n. – dentist
I went to my first French dentist the other day. My teeth are one of my strong points, healthy and virtually cavity free. They’re also nice and straight thanks to two years of braces that included the works, rubber bands, headgear, retainer and all. I try to take good care of them by going to the dentist at least twice a year and flossing reluctantly.
I love having clean teeth, but I really dread having them cleaned. I remember when they used to do it manually with the sharp metal tools. Now they do it with the machine. I think it works with some sort of laser or beam that’s hot which is why it’s accompanied by the spray of water. I worry about many things. I worry first and foremost that they will hit a nerve (it’s happened since my gums are very sensitive). Then I worry that I will jump and somehow the water mechanism will stop working and I will be burned by whatever the other thing is that actually cleans the teeth. I don’t worry too much about choking although there’s always a huge back up of water in the back of my mouth despite the tube that’s supposed to suck all the water out of your mouth.
Generally, I just am not happy until it’s over. In New York, because I had been going to same dentist for years and he knew me, I was allowed to hum along while he worked. I don’t know why, but the sound of my voice making music soothed me and sometimes he would hum along with me. I couldn’t hum here with a strange Parisian dentist who doesn’t know me. And because I don’t know her either, I wasn’t sure if she would be careful and avoid the sensitive spots. So by the end of the experience, I was a wreck.
My teeth were clean, I had no cavities so all was well and then she said this. “Vous avez tres beaux dents, c’est dommage ils sont jaune.” You have really pretty teeth, it’s too bad they’re yellow. Seriously?! I know they’re not appliance white, but they’re teeth, not paper. Her office on the other hand looked like it had been blanketed in snow - white walls, white furniture, white lab coat. No wonder my teeth looked yellow by comparison. She kept staring at them shaking her head. “Allez voir dans le miroire.” Go look in the mirror, she said, as if I’ve never seen my teeth before.
People have always told me I have a nice smile, so it never occurred to me that my teeth were yellow, but she was starting to wear me down. So I asked her how much it cost. “Neuf cent euros.” I had to repeat it to make sure I understood – 900 euros!! And because it’s a cosmetic procedure, nothing is reimbursed by insurance. Then she tells me it could be a little painful given my sensitive gums, but it should go away in a few days. So it’s hideously expensive and slightly painful. I was now feeling less persuaded. But because I don’t like confrontations, I agreed to make an appointment for the procedure the following week. I spent the next few days staring at my teeth and finally mustered up the courage to call and cancel the appointment. My teeth may not be the color of my refrigerator, but they suit me just fine. Merci!
Dec 21, 2009
Nov 14, 2009
Je suis fini
exp. - I’m finished – literally
This isn’t to be confused with “j’ai fini” or I’m done, as in finishing one’s meal for example. Speaking of meals, one has hunger “j’ai faim” vs. being hungry.
When one has had enough to eat, you say you have eaten well, “j’ai bien mangé” and not I am full because “je suis plein” means you are drunk. If you are however drunk it’s better to say “je suis saoul” rather than the more slang “je suis bourré,” which means sloshed, hammered, wasted, etc.
If you quite smoking, which the French are still attempting to do given that it’s harder and harder to smoke indoors any more, you actually stop smoking, “j’arrete fumer.” “J’ai quitté” means I left.
“Encore” can mean yet or again. “Je n’ai pas encore arreté de fumer,” I have not quit smoking yet (well I have actually for many years now). “J’ai encore recommencé a fumer,” I have started smoking again (again, not true in my case). “Toujours” can mean still or always. “Je fume toujours” or I still smoke, which I don’t. “Je fumerai toujours,” I will always smoke. I don’t know many people who make this proclamation since most want to quit, but just for sake of making my examples, I stuck with the smoking theme.
There is some controversy surrounding “par contre” and “en revanche,” both meaning on the other hand. I was warned that en revanche is more proper, but I have no idea why and even the person who told me never fully explained it. It has traumatized though ever since to use par contre and every time someone else does I cringe a little even if I’m unsure why.
Nothing makes people cringe as much as when I confuse my “cou,” neck, “coup,” blow or “queue,” line with “cul” which means ass. All sound frighteningly similar especially to a foreigner. The other day when I was telling a story about my husband standing in line, but pronounced it like ass, my friend corrected me and then joked that if I meant the other, she was not one to judge.
My husband has the same problem with collar and color in English, but obviously getting them mixed up isn’t quite as controversial.
