Kilted in Paris

**Rigged** · 9th June 05, 09:57 AM

I think the French are ready for kilts. We did the Eiffel Tower today and it was great in khaki Original UK.

I'm writing from the hotel lobby where there is a film crew interviewing a Rap group.

This is a bit weird. They're right in front of my while I write this!

Anyway, I'll be back in a couple of days and I'll give a more complete report then.

Rigged

**macwilkin** · 9th June 05, 10:05 AM

Rigged,

The folks in Brittany have been for a while:

http://www.tartanbreton.com/

Cheers,

Todd

**GMan** · 9th June 05, 03:53 PM

Viva la Kilts in France! I hope that you gave the rap group a run for their money. Well done!

**kiltedpride** · 10th June 05, 11:16 AM

Paris is invaded by thousands of kilted guys every other year for the seven nations rugby - also the Tartan Army visit from time to time supporting Scotland's national football team so it is not too unusual. Jamie

**kiltedpride** · 28th September 05, 03:07 AM

Originally Posted by kiltedpride

Paris is invaded by thousands of kilted guys every other year for the seven nations rugby - also the Tartan Army visit from time to time supporting Scotland's national football team so it is not too unusual. Jamie

I also attended the Cannes Film Festival this year and a large Scottish contingent were kilted. It gets one noticed and at a sales convention that is extractly what is required.

**Sherry** · 28th September 05, 02:50 PM

Here's an article of one Brit's experiences being kilted in Paris. It's a bit long, but well worth the read:

When un anglais isn't
Being - or dressed as being - a Scot in France can have its ups and downs, says Graham Tearse.

The best of many good things about the Scottish, as far as the French are concerned, is that they hate the English too. That doesn't stop the French from regularly insulting Scots who visit France by calling them "anglais".

For many in France, 'britannique' means 'anglais': tough for Scots
The other day I was at my local Monoprix supermarket check-out, and the girl at the till, noticing my accent – not difficult as it's the same as Jane Birkin's, only graver in tone – asked me where I was from.

"Je suis britannique" I said. "Quoi?" she asked. This went on for a few minutes until she twigged. Well, sort of.

"Ah! Vous êtes anglais?" No-one else in the queue behind me was enjoying the conversation and couldn't care less if I was Tibetan, so I agreed.

The thing is, as someone whose family is mostly Scottish, I like to make a point of saying my nationality is British, but the notion seems lost on many in France, and not just supermarket check-out workers.

If I said I was "écossais", that would probably have made more sense after beginning such banter by insisting I was something from planet britannique.

Force the issue a little, and l'Ecosse is familiar to most in France as the northern head on the island known as l'Angleterre. It's a land of quirky, red-haired and Franco-friendly folk all dressed in skirts with handbags, men and women alike, whose entire population, under brutal English occupation, is dedicated to the making of whisky and which spends weekends under monochrome skies, like those of Glenfiddich ads, hunting a foul-tasting animal called 'un aggize'.

Well-educated French people, like those who watch the travel documentaries on the culture channel Arte, also know that especially strong and bearded écossais like to throw tree trunks and bits of heavy metal at each other, usually accompanied by what in comparison look like a band of eunuchs blowing into something ressembling a drain extractor - and which makes the same noise. Somehow, this eccentric nation also found time to invent adhesive tape, possibly because of groin strain, a feat which leaves the French scotché.

There's much confusion in France about what and who makes up the British Isles. I can only surmise at how difficult it is to explain in a Monoprix that you are from Wales, where the national symbol is a leek, and where men wear trousers. Unless, that is, the check-out girl plays rugby, in which case you are from the English village of Cardiff.

Many Scots enjoy a friendly reception in France. To say "je suis écossais" is a magic phrase which immediately takes away the stigma of being anglais. In an instant it produces huge affection, turns the said Scot into a humane and jovial character, a colourful and valiant personage, and such a welcome contrast to the irritating, common historical enemy that is, apparently still, l'Anglais. Well, I exaggerate, but only a bit.

I've done my bit as a part-time ambassador for Scotland in France, beginning with numerous lectures on why Robert Burns is best not described as un poète anglo-saxon. I have even dared to stage a dinner of haggis for discerning Parisian gastronomes. What's more, it went down a treat. The secret of this is to accompany the haggis with a set of different purées, liberally sprinkled with nutmeg, and served with multiple side-shots of whisky. Either your guests enjoy the purée or they get drunk. Or both. Either way, no-one ever remembers what the haggis tasted like and, so to avoid embarassement, they all insist it was "très, très bon".

