer’s itch is being scratched by the many unfamiliar words and phrases flying round my head like a flock of unexpected butterflies. Walking back, I amuse myself by weaving scenarios to match the unfamiliar words.

Such as - even though it’s perfectly obvious what the salon de reunion offers, how much more entertaining would it be if you could only hire it out for actual reunions of long-lost friends and family members? I picture the booking clerk, Madame Casboult, round-faced and cheerful, taking a call. Her face darkens. “Non, Monsieur! Salon de Reunion! No meetings unless at least 50% of the participants haven’t seen each other for at least 10 years. Haven’t you read our terms and conditions?”

French towns seem to be awash with double-dealing and chicanery. Erquy is no exception. There are two or three establishments advertising that they are “traiteurs” but no-one seems in the least concerned. As I walk past the shop, I peer in, expecting to see a shifty looking individual passing secrets over the charcuterie, or at the very least, someone disguised as an onion seller. My gaze rests on an elegant woman with a silk scarf knotted round her neck. She’s frowning slightly but only because they’ve run out of artisan truffle oil.

Down the hill is the Banque Populaire. This surely begs the question, where do they keep the Banque Unpopulaire? At the first establishment, the minute the doors open, the tellers are mobbed with chattering clients, eager to deposit money, open new accounts and generally soak up the air of popularity that you only find at one place in town.

I picture the other banque, the one no-one mentions, situated in a cul-de-sac, overflowing municipal bins leaning carelessly against its wall, seagulls calling harshly as they do the unmentionable down the windows. Inside, the solitary teller sits gazing out of the dirty windows. Why is her employer so unpopulaire?

If you’ve made it this far, you might be wondering where I’m going with this. It’s only 18 days to Christmas, after all, and you have every right to expect some kind of seasonal blog from me. Alors, mes amis, this is it.

“Merry Christmas. Peace on earth and goodwill to all men.” Radical, counter-cultural, life-changing words, but the trouble is, they’re so familiar that their meaning has lost its edge. Translated into French, they hit me anew, fresh and heart-stopping. Why? Because I have to stop and think. It’s a new language, words with which I am not instantly familiar. The filter in my brain that makes me see the conference suite as a place for reunions, the deli as a nest of vipers and the bank as the cool kids’ hangout takes these well-known words and covers them in a golden glow, starlight, the essence of the season.

“Joyeaux Noel. Paix sur la terre et bonne volonté à tous les hommes.”

Joy. Birth. Peace. Words that will surely change our lives if we let them. Merry Christmas, peace and goodwill to all of you.

 Images: Pixabay