Cigarettes in France by Quentin Cockburn

He was little, really small.  He wore his beret like an artist, all floppy and obviously too big for him.  But he wore it with such panache I thought if they ever want to do a small version of Yves Montand this bloke’s got the goods.  The other striking thing about him was that he wasn’t old.  He was well dressed, snappily, and as he climbed up (scaled, in point of fact) onto the bar stool I realised that this contemporary version of Asterix the Gaul was probably only half my age.  A young bloke, and before I could think of a role for him to take in my imaginary avante-garde film, he lit up, just like that.  And then, with the lady behind the counter polishing glasses and serving other guests, (all locals assembled within a tight cordon of distinctive French cafe tables) he ordered a packet of fags….. should I nudge him and offer the warning, “Quit the fags mate, they’ll stunt your growth!”

Somewhere in this scene is my reflective self, awkwardly enjoying my stodgy hot chocolate, – passport to mediocrity.  It was only then that I realised what we were missing out on.  All Frenchmen, and women, (and I know this is a generalisation), seem to enjoy a good smoke.

And to augment the richness seductively packaged, so colourfully and aesthetically arranged it urged me to buy one just as a measure of empathetic cultural conditioning.  Cigarettes!!!  No health warnings to admonish, nor the steel shuttered doors as in Australia (more secure than most gun cabinets) to hide the vile, detestable habit from the “vulnerable” – that is, us all.

In France, the cigarettes form an integral part of interior decoration.  Behind the bar they proclaim themselves, “WE ARE!! accept us’.  Beautifully designed, an exquisite mosaic of deep turquoise, brilliant white, and royal blue.  The once familiar reds of the Marlboros and Craven A’s nestled comfortably with the local Gauloises, the Gitanes, and any other props borrowed courtesy Jean Paul Belmondo.  All confidence, self assuredness and the unmistakable ‘whiff’ of Gallic Pride.

No wonder smoking in this context is so cool, so chic, so conversational, so French.  If you don’t inhabit that “space” defined by your private realm of jacuzzis, jet ski’s and swimming pools, if your obsession is not designed to impress ‘the people you don’t know with the things you don’t need’, then smoking is an acceptance that the street in which you live is the public realm you share, and what better way to express that sharing than with the shared infusion of aromatic french tobacco.  The packets, more gaily emblazoned than fireworks emphasize one simple point.  I am French, therefore I smoke. And I smoke because I enjoy it.

‘C’est la vie’.

(For a little story on dying with emphysema visit our post of 24 May 2013 Here)