Okay I admit it. I’m a townie (translation for Non-Newfies: a snobbish and self-important individual reputed to regard oneself as more cultured and sophisticated than anyone in the entire province of Newfoundland and Labrador who is not from St. John’s). And for the record just let me say that baymen (individuals not from St. John’s who are reputed to smell of fish and rely on all terrain vehicles for transportation) are the true heart and soul of the Rock, the salt of the earth, which I have to say for fear the Sullivan brothers from Dildo (yes that’s the real name of a real town) will show up on my doorstep ready to beat me to a bloody pulp, the townie vs bayman issue is not to be taken lightly.

Anyway, beyond a lesson in Newfie culture, the point is here I am, glamourous townie, installed in France’s version of ‘around the bay’ (any place in Newfoundland other than St. John’s). Now there’s no actual bay or fish and chips stand but I can’t understand a word people say and and there’s a big tractor garage as you come into town so it’s close. But I have to tell you being a townie offers little prestige here.

Honest to god you would not believe the people found here in this little ‘backwater’ of Semur en Auxois. Apart from our other worldly friends we’ve met American physicists/inventors who clearly have a few brain cells firing between them. Last week there were Danish filmmakers hanging about. There’s the Russian artist who left NYC to peacefully paint here in the Burgundy countryside, the high level luxury hotel executive based in Hong Kong, the cafè owners from Senegal. Sure we could have the Olympics here next week if we wanted to. I’d be heavily favoured for the gold in nagging and self-recrimination.

Last week we had drinks with two international journalists from Paris who have a weekend house here. She covers France for the US and he works in French news television after stints in Washington and Russia. We were chatting about the DSK case and it came out that he knows Christine LaGarde, the first female head on the IMF and rocking silver fox. We were talking about my endless French language difficulties when he mentioned that UN Secretary General Ban Ki-Moon was learning French and was doing well. How did he know this? Because he KNOWS Ban Ki-Moon. I thought about breaking out the story of how I once met Kathy Bates in a restaurant bathroom but I decided it was a tale for another time.

And to top it all off this week, no more than 5 doors down the hill from the housette, you’ll find an ultra right wing, wacky, misogynistic CNN/FOX news political pundit bastard freak guy. As you can see this peaceful life of French funemployment has rendered me serene and free from judgement of others. I haven’t met him yet but I’ve seen him a couple of times now through the scope of my rifle. Oh now I’m just kidding. It’s a water gun.

It’s exciting to be around this kind of energy and to have the rare opportunity to learn so much about the world. And here I thought I was coming to a place that might be too small town for someone as suave and cosmopolitan as myself. We townies talk a good game and while we think we’re big fish in a small sea the folks here are the ones casting their nets far and wide.

Bobbi French is a regular contributor to Gypsy Girls Guide

Sometimes my relationship with France can only be accurately described as a hot/cold, love/hate, up and down faster than a whore’s drawers kind of thing. As I amble home through the quiet streets of Semur I marvel at how simple my life is now, how unfettered and uncluttered by the daily grind my world has become. Oh yes, as long as I don’t ever have to speak to anyone, this living in a foreign country is a breeze, child’s play, a piece of gâteau. You know where this is going right?

Every now and then I get to missing life in the old country. Not the working like a maniac part, just the day to day conveniences, you know the everything right now, the way you want it, when you want it stuff. Anyway, about twelve years ago some fool in Guadalajara, Mexico ran up a tab on my Visa of over seven thousand dollars without even so much as a please or thank you to me. I called the credit card company, they took care of it all and I went back to my regularly scheduled life of Chinese food delivery and shoe shopping. Easy.

Now France is not exactly a credit card culture yet. I mean people still write checks at the grocery store for god’s sake. So when my Minister of Finance was looking over our monthly ‘credit card’ (Mastercards that are really nothing more than glorified ATM cards) expenditures he noticed almost 500 Euros (about $700 Canadian) of charges that he couldn’t make sense of.

Now you have to realize the mantra here at the housette is “can we get by without it”? This is our year of ‘living skinny’ (arse, please take note of this new policy) and I’m happy to say that apart from the odd kindle book I’ve been behaving myself. Trust me if I had 500 Euros to spend that gorgeous grey trench coat just begging for a silver haired owner would be hanging in my closet instead of the boutique window.

Yes, you guessed it, we’d been volée. Bastards. A scam where slippery characters post phony telecom company charges to your account and hope you won’t notice. Good thing for us my monsieur doesn’t miss a trick. Of course this also makes it very hard to sneak in a new pair of shoes. Ah well no matter one call does it all, back to pouring the wine. Not so fast Madame Frenchypants, this ain’t no land of instant gratification.

So we called (okay Neil called with me coaching from the sidelines as usual, he loves it when I do that) the number on the back of the card which really should connect you to dial-a-prayer as that would be more helpful. So off to the bank where the cards were canceled without our permission or offer of immediate replacements. The bank assured us the cancellation was for our protection as really the thieves could be spending more of our money over the weekend. One, they wouldn’t get far on our little stash and B, how the hell was this our problem? Oh the Minister was not pleased.

Then a mountain of paper work from the bank but not for the bank. No, they washed their filthy hands of us but were kind enough to give us directions to the police station where the fraudulent charges must be contested and which of course was closed. So more fun for another day.

It’s an odd set-up over here bank-wise and I’m still trying to get used to it. I still have my Canadian Visa card but the practical use of it over here is very limited which is a good thing at least according to the Minister’s Office. But I can’t blame France, this goes on everywhere and anywhere but they sure don’t make it easy when it does happen here. Yet again a new test of resolve and willingness to accept what it is.

Thieves hacking into your private account: $700. Dealing with French financial bureaucracy: Several handfuls of hair and 3 buckets of sweat. Finding new European credit cards: 17 phone and internet hours. Loving your new life in France warts and all: priceless.