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:what not to do in france Lesson #3: Never mistake foie gras for pate After regular trips to Paris over the years I have learnt that the French take their time in deciding if they want to socialise with you or not. Rather, they prefer to get the measure of you first before they take you into their inner sanctum and introduce you to their friends. So you can imagine how privileged we felt to be invited for dinner at the home of Teresa, a former classmate of mine from my school days in the Philippines, and her French husband, Jean Marc. Living in Bouc-Bel-Air, a lovely residential area close to Aix-en-Provence, they had also included another couple who were their dearest friends. Reading up on French gift-giving and dining etiquette from a book I had written called, Culture Savvy For Women, the first thing I noted was that the French rarely bring flowers to dinner parties. They either have them sent to the home before the event so that the host can display them, or they have them sent to the host afterwards as a "thank you." However, they do appreciate the good things in life, so an exceptional bottle of wine is always a welcome gift. The other thing we noted was that the French are very punctual, so arriving more than 15 minutes late for a dinner party is not the done thing. With Peter being notoriously late for just about everything, I planned our departure from our hotel with military precision in order to arrive at Teresa and Jean Marc's home on time. With our wine a hit with our hosts, and having arrived on time, we were off to a good start. The other thing we remembered is that the French are not interested in talking about the weather, your new car, your vacation, or the latest deal that you struck at work. They'd rather exercise their brains and conversation skills by talking about your country, history, and politics. As we had just come from Paris where the elections had just been held, exchanging views on the French economy and new President Hollande seemed to engage everyone's attention. Things were going swimmingly at our first dinner party in France. Or so we thought, until Teresa brought out a platter of hors d'oeuvres. Offering it to us first as her guests of honour, Peter and I gently picked one up and delicately bit into the miniature toasts, a taste sensation flooding our mouths. "Oh, this is wonderful pate!" Peter exclaimed. All of a sudden the room went deathly quiet as the temperature dropped by several degrees. "Monsieur, this is not pate. This is foie gras!" Teresa exclaimed with barely contained irritation. Oh dear! Our first French dinner party, our first faux pas! While the evening was eventually salvaged after much back peddling, never again will we make that mistake. Lesson#4: Never drive on France's motorways without change While I'm, by and large, a calm and even-tempered individual, driving through France's South more than tested our resolve. Our first taste of road panic seized us as we approached our first tollway en route to Saint-Paul de Vence from Nice airport. Seeing that they were all automated, Peter scrambled for his Visa card and inserted the card every which way. No chance. The machine kept spitting the darned thing out, saying that it was 'invalid'. The ATM didn't like Australian Visas, apparently. "Vic, I haven't got any coins!" Peter cried out, his voice escalating exponentially by the second. I hadn't any in my bag either. What to do? There was a line up of cars behind us, tooting their horns and yelling in exasperation at the silly tourists in the beige rental car. In the meantime, Peter was swearing at the machine and trying to shove Euro bills at whatever slit he could find. Trying to hold my own panic down, I tried reminding Peter that the machine didn't have a hope in hell of understanding him, nor did it accept Euro bills. Suddenly, something made me dig my hands in my jean pockets, and miracle or miracles, I fished out a single Euro coin. Must have been the change from the baggage trolley in the airport, but most importantly, it was enough to cover the 0.60 Euro toll. Crisis averted! Lesson#5: Never get in between a Frenchman and his lunch With so many medieval villages on top of rocky outcrops, surrounded by mazes of narrow and picturesque streets and lane ways waiting to be discovered, rural France is filled with historic wonders. Reality slaps you in the face, however, if you forget that the lunch hour is strictly between 12.00 p.m. -2.00 a.m. in rural France. We first came upon this while visiting the Grimaldi Castle in the village of Cagnes sur Mer. Stopping by the marble staircase momentarily after viewing the castle's art collection, Peter and I leaned on the double bannister, taking a moment to reflect on the castle's history. Looking down to the ground floor, we noticed one of the staff members looking up at us, anxiously pointing to his watch. Peter, in his broken French, gave him the time. Rolling his eyes, he then gesticulated to us in a way that said, "Get moving!", and so we did, although we hadn't a clue why. We eventually worked out when we stepped outside that the castle closed its doors at 12.00 for lunch. It was 11.45 a.m., and the guy was making sure that we wouldn't encroach on his lunch hour. Not fully appreciating how seriously the rural French take their lunch hour, we finally got the message the day we toured the Chateaux de Lastours. Called the Cathar Castles, the four castles make up an exceptional 120 | www.hermagazine.co.nz Merci