The road sighs with heat. It's a Sunday afternoon, and le dimanche, nine-tenths of the town is dead. But this is a different kind of dead than what I'm used to. Who would have thought death came in degrees. This might as well have been a small town in the Great Karoo, but the fact that I'm making my way through flying rose petals (fabric, not plastic) rather than Shoprite packets makes it somewhat alive to me.

So less dead, in other words, than a Karoo hamlet. And less dead, because today nobody forced me to wear white bobby socks and tight black shoes and sit in church with nothing to do but memorise the exact shades of turquoise and cream in the majestic stained-glass windows.

I reach the bus stop where some of the locals add colour to the hazy day by refuting two of the most celebrated myths about the French. Firstly that the Gallic people — having invented boutiques, haute couture, the coiffure and chic — possess inherent style; and French Women Don't Get Fat.

An old lady with grenadine red hair and Basset hound eyes sits on a bench, her wide-spread legs hitching up her dress to expose the flesh-coloured knee-high stockings. She stares vacantly at the road and my "Bonjour!" doesn't stir her.

A skinny fifty-something, in Friday and Saturday's dress (I’ve been wandering the streets daily, you understand), exits the Café de Paris. Her specs are held in position by some kind of cloth wound around the bridge, ensuring a fit on her sunken-in nose. In her defence, her shoulder-length grey hair is beautifully styled. She takes leave noisily, and with one of her expletives you notice the missing teeth.

But if you want to talk about teeth, you need to consider L., she of the black labrador. Very friendly, rotund and with a brown ponytail, L. — in shorts made of T-shirt material and pulled up rather too high — greets me warmly and we exchange pleasantries. Through the teeth (some brown, some positioned over others — I've spent hours trying to figure out the arrangment) she tells me that the dog calls himself Brac, and is in fact a black labrador. Meanwhile Brac relieves himself in the rose bushes. And if you can believe the look on his face, the relief is tremendous. The sun is smiting me and I need a Coke.

Back at the Chambres d'Hôtes, I ask X., the American in love with Paris, what I should do with my empty Coke can since there are no garbage bins to be found in the streets.

"...The cultural superiority of the French... "

"Ooh, Lord, no! The French don't eat in the street!" I wasn't eating, I was drinking a blasted cooldrink because I needed to get strength from somewhere!

"In this country you only eat sitting down!" At a table, no less.

This is not the first comment I've had to endure about the cultural superiority of the French. I think about my own inferior habits (besides enjoying beverages on foot) like showering daily, and changing my clothes. And taking the trouble to brush my teeth.

Thinking about teeth (again), my mind wanders to eating. Now this in turn brings to mind Charles de Gaulle's frequently recited quote about cheese: "How does one rule a nation which produces more varieties of cheese than there are days in the year?"

This is a good question, because judging by some of the flavours I've had to enjoy in buses, trains and hotel lobbies crammed with locals, not only do they produce the cheese, but apparently they roll in it.

It was rather annoying having to become accustomed to some of the more unsavoury habits. The above-mentioned odours are pretty standard, but unfortunately the other day I had a more difficult encounter.

A confined space was involved. We needed a taxi, and my travelling companion and our luggage took the back seat, which left me to sit up front. And the driver was quite intent on making conversation, with puffs of breath coming my way. I tried very hard to keep my eyes on the road ahead, because the view of the teeth bothered me particularly. The bottom row was plastered with plaque resembling Polyfilla.

Then there's the little issue regarding working hours. Apparently, France is closed on Mondays. No hope of finding advice on train schedules, getting the banking done, buying stamps or even fruits and vegetables. Whole towns, even districts have united against that scourge of our time: the blue Monday.

By now I am thoroughly irritated. I walk down the street. No internet café, just a cheeky pile of (what else?) dog mess decorating the coir mat at the entrance of the (closed) cinema. I'm sure I'm being far too harsh, and in the nation's defence, this is a rural area. But then again, the internet café across the road from my hotel in Paris wasn't particularly interested in opening its doors either. Ask what time they open in the morning, and the reply comes, "Oh, nine o' clock, ten-thirty. It depends."

This must be why they talk about travel broadening the mind. You observe a different breed of human being in its natural habitat. You see that the people are in many ways incompatible with you. But you realise that they hardly think you're the torch of civilisation either, and in the end, somebody learns to be compassionate, open-minded and less set in her ways.