Snow joke

Don’t get me wrong, I like snow as much as the next person; in fact, the eight-year-old within still thrills at the sight of soft white flakes floating to the ground. The problem is, that after nearly two years in the Med, I have seemingly forgotten the basic skills necessary to survive these kinds of proper winter conditions.

On Thursday, for example, I was standing by the fountain in Place Garibaldi waiting for a friend. I was “wrapped up” in a flimsy jacket, a mini dress and pair of wet boots. The only thing protecting me from the slushy snowdrops was an umbrella that had an issue staying up and open. Having lost the feeling in my fingers, I didn’t have the coordination necessary to locate my gloves, which were hiding in the depths of my oversized bag. I had also left my hat at home. Facing snow, hail and torrential rain back in London, I would have been decked out in my finest thermal underwear, woolly socks, wellies and cagoule i.e. the kind of attire that has no place on the Riviera. I certainly wouldn’t have agreed to meet someone outside.

By the time my friend finally turned up my lips had gone blue. “You do know I suffer from Raynaud’s?” I snapped, before shoving one of my ghostly white hands in his face. He visibly stiffened – with cold or terror it was hard to tell - and ushered me towards a cosy little Alsace restaurant as if his life depended on it. Circulation recovered, I merrily consumed my own weight in ham, sausage and sauerkraut, fully appreciating why mountain people were keen to develop a generous layer of body fat.

After a long lunch I had to rush to my next rendezvous, which was with a Belgian artist famous for tattooing pigs. Having warmed my innards with a glass (two) of vin rouge, my heels slipped across the paving stones as I tried to write a text message in one glove-less hand and simultaneously open a large bag of peanut M&Ms with the other.

I slid into the foyer of the Musee d'Art Moderne et d'Art Contemporain with my phone pressed to my ear, having given up on the text. The receptionist raised her eyebrows and pressed a finger to her lips. I pulled out a scrap of paper and mouthed a name at her. She called the assistant curator for me and went back to the scene outside the window.

“Amazing,” she sighed and shook her head as soon as I had hung up. “It’s not normal is it?” I asked, sensing my suspicions were about to be confirmed. “NO,” she banged her hand on the desk. “Not that it iz a problem for me,” she now held her hand up, “but just in zis weather everything iz stopping: ze bus, ze train, ze autoroute. Nothing iz open.” “Oh it’s ridiculous!" I tutted. "It’s only a bit of snow but everyone I know has left work early. That was my colleague on the phone. She’s going home in a minute, they all are." I was in full swing now; this was the kind of brilliant conversation I overheard pensioners having on the bus. “It’s what ‘appens ‘ere,” she shrugged, “they iz not used to ze snow.” I nodded before interjecting: “But it’s no better in London, the city falls apart when it’s like this.” “Really?” she raised her eyebrows, “but no, it’s not the same, they have a lot of snow there.” “And they also have a lot of snow in Denmark and Sweden and Canada," I shrieked, verging on the hysterical, "but they seem to manage, they live like normal people in the winter, I don’t see why we can’t do the same.”

She was nodding along with me vehemently, when the assistant curator rushed into the lobby and threw his hands and clipboard in the air at no one in particular. “I am so sorry,” he intoned, “Wim’s flight from Marseille has been cancelled. Because of the snow.” The receptionist gave me a wink. “He’s had to take the train,” the curator went on, “he is not… what you say? Very happy.” “No, of course not. Poor Wim!” I exclaimed. “Let’s go and look at the pigs anyway…”

“It was nice talking with you,” the receptionist said, smiling warmly as I went to get in the elevator. It occurred to me that this was probably the best conversation I’d had with a French person in quite sometime. I mean, she had actually agreed with me. It was certainly a relief to know that I wasn’t the only one who was ill prepared; it seems that no one on the Côte knows what to do in the snow, unless they’re skiing of course. It also turns out that the French are not so different to the Brits after all: they like to moan about the weather too, when they get the chance.