Une Soiree Paella (in France, not Spain)

We came across this poster in the window of the Mairie during a routine stake-out of our new commune. I was brave and French and called to reserve two tickets. The day came, and we attended. And how did this modestly advertised event pan out, I hear you ask...

We arrived at precisely 19H30 as suggested. There were a few cars parked outside, the first cars we'd ever seen in Bar. A group of three women said, 'Bonsoir' to us as we walked towards the door of the Salle des Fetes... in pitch black darkness. We entered and paid our dues, and bought two tombola tickets. The ladies at the desk wished us a happy evening. We entered the hall, which was very brightly lit. There was a bar with a chalkboard sign advertising punch at 1 Euro, or a pitcher of either beer, rose wine or red wine for 5 Euros. We'd been given a voucher for our free punch, so we had that straight away. It was a tropical fruit juice. From a carton. We ordered a pitcher of red wine; it was a BIG flagon! Some people had seated themselves at some of the trestle tables. We discovered that our names had been biro-ed onto the paper tablecloths. We found 'Hockey' on the table closest to the toilet and sat at the far end with our flagon of wine. From our distant vantage point, we discreetly surveyed our company for the evening with growing excitement...

 Enjoying my punch... in a plastic cup.

A 'pre-anything happening' visit to the toilet revealed the usual 'one size fits all' arrangement, with an initial room containing hand-washing facilities and pissoirs, and a door leading to a normal toilet. It appears that French women and children are perfectly comfortable in queuing and chatting alongside the pissoir-ing men. It's a small barrier I have to work on.

People continued to arrive for the next hour and a half. Kevin nourished himself with a bowl of bar peanuts. We continued to sit in our corner with our wine. A French mother and son, Marie et Frederique, came and sat with us, and we began a night of exhausting Franglais. At nine, the mayor arrived, and people began to take their seats. The night's entertainment was unleashed: a man on his accordion! Every time the accordion man got up to play, another man, in a pink long-sleeved tee-shirt, joined him in a variety of supporting acts, including whistling, reedy singing and elbows-out clapping. He was such a compelling, enthusiastic and lovable man, and we were glad.

The mayor made it his business to go to every person to offer a personal greeting. We were included, and he knew who we were and where we lived. He was a gregarious and excitable chap, whom Kevin has already developed a soft spot for.

The food began to arrive and it was good. Firstly, a local traditional soup, which they called soupe, not potage, accompanied by baskets of tough rural bread. The paella was surprisingly bountiful, with chunks of smoked fish, large prawns and mussels. The cheese and fruit salad were very acceptable too. There was coffee, then the mayor proceeded to offer everyone a tot of his 2002 Prune alcohol. I had some in a plastic cup, and I managed to drink it before it completely melted through. It had been just before this that the mayor had come to me to complain that England had beaten France (at rugby- he didn't clarify, but I didn't think he meant Napoloen and all that). He said I should, therefore, buy everyone a drink. I told him I was Scottish. (No, I actually am!)

The tombola was just a raffle involving one prize. Neither of my tickets won. One prize?! 

Frederique had a bag. He told me he'd recently been to Japan, and he'd bought it there. He's been to uni and has a qualification, but he says he is currently waiting to become a demolition man. This might not mean what I think it means. He may be a budding assassin. Frederique is, therefore, not his real name. His English was passable; he understood more than he could say. Like me. Suspiciously, he assured us that he could understand Kevin.

He doesn't know I took this photo...

Well, now we've met some of our local Barois and Baroises. The mayor has now told us twice that he is coming for a 'cafe' soon. I said that that would be delightful, that he was always welcome. He is. I'm relieved that he wasn't the man who visited last summer who I, in retrospect, thought might have been the mayor. The man who visited last summer turned up out of the blue and told me he was from the Mairie, but I assumed he was just a worker for the Commune and bestowed no milk nor honey upon him. For the duration of his visit, Kevin had been Skyping Rachel and paid no heed to the visitor. I offer everyone who comes 'bad coffee', but we didn't even do that. We were Skyping! I've been preparing my apology for ages, but now that I know it wasn't the mayor, well... we'll be okay. But who was that visitor?