A few things to get off my chest about France
So there’s no point going on about it, because you’ll already know all about the French joie de vivre, savoir vivre, savoir faire, sang froid, maybe even the hauteur or froideur if you commit a faux pas like turning up topless to the village post office to buy stamps, having walked a mile along a Cote d’Azur beach in 35 degree heat.
“Non monsieur,” says the post office lady (for the topless transgressor is male, and therefore legally allowed to get his chest out anywhere). Pointing at said chest, despite it being covered in man hair, the post mistress’s facial shutters slam closed. “Non, non, non,” she says frostily, as the foreigner sweats at the top of the queue. “Ce n’est pas permite.” He leaves, having learned the hard way that what may be legally allowed in France is not always socially permitted. (Good job he wasn’t wearing a burqa, a crucifix or a Jewish skull cap, or she could have had him arrested).