My family and I were invited to the grand wedding of the daughter of some very dear French friends. The wedding was planned a year in advance. I flippantly suggested that I might wear a kilt, and my friends, aware of my Scottish roots, were thoroughly delighted at the idea. Thing is, I don't have one.

Time passed, and the wedding day suddenly approached. I searched the Yellow Pages, put out calls, considered a sod-it-all money-spinning rush over the Channel, but time was running out. The evening before, I ended up in a Paris fancy dress store just off the Grands Boulevards.

The Indian family who run the store had a choice of two: a whacky interpretation of Highlander, more Bois de Boulogne than Ben Nevis, or a comparatively conservative but cheap, early period Made in China-like piece of kit. This had a Velcro-closing kilt of red tartan complete with a sporran in shiny PVC and brushed nylon which looked like it had escaped overnight out of Toys r Us.

The next day I dressed up, adding some old, knee-length, red football socks and I actually looked quite dandy, once complete with blazer under which the toyshop animal snuggled discreetly. From a distance, I was the real thing,

Well, I can tell you, the effect of a kilt in France is awesome. That became apparent the moment I left my front door to collect the car.

There's a wide boulevard which runs near my home. Like anywhere in France, trying to get from one side to the other, despite pedestrian crossings, can take a long time while waiting for a break in traffic. I swaggered down and stopped at the side of the pavement, a line of traffic running fast along either side. Within seconds cars on both sides slowed to a halt to let me across (this is a true story, folks), passengers craning their necks to get a rare glimpse of this piece of living folklore with knobbly knees.

The wedding was a grand affair in a village in countryside north of Paris, with several hundred people present. My entry into the church was about as discreet as if I had been a three-eyed rabbi with a parrot on each shoulder; lots of coughing, bemusement and kids giggling. They'd seen it on the TV, read about it in books, and here it was, in that typical hand-on-thigh pose of the Highland warrior, which in my case was an attempt to keep the ever-popping Velcro under control.

The effect of a kilt in France is awesome and that became apparent the moment I left my front door. But above all, during the very posh garden reception, which resembled Ascot more than a little, and the huge banquet which followed, women of all ages wanted to know just what I was wearing under…The curiosity became palpable, so to speak, starting with that of a few blushing questioners, before being followed by those with more outright approaches.

The word must have got around that I was staying mum, because the attempts to crack the question became ever more daring. At one point I was trying my best to look like Mel Gibson as part of a group photograph when the ground moved beneath me; a well-dressed young lady was crawling along the grass behind me to get an explanatory glimpse.

The groom's family had once lived in Tahiti and had organised an appearance by a Pacific song and dance troupe. Beckoned by the unusual music floating over the lawns, I headed straight to the performance tent, peering over the shoulders of the crowd, just able to see the shaking busts of the dancers. I edged my way through to the front.

When I got to the front line, I encountereed one of those Mr. Bean situations; now the dancers were in full view just a few feet before me, and I discovered that the solo male performer was, of course, dressed in a straw skirt. He looked at me with a knowing smile and winked.

The tension built up and spilled over at the banquet.

As I passed by a table, a very haughty-looking woman, a wrinkly grande dame of a grandmother staring from under a hat that had space for several Black Hawks to land on, stopped me with a booming "Monsieur!" She wanted to know, too.

By this time, and helped by wine, I was feeling blasé. "There's only one way to find out," I told her, thinking that would put an end to it. She appeared slightly taken aback at the challenge, but then called over to her son and, with what was almost an order, asked him to do the testing for her. Thank God he declined.

Much later, while I was on the dance floor, she reappeared, this time with another elderly lady in tow. Her friend beckoned me over, her arm outstretched for the moment of vérité.

I turned the other cheek.

January 2005

© Graham Tearse
http://www.expatica.com/source/site_article.asp?subchannel_id=59&story_id=15763&n ame=When+%3Ci%3Eun+anglais%3C%2Fi%3E+isn't

Sherry

**Riverkilt** · 28th September 05, 07:14 PM

Thanks for the link Todd. A main maternal line of mine is Brett, later spelled Britt. I'd always thought of them as English since they came over from England just a few ships after the Mayflower. But one could make a solid case for them coming first to England from Britanny...heck of a way for an Englishman to get a tartan, but what the heck, it works for me

Ron

**Hamish** · 30th September 05, 05:48 PM

An interesting article, Sherry - and thanks for re-typing the whole thing!

My experiences when kilted in both France and Belgium were that I have only ever been asked if I am "Écossais", never "Anglais"!