KEY POINTS:
Certain things become apparent after spending some time in France. They kiss a lot.
Men kiss women, women kiss women and men kiss men. It's how they say hello; even employees of the Government-run railway take time to kiss each other when they show up for work oblivious to the queue of travellers trying to buy tickets.
It doesn't matter that the queue is backing out the station, every employee takes the time to kiss both cheeks of all their colleagues, have a bit of a chat about whatever and then finally take their seat.
Compare that with us stuffy Anglo-Saxons who come to work each morning with barely a grunt in the direction of our fellow workers. Blokes don't even shake hands and imagine what would happen if one red-blooded male should attempt to plant a smacker on the cheek of his red-blooded colleague.
The French smoke a fair bit, too. The legislation sweeping across Europe outlawing smoking in public places has no chance of making any headway in France. So many people have fags in their hands it's almost as if smoking is compulsory.
The bureaucrats in Brussels have no hope of tightening safety on French roads either.
Traffic lights are considered only a rough guide while zebra crossings are left to the drivers' discretion. Pedestrians step out and see what happens and almost regardless they will be met with a toot, some gesticulating hands and some shouted expletives.
No one seems to mind, though, because France is a country that runs on passion. People greet each other with a kiss because it conveys how they feel.
This is a country where people express emotion and feel no shame.
The French smoke their lungs out because they like it and they don't care if it's bad for you. And there is no way will they be told what they can and cannot do.
Drivers operate on instinct, do what they feel is right and it works - the traffic flows in its own haphazard way.
This is a country where everything is done on impulse. And nowhere is that more graphically illustrated than in Marseilles.
Sitting at the entrance to the old port is Pharo Palace, whose construction was ordered by Empress Eugenie, the wife of Napoleon III. By the time the blessed thing had been built to her demanding specifications, she decided she didn't like it after all and never lived in it.
Now this might be a long shot. But could the reason the French rugby team is in such dire straits be because they have not tapped into the very qualities that make the country tick?
Everyday life in France is built on passion and intuition. People listen to their heart way more than their head. While the rest of Europe seemingly craves order, France has rebelled against structure and legislation that puts everything in its place.
But Les Bleus, they no longer express themselves naturally. Coach Bernard Laporte has anglicised the team. Everything is about structure, about playing to set patterns.
Back in the day if a French player didn't like what was going on, he would simply snot one of the opposition. The backs didn't care where they were on the field, if they reckoned it was on from behind their own sticks they'd give it a whirl.
Rugby used to be an extension of life for the French. It was one more means to express themselves in their random, eclectic way. It was one more arena where they could succeed by relying on nothing more than gut feel.
Laporte needs to do one more undecidedly French act - be told what to do - and that is toss out the playbook. Forget all that structure and order and let his men wreak their own loveable brand of chaos.
