July 2013 - 40

A letter from France

By Ron Tacchi

Why, I hear you asking, in this magazine is there a letter from France?
There are three reasons. First, they
would not let me call it A French Letter. Second, it is a letter. Third, your
illustrious editor (hereinafter known
as YIE) asked me to write it. By now, I
hope you will realize that I happen to
actually live in France and play most
of my bridge there.
It all comes about as a result of a
story I recounted to YIE (your illustrious editor, remember) whilst we
were working together at a European
Championships.
Ten days before leaving for the
tournament, my team was playing in
the "Finale du Ligue" of the French
Interclubs competition. This is the
final step before the national finals in
Paris. It was to take place in Royan
on the Atlantic Coast more than 250
miles (400 kilometers, if you have
been decimalized) from our club. It is
a weekend-long affair, three 16-board
matches on Saturday and Sunday with
the first match due to start at 2:15 p.m.
I calculated that the trip would take
a bit more than four hours, and so
suggested to my teammates we would
need to leave about 9:30 a.m. (I also
had a hidden agenda as I had a "social
engagement" on Friday evening, a
euphemism for eating and drinking
and drinking until two o'clock in the
40 Bridge Bulletin July 2013

morning).
"Oh no," they replied as one, "We
have to leave at 7 a.m."
"Why?"
"We need time for lunch," was the
universal reply. Of course, I realized
they were right.
YIE then suggested that I must have
a raft of stories about bridge and
its players in France and the differences between them and the English,
to which I immediately replied in
the affirmative. So I have been commissioned to recount some of these
petites histoires. But before I start on
these stories, which highlight some of
the cultural differences between "Les
Rosbeefs" and the "Frogs," I must give
you some background as to how I
came to play bridge in France.
Some 11 or 12 years ago we (that
is, me and The Wife) grew up and left
our home and our children in England
and moved to France. (As an aside
to other parents, I can verify this as
a much better approach than the
normal one of waiting for the children
to grow up and leave home). I was
traveling frequently for my job and
was a regular visitor to Malta, where
I met a dear old friend who had been
my bridge partner in the Sixties and
Seventies. After several glasses of
refreshing liquid, he rekindled my
interest in playing bridge, parenthood

and work having reduced my bridgeplaying escapades for a decade or
two.
At the same time, by fortunate
happenstance, I started working
at the European and world bridge
championships as the Daily Bulletin
photographer. Thus, early this century, I decided to join a local bridge
club. A serendipitous moment had me
reading the local paper in my favorite
café and noticing that one of the local
bridge clubs was having an open day.
Off I sped and discovered, as usual,
that the standard of reporting of matters non-agricultural was not 100% accurate. The open day had passed two
weeks earlier, but a charming lady
who spoke excellent English (more
of her in a later letter) introduced me
to the secretary and acted as interpreter when the need arose. It was
agreed that I would play Wednesday
afternoon at 2 p.m. and that the club
would provide a partner.
Wednesday dawns, and in my typical English manner I arrive at the club
some 20 minutes beforehand. Only
the secretary was there, so I reintroduce myself, he greets me courteously
and continues his fascination with
small pieces of paper. Two o'clock
comes and about eight people are in
the club. Another 10 minutes pass
and the crowd is starting to grow and
become noisier, though no one seems
to be paying any attention to me. At
about 2:20, pairs are forming and
beginning to take their places at the
tables. I cautiously venture forward to
the person who seems to be registering names and I finally summon up
the courage to ask if there is someone
for me to play with.
"Don't worry" is the reply. "You are
playing with the president, he will be
here shortly." (I refrained from saying
"Don't call me shortly" as the pun
doesn't work in French). Everyone
except me is sitting down and dealing
out cards when in walks a guy about
my age, wearing slippers. He is splattered with food (especially his glasses) and his beard and hair are slightly

Table of Contents for the Digital Edition of July 2013