The word “bague” actually means ring where the word for bag is “sac.” “Sac a main” literally translated means hand bag. “Poche” is the word for pocket, but can also refer in the southwest to plastic bag. And that brings me to a pet peeve I have with the supermarket check-out system here.
I think it must be listed somewhere in the union rules that the supermarket cashiers are not allowed to help you put your groceries in the bags. I don’t know why and nobody has had a sufficient explanation. If you’re alone, it’s especially problematic because you have to put all your things on the conveyer belt and then run through to start loading them into your bags. If you haven’t brought your own, you are at the mercy of the cashier to bring out plastic ones for you to use. And if they can’t help you put your things in the bags, I wish they would at least help open the plastic bags because it’s as if they are hermetically sealed shut and much time is lost trying to pry them apart.
By the time they are, everything has been rung up and now you have to stop packing and picking apart the bags and pay. Once that’s processed, it’s the next person’s turn and their things are now piling on top of yours. Phew or as the French say “Ouf – j’ai fini!”
This isn’t to be confused with “j’ai fini” or I’m done, as in finishing one’s meal for example. Speaking of meals, one has hunger “j’ai faim” vs. being hungry.
When one has had enough to eat, you say you have eaten well, “j’ai bien mangé” and not I am full because “je suis plein” means you are drunk. If you are however drunk it’s better to say “je suis saoul” rather than the more slang “je suis bourré,” which means sloshed, hammered, wasted, etc.
If you quite smoking, which the French are still attempting to do given that it’s harder and harder to smoke indoors any more, you actually stop smoking, “j’arrete fumer.” “J’ai quitté” means I left.
“Encore” can mean yet or again. “Je n’ai pas encore arreté de fumer,” I have not quit smoking yet (well I have actually for many years now). “J’ai encore recommencé a fumer,” I have started smoking again (again, not true in my case). “Toujours” can mean still or always. “Je fume toujours” or I still smoke, which I don’t. “Je fumerai toujours,” I will always smoke. I don’t know many people who make this proclamation since most want to quit, but just for sake of making my examples, I stuck with the smoking theme.
There is some controversy surrounding “par contre” and “en revanche,” both meaning on the other hand. I was warned that en revanche is more proper, but I have no idea why and even the person who told me never fully explained it. It has traumatized though ever since to use par contre and every time someone else does I cringe a little even if I’m unsure why.
Nothing makes people cringe as much as when I confuse my “cou,” neck, “coup,” blow or “queue,” line with “cul” which means ass. All sound frighteningly similar especially to a foreigner. The other day when I was telling a story about my husband standing in line, but pronounced it like ass, my friend corrected me and then joked that if I meant the other, she was not one to judge.
My husband has the same problem with collar and color in English, but obviously getting them mixed up isn’t quite as controversial.
The word “bague” actually means ring where the word for bag is “sac.” “Sac a main” literally translated means hand bag. “Poche” is the word for pocket, but can also refer in the southwest to plastic bag. And that brings me to a pet peeve I have with the supermarket check-out system here.
I think it must be listed somewhere in the union rules that the supermarket cashiers are not allowed to help you put your groceries in the bags. I don’t know why and nobody has had a sufficient explanation. If you’re alone, it’s especially problematic because you have to put all your things on the conveyer belt and then run through to start loading them into your bags. If you haven’t brought your own, you are at the mercy of the cashier to bring out plastic ones for you to use. And if they can’t help you put your things in the bags, I wish they would at least help open the plastic bags because it’s as if they are hermetically sealed shut and much time is lost trying to pry them apart.
By the time they are, everything has been rung up and now you have to stop packing and picking apart the bags and pay. Once that’s processed, it’s the next person’s turn and their things are now piling on top of yours. Phew or as the French say “Ouf – j’ai fini!”
Je vais chercher les croissants
exp. – I’m going out for croissants or I’m going out for cigarettes, or I’m not coming back at all
For those having a little dalliance, but who are eventually coming home, there is an expression “cinq a sept,” literally translated meaning five to seven or the hours between work and the time a man gets home when he may be spending time with his mistress. This isn’t to be confused with “Cinq a Sec,” which means five to dry and is a dry cleaning chain.
Another afternoon expression is “le quatre heure” or “gouter” which means four o'clock or the taste or afternoon snack, literally though and having nothing do with a little afternoon delight. Moving into the evening, “Sept a Huit,” or seven to eight, is both a news program and a supermarket chain.
