Under the reign of Louis Plastique

Dan and I came to France to enjoy its magnificent architecture and the refinement of its craftsmanship, but we may as well be the last ones who believe in it. The mot d’ordre, the watchword, these days is pratique.

The adjective translates a lifestyle that can be condensed as follows: we are proud of our egalitarian society, where nobody is no longer anybody’s servant, and we are happy to welcome all sort of tricks that make life easier and reduce household tasks to the minimum. Pvc windows and doors need no repainting and are thus très pratiques. So are electrical pvc blinds in lieu of old wooden shutters. Plasticized imitation parquet floors or single fired tiles are easier to maintain.

I try to explain to our artisans that plastique is a dirty word for me, that it doesn’t belong in my building glossary, as they try to convince me that I should install a layer of plastic under the roof to improve insulation and impermeability. I say no way; I don’t want to live in my own home as though I was camping under a pup tent. The mason plans to line a wall with a plastic sheet to stop dampness from the hillside. You won’t see it, he says, it’s hidden and it’s très pratique. We gave up and let the plumber replace old rusty metal pipes with brand-new plastic ducts for the central heating, buried between the houses. I looked at these huge blue coils with twin yellow pipes sandwiched in white foam. It’s every bit plastic, yet thirty meters of it costs like a necklace from Cartier.  It’s true I won’t see it - except that I have x-ray vision for that kind of thing.

Dan and I have been desperately trying to find a carpenter, an old-fashioned honest village carpenter, to fix our windows and doors. Practically impossible. France has embraced the cause of energy saving with such fervor that single-glazed windows are now outcasts. We’re meant to throw them away, beautiful old wavy glass and all. Requesting to fit our chestnut Périgourdine door with a new frame is like asking for an illegal substance. The carpenter will invariably show us something similar from a catalogue, the same general design in iroko – an African wood! – but armed with rubber and aluminum fittings and equipped with double-glazed panes like captain Nemo's Nautilus.