Queanbeyan Quartier français

The French Quarter, Queanbeyan. On exquisite April mornings in Le Dodsworth Hauteurs, I like to ride my bicycle into la ville de Queanbeyan, taking in the impossible tranquillité of the hurlement (yell) of cockatoos and the subtle répercussions of the idiots locaux automobiles, as they prepare to head into town for a petit pisser du jour.

On my ride, I take in the délicieux scents of freshly cut herbs, foie gras, bird excrement and other various non spécifié odours, and I snort in admirablement at other feisty smells as I near the l'avenue de fromage moisi et graisse (avenue of moldy cheese and grease). The dewy dawn air blanchits my breathe as I bid my bonjours to a local mademoiselle, who wanders the gouttière (gutter) collecting various fresh produce from the local boite (trash) dotted along the pittoresque route on the le boulevard de bogans.

“Bonjour Mademoiselle!”, I wave frantically while flicking my tasselled handlebar bell.

“F*%#@ off”, she grunts.

I have always loved La Queanbeyan. It reminds me of a grande country town, with friendly human visages and petit amigos everywhere you go.

While the monsoirs like to while away their day in the gaztrillion pubs, many of them remain in le populaire establishments until late in the evening; preferring to walk home along the queanbeyan rivière at the fraiche dawn, away from the harsh polluer des joueurs (foul players), or get a lift in the chariot de paddywagons.

I whizzed onto the bustling Grand Rond (big roundabout) on the Route du Bungendore, chiming my bell and directing traffic on the circle de suicide.

“GET OFF THE ROAD YOU STUPID F%#@!!!”, says one of locals, greeting me in the usual quoi que manner.

“Oh yes, good day to you, monsieur!”, I said, waving back.

The townsfolk and I would exchange pleasantries all day if we could.  I love the hustle and bustle of this part of the Secteur Obèse (fat quarter), with its shiny, riche asphalte surface and boulevards bustling with idiots de village and classe ouvrière, heading off to collect their welfare profites from sécurité sociale and participer in some early afternoon combat de pub.

I park my bike on the la maison de vélo (home of bike) and enter the razzle éblouit of the l'arc d'or (arch of golden) into the jaune and rouge brick building that houses the la maison de hamburgers, owned by the famous cuisinier Monsieur McDonald.

I enquire about the fresh products of the day to the young monsieur behind the compteur, with an eye for a de graine de sesame seed (bread roll) or lasagnes d'escargot or les pommes de terre ont cuisiné dans le vin with 12 herbes secrètes (potatoes cooked in wine with 28 secret herbs).

“Fresh? Um, the sweet and sour sauce packets arrived in a box yesterday?”, monsieur says to my delight.

“Oh, lovely, may I take ten please?”

“Whatever.”

Full of de joie after my brisk and savoure purchases, I positively skip out the l'arc d'or and allow the succulent l'odours de village to direct me to my next destination on the l'avenue de pépites (avenue of nuggets).

I often leave the village with a grand trolley brimming with l'homme a fait (man-made) fresh fruit and veg and various delicat knickerknackers that I don’t need or want, but provide équilibre in my trolley and ensure I will look tres faux and pertinent yet blasé on my journey back to the grand maison.