“Sieste crapuleuse” or sneaky siesta is what parents tell their children they’re having when they’re not really siest-ing at all. And when children aren’t really at school, but rather are playing hookey, it’s called “faire l’ecole buissonnieere” or making school in the bush. This actually dates back to 1423 when the plague drove people away from the cities and into the countries to avoid catching it. Others say it comes from the 15th century where the thieves would hide in the bushes in the middle of the forest. One more theory is that it comes from the secret schools hidden in the bushes during the Lutheran period so that the repressed Protestants could take classes there.
In any case, there are no birds in the bush worth less than in the hand, but rather “un ‘tiens’ est mieux que deux ‘tu l’auras’" or quite simply, one that you have is better than two that you will have.
All this sneaking around can also lead to “casser du sucre sur le dos de quelqu’un,” breaking sugar on someone’s back or criticizing someone behind their back. More seriously, one could be stabbed in the back or have a banana peel put under their foot, “metre une peau de banane.” And of course all of these things could lead to opening a can or worms or “comme usine a gaz,” like a gas plant. And none of us want that!
For those having a little dalliance, but who are eventually coming home, there is an expression “cinq a sept,” literally translated meaning five to seven or the hours between work and the time a man gets home when he may be spending time with his mistress. This isn’t to be confused with “Cinq a Sec,” which means five to dry and is a dry cleaning chain.
Another afternoon expression is “le quatre heure” or “gouter” which means four o'clock or the taste or afternoon snack, literally though and having nothing do with a little afternoon delight. Moving into the evening, “Sept a Huit,” or seven to eight, is both a news program and a supermarket chain.
“Sieste crapuleuse” or sneaky siesta is what parents tell their children they’re having when they’re not really siest-ing at all. And when children aren’t really at school, but rather are playing hookey, it’s called “faire l’ecole buissonnieere” or making school in the bush. This actually dates back to 1423 when the plague drove people away from the cities and into the countries to avoid catching it. Others say it comes from the 15th century where the thieves would hide in the bushes in the middle of the forest. One more theory is that it comes from the secret schools hidden in the bushes during the Lutheran period so that the repressed Protestants could take classes there.
In any case, there are no birds in the bush worth less than in the hand, but rather “un ‘tiens’ est mieux que deux ‘tu l’auras’" or quite simply, one that you have is better than two that you will have.
All this sneaking around can also lead to “casser du sucre sur le dos de quelqu’un,” breaking sugar on someone’s back or criticizing someone behind their back. More seriously, one could be stabbed in the back or have a banana peel put under their foot, “metre une peau de banane.” And of course all of these things could lead to opening a can or worms or “comme usine a gaz,” like a gas plant. And none of us want that!
Clochard
n. – homeless person
Sadly the problem of homelessness has only escalated due to the crisis, but I find the situation much more prevalent here than it was in New York. It’s ironic that in a country with such a strong culture of helping those in need that the problem is as bad as it is. At the same time, perhaps it’s that very culture of respecting the rights of others that prevents a round up, if you will, where the homeless are taken off the streets and forced into shelters, even if only temporarily.
I find the situation in stark contrast to the background it’s painted on. The other day for example, my husband and I visited one of those ultra high-end haute couture designer boutiques. It’s the kind where you don’t really go to shop and certainly not to browse, but rather call in your order being a regular client and have things sent to you or ready for your assistant to pick up.
I am by far not the clientele, but I went at the request of a friend in the US who wanted to know what the new line looked like. I wouldn’t have the first clue how to describe the clothes so luckily, with the aid of my husband, who I dragged along for support, I secured a look book.
It took about half an hour and four people to get it. There were Amazonian women teetering around in impossibly high heels clopping noisily across the vast expanse of the showroom’s parquet floors. My husband read the paper as I paced back and forth pretending to feign interest in the clothes, but not sure how any mere mortal like myself could even wear them, much less afford them!
With look book in hand, we exited as gracefully as possible and headed down the trendy street in equally trendy neighborhood only to be confronted by a group of homeless men who, unlike in most cases, looked rather menacing. My tendency is to panic, but my husband calmly responded to their request for change that we didn’t have any. Something I found ridiculous because here we just came out of this hideously expensive store and dressed for the occasion. (Yes, I did dress in one of my best outfits knowing I was going there!)
