France works; when it doesn’t

To the eye of a tourist, France works. In almost every town, there are special service areas for camper vans. We can park there overnight (free of charge), empty the bilge (i.e. toilet – Joost’s job), and some even have electricity hook ups. Also, the roads are in great nick. Even the minor roads are buttery smooth with wide, recently-mown verges, good drainage, and neatly-trimmed hedgerows. I’m no engineer but I know a good road. They maintain them beautifully. I saw a crew actually weed-eating fence posts. If you think of all the fences along all the roads…that’s a lot of tax dollas!  Yesterday I saw a pothole about the size of a small quiche. Compared to the meteorite-cratered roads in the UK, it was nothing. Yet, motorists were warned with a jaunty red flag that looked freshly ironed that morning.
However, France also has eccentric notions of when NOT to work. The whole country is obstinately closed on Sunday. “We need a rest and it’s just too bad if you forgot to buy fags on Saturday.” Even regular shop Opening Times should really be called Closing Times because they’re erratically closed for big chunks of the day. There is a shop here in St Point. It was closed each time I went by so I walked up to the door and studied the opening hours:

Ouvert de
7H00 à 13H30
et de
16H30 à 20h00
ouvert les dimanches et
jours
fériés de 7h à 13h30
fermeture hebdomadaire
le vendrédi

Golly. That’s complicated. Let me get out my notebook. Also, you’d think that 1:30 to 4:30 would be a profitable period for a merchant. It’s when I often want to shop. However, here in France it’s “Non, non, in theez times we lunch with bébé, watch les operas de soap, and take un petite snooze. Shop not open.”
Thinking I gotten the gist of it (though without actually consulting a lawyer) I showed up the next day at the allotted buying time. Once again, it was closed. Scratching my head, I studied the sign again and tried to peer through the aluminium shutters. I walked around back. Maybe there was a back entrance. Nope, all closed up. I must’ve missed something. What does “hebdomadaire” mean anyway?
Back at the campsite, I asked the Camp Manager about it. “Oh, non non non” he said, “This shop closed. Two…maybe three weeks.”
Well, that must’ve been in the small print but I’m not complaining. Working or not working, Vive la France!