We chose to grab lunch at a fast food restaurant just near by and as we sat down to eat, there was another homeless man in the restaurant not just casually asking for food or money, but literally harassing people – lingering at their tables until they either gave him something or snapped at him to leave. (I’m embarrassed to say we did the latter.)
It’s awful really because it makes me feel like a monster. This happens to us often in these types of restaurants I hate to say, but it was the first time I saw a homeless person of that condition. Usually, it’s women with sleeping children tied to their chests. I’ve often wondered if they replace the child with a smaller one as they get older because I’ve seen the same woman with the same sleeping child since we moved almost a year ago and it’s impossible that that child wouldn’t have outgrown the harness by now. I wonder too why it’s never awake.
I wonder about so many things. I can’t imagine the lives these people endure. I see them in the subways either sitting or pitched forward with foreheads pressed to the ground and outstretched hands. I see them all over the sidewalks near our office. Some are alone, but some have dogs or cats. It’s both heartbreaking and strangely comforting when I see the pets because I feel like they at least take care of each other. The animals look relatively well fed and their owners make an effort to wrap a little scarf or sweater around them on the days when it’s cold.
I know the situation here is nothing in comparison to places like Egypt or India. And the misery throughout the world, not only in third world countries, but even in the US, is impossible to reconcile. Again the stark contrast of extreme poverty against opulent wealth is difficult to fathom. But it grows more and more difficult to look away and even the beauty of Paris can’t hide this very real problem. The solution, on the other hand, remains sadly elusive.
Sadly the problem of homelessness has only escalated due to the crisis, but I find the situation much more prevalent here than it was in New York. It’s ironic that in a country with such a strong culture of helping those in need that the problem is as bad as it is. At the same time, perhaps it’s that very culture of respecting the rights of others that prevents a round up, if you will, where the homeless are taken off the streets and forced into shelters, even if only temporarily.
I find the situation in stark contrast to the background it’s painted on. The other day for example, my husband and I visited one of those ultra high-end haute couture designer boutiques. It’s the kind where you don’t really go to shop and certainly not to browse, but rather call in your order being a regular client and have things sent to you or ready for your assistant to pick up.
I am by far not the clientele, but I went at the request of a friend in the US who wanted to know what the new line looked like. I wouldn’t have the first clue how to describe the clothes so luckily, with the aid of my husband, who I dragged along for support, I secured a look book.
It took about half an hour and four people to get it. There were Amazonian women teetering around in impossibly high heels clopping noisily across the vast expanse of the showroom’s parquet floors. My husband read the paper as I paced back and forth pretending to feign interest in the clothes, but not sure how any mere mortal like myself could even wear them, much less afford them!
With look book in hand, we exited as gracefully as possible and headed down the trendy street in equally trendy neighborhood only to be confronted by a group of homeless men who, unlike in most cases, looked rather menacing. My tendency is to panic, but my husband calmly responded to their request for change that we didn’t have any. Something I found ridiculous because here we just came out of this hideously expensive store and dressed for the occasion. (Yes, I did dress in one of my best outfits knowing I was going there!)
We chose to grab lunch at a fast food restaurant just near by and as we sat down to eat, there was another homeless man in the restaurant not just casually asking for food or money, but literally harassing people – lingering at their tables until they either gave him something or snapped at him to leave. (I’m embarrassed to say we did the latter.)
It’s awful really because it makes me feel like a monster. This happens to us often in these types of restaurants I hate to say, but it was the first time I saw a homeless person of that condition. Usually, it’s women with sleeping children tied to their chests. I’ve often wondered if they replace the child with a smaller one as they get older because I’ve seen the same woman with the same sleeping child since we moved almost a year ago and it’s impossible that that child wouldn’t have outgrown the harness by now. I wonder too why it’s never awake.
I wonder about so many things. I can’t imagine the lives these people endure. I see them in the subways either sitting or pitched forward with foreheads pressed to the ground and outstretched hands. I see them all over the sidewalks near our office. Some are alone, but some have dogs or cats. It’s both heartbreaking and strangely comforting when I see the pets because I feel like they at least take care of each other. The animals look relatively well fed and their owners make an effort to wrap a little scarf or sweater around them on the days when it’s cold.
I know the situation here is nothing in comparison to places like Egypt or India. And the misery throughout the world, not only in third world countries, but even in the US, is impossible to reconcile. Again the stark contrast of extreme poverty against opulent wealth is difficult to fathom. But it grows more and more difficult to look away and even the beauty of Paris can’t hide this very real problem. The solution, on the other hand, remains sadly elusive.
Oct 10, 2009
Hamam
n. – sauna
There is a spa just across the street from our apartment that was offering a special for a hamam and gaummage (scrub) for 15 euros. So I thought I would treat myself.
I’ve been to a hamam in Morocco, which was the real deal. You sit in a room filled with hot steam often infused with eucalyptus. It’s so hot and the mentholated smell so strong, you feel as if your lungs are going to explode. Then a woman comes in and scrubs you within an inch of your life. I suppose some people sit in there nude, but I wore my bathing suit, which I thought she might rub right off me.
While it sounds unpleasant, which it was, once it’s finished, you feel cleansed inside and out and your skin is as soft as a newborn baby’s. So I figured what did I have to lose and suspected it would be a slightly more civilized experience in the 7th arrondissement of Paris.
When I arrived, I was shown to a little room with an odd looking machine that looked like something between a tanning bed and an MRI. I realized that was the hamam so it was already looking to be a much different experience. I was told to undress and given a little paper “string” same as in English without the “g.” Then I had to lie on my back in the machine while the technician started to exfoliate my skin. She told me I must not have any “probleme de poids” problems with weight and that my body was practically perfect. I liked her very much. So I happily flipped over and then back again with no sense of self-consciousness, although at one point I feared I may flip right out of the machine itself since it had become slippery with the scrub.
When it was time to start the hamam, there appeared to be choices with regards to what kind of setting, but since I didn’t really understand the differences, I allowed the technician to choose for me. She closed the lid on me just leaving my face out and explaining that I could always push the lid open with my hands if for some reason I felt uncomfortable.
Water started to pour in, which turned to steam and lights around the machine changed from blue to green to orange to pink and back to blue. The machine vibrated which was supposed to act as a mini massage. I was fine while the technician was there now exfoliating my face. We chatted about different regimes for one’s skin. She told me mine was good, but I had to be careful since it was starting to lose its elasticity. Of course there was a she assured me this shouldn’t be a problem since I didn’t have a weight problem because if I suddenly gained and lost a lot of weight, I could risk sagging.
We talked about her own regime to lose weight, which had nothing to do with diet or exercise, but rather sea algae scrubs in the hamam. A good friend of mine who is French once told me, a French woman is more likely to buy a cream she can rub on her body than get a membership to a gym. Apparently it seems to work for them though since for the most part, they’re all in pretty good shape.
It was time for my face mask and with that, the technician left me for the remaining 10 minutes of the treatment. It was the longest 10 minutes of my life. Suddenly being left alone with the lights changing colors, the machine making noise and startling me as it moved from steam to jets of water to vibrating, I started to panic. The blue light especially made me anxious since it reminded me of swimming in a pool at night. I used to be convinced that the pool bottom would open up and a giant sea creature would rise from the depths and eat me. I suppose I have Steven Spielberg to thank for this.
So I was thrilled when it was all over. To thank the technician, who was actually the spa owner, for her compliment about my perfect body (which I assure you is far from it), I bought some products. Don’t get me started on the tipping because since I was once told it wasn’t necessary to tip the owner, I didn’t. And so I made my way back home, slightly rattled, but feeling silkily smooth.
There is a spa just across the street from our apartment that was offering a special for a hamam and gaummage (scrub) for 15 euros. So I thought I would treat myself.
I’ve been to a hamam in Morocco, which was the real deal. You sit in a room filled with hot steam often infused with eucalyptus. It’s so hot and the mentholated smell so strong, you feel as if your lungs are going to explode. Then a woman comes in and scrubs you within an inch of your life. I suppose some people sit in there nude, but I wore my bathing suit, which I thought she might rub right off me.
While it sounds unpleasant, which it was, once it’s finished, you feel cleansed inside and out and your skin is as soft as a newborn baby’s. So I figured what did I have to lose and suspected it would be a slightly more civilized experience in the 7th arrondissement of Paris.
When I arrived, I was shown to a little room with an odd looking machine that looked like something between a tanning bed and an MRI. I realized that was the hamam so it was already looking to be a much different experience. I was told to undress and given a little paper “string” same as in English without the “g.” Then I had to lie on my back in the machine while the technician started to exfoliate my skin. She told me I must not have any “probleme de poids” problems with weight and that my body was practically perfect. I liked her very much. So I happily flipped over and then back again with no sense of self-consciousness, although at one point I feared I may flip right out of the machine itself since it had become slippery with the scrub.
When it was time to start the hamam, there appeared to be choices with regards to what kind of setting, but since I didn’t really understand the differences, I allowed the technician to choose for me. She closed the lid on me just leaving my face out and explaining that I could always push the lid open with my hands if for some reason I felt uncomfortable.
Water started to pour in, which turned to steam and lights around the machine changed from blue to green to orange to pink and back to blue. The machine vibrated which was supposed to act as a mini massage. I was fine while the technician was there now exfoliating my face. We chatted about different regimes for one’s skin. She told me mine was good, but I had to be careful since it was starting to lose its elasticity. Of course there was a she assured me this shouldn’t be a problem since I didn’t have a weight problem because if I suddenly gained and lost a lot of weight, I could risk sagging.
We talked about her own regime to lose weight, which had nothing to do with diet or exercise, but rather sea algae scrubs in the hamam. A good friend of mine who is French once told me, a French woman is more likely to buy a cream she can rub on her body than get a membership to a gym. Apparently it seems to work for them though since for the most part, they’re all in pretty good shape.
It was time for my face mask and with that, the technician left me for the remaining 10 minutes of the treatment. It was the longest 10 minutes of my life. Suddenly being left alone with the lights changing colors, the machine making noise and startling me as it moved from steam to jets of water to vibrating, I started to panic. The blue light especially made me anxious since it reminded me of swimming in a pool at night. I used to be convinced that the pool bottom would open up and a giant sea creature would rise from the depths and eat me. I suppose I have Steven Spielberg to thank for this.
So I was thrilled when it was all over. To thank the technician, who was actually the spa owner, for her compliment about my perfect body (which I assure you is far from it), I bought some products. Don’t get me started on the tipping because since I was once told it wasn’t necessary to tip the owner, I didn’t. And so I made my way back home, slightly rattled, but feeling silkily smooth.
Oct 9, 2009
Nom
n. – name
Chien
n. – dog
Beginning in 1926, French dog breeders were required to name their dogs with a letter that corresponds to the year. So, for example, 2009 is the year of the E. All dogs born this year have to be given a name that starts with that letter.
What’s not clear to me and I have to research further is if the dog owner can then change the name, while keeping the same letter or if the dog comes with a name you have to keep. This rule was established to help simplify the work of dog genealogists, something I’m also not really clear on.
The order of the letters chosen by year follows the same order of the alphabet so next year, it will be the letter F. However, K, Q, W, X, Y and Z have been removed since it was decided that there weren’t enough French names that begin with these letters.
I discovered this amazing piece of information last weekend when we were seated next to two ladies and their dogs in a little café. One had a little wired haired dachshund, the other a little yorkie. Both my husband and I love dogs so we engaged their owners in conversation and ultimately asked about the dogs’ names.
The dachshund was called Ypsilon, which stands for Y in the Greek alphabet, but it was spelled Upsilon since the dog was born in the year of the U. The yorkie was called Violette so obviously, she was a year younger.
And while you can get away with naming your dog after a Greek letter, albeit spelled incorrectly, don’t think you can do the same for your child. There are no fruits or vegetables allowed here. You’re always safe going with Marie for a girl and I’m sure it would come up as the most common. My name, on the other hand, is completely baffling until I explain what it translates to in French.
You see Dawn is an acceptable girl’s name in French, “Aurore,” but in English, it’s downright exotic. So it makes me feel quite special in fact. Of course if I ever wanted to name my dog Dawn, which I wouldn’t because that would be strange, I would have to wait another 19 years. So if we do ever get a dog, I guess we’ll try to make sure it’s in a year with a letter we like. Too bad my husband’s choice of Winston won’t be up for grabs with the loss of the W, but maybe we can lobby for its return. It wouldn’t be any stranger than this system already is!
Chien
n. – dog
Beginning in 1926, French dog breeders were required to name their dogs with a letter that corresponds to the year. So, for example, 2009 is the year of the E. All dogs born this year have to be given a name that starts with that letter.
What’s not clear to me and I have to research further is if the dog owner can then change the name, while keeping the same letter or if the dog comes with a name you have to keep. This rule was established to help simplify the work of dog genealogists, something I’m also not really clear on.
The order of the letters chosen by year follows the same order of the alphabet so next year, it will be the letter F. However, K, Q, W, X, Y and Z have been removed since it was decided that there weren’t enough French names that begin with these letters.
I discovered this amazing piece of information last weekend when we were seated next to two ladies and their dogs in a little café. One had a little wired haired dachshund, the other a little yorkie. Both my husband and I love dogs so we engaged their owners in conversation and ultimately asked about the dogs’ names.
The dachshund was called Ypsilon, which stands for Y in the Greek alphabet, but it was spelled Upsilon since the dog was born in the year of the U. The yorkie was called Violette so obviously, she was a year younger.
And while you can get away with naming your dog after a Greek letter, albeit spelled incorrectly, don’t think you can do the same for your child. There are no fruits or vegetables allowed here. You’re always safe going with Marie for a girl and I’m sure it would come up as the most common. My name, on the other hand, is completely baffling until I explain what it translates to in French.
You see Dawn is an acceptable girl’s name in French, “Aurore,” but in English, it’s downright exotic. So it makes me feel quite special in fact. Of course if I ever wanted to name my dog Dawn, which I wouldn’t because that would be strange, I would have to wait another 19 years. So if we do ever get a dog, I guess we’ll try to make sure it’s in a year with a letter we like. Too bad my husband’s choice of Winston won’t be up for grabs with the loss of the W, but maybe we can lobby for its return. It wouldn’t be any stranger than this system already is!
Gratuite, pourboire
n. – tip
Gratuite is the same as the English word, gratuity. Coming from the word gratitude, it’s something you leave for service you were pleased with. The word TIPS traditionally stood for To Insure Proper Service. Pourboire, literally translated, means “for drink.”
In the US, even though technically it’s at the patron’s discretion how much they want to leave, a tip is still pretty much expected. The only question is whether you leave between 15% and 20% because leaving anything less than that could indicate that you weren’t happy and in some cases will encourage a waiter to come running after you to see what was wrong. As such, doubling the tax only really works fairly if you’re in a state where that would amount to at least 15% of the bill. I think a lot of waiters have been shortchanged since someone suggested that as an easy calculation.
You’re not supposed to tip on tax or alcohol on a restaurant bill, but try doing the calculation like that and you’ll feel like your skimping. Plus the server is never going to bring back the tip and say, this it too much – it looks like you tipped on top of the tax and alcohol. And of course you’re expected to tip a bartender so why not tip on the alcohol that’s brought with your meal? So I find tipping time consuming and even stressful.
Tipping taxis in New York is no better. You’re always going to end up rounding up and sometimes it feels like you’re giving too much proportionately to what the ride cost. But be careful not to skimp with the drivers because they will yell at you or at the least glare at you if you ask for change that they think should rightfully be theirs to keep.
In France, service is “compris” or included. This counts for restaurants and taxis as well as services such as hair salons, spas, etc. So here it is simple – in theory. You can walk away from a perfectly good, well served lunch or dinner without leaving an extra centime. However, don’t be fooled into thinking that people still won’t accept a little something extra. And this is where it gets complicated.
If you decide the service was exceptional, you can leave one or two euros for a more casual spot – never less than one though and maybe five if you’re somewhere more upscale. In any case, these amounts are generally closer to a 5 or 10% gratuity that’s appreciated just as much, but make me feel like a cheapskate at times. Of course, there's little to no recourse if the meal is bad or the server is rude. He gets his tip either way.
A taxi driver will genuinely thank you if you tell him to keep the change and I’m talking about literally just the change. So if a ride is 15 euros and 60 cents, you give him a 20 euro bill and just ask for 3 euros back, you will get a “merci.” This isn’t to say if you told him to keep the 20, you wouldn’t get an even bigger merci.
It’s the same rule of thumb for hairdressers or masseuses, but if you ask how much is appropriate to leave, they absolutely won’t tell you. Obviously, I never ask the person directly, but will try to find out from someone else in the salon, for example. The first response will be “c’est compris,” it’s included. But this is inevitably followed by “c’est comme vous voulez,” “it’s as you want.” What makes it even more awkward to me is that the smallest bill denomination is five euros. So even a two-euro tip, which can be perfectly appropriate seems cheap since you’re handing over a coin.
I’ve never been good at haggling or bartering. If I want something, I just want someone to tell me how much it costs and I will pay for it. So with tipping, I don’t want someone to tell me it’s up to me – I just want them to tell me how much to leave - for that, I would be grateful.
Gratuite is the same as the English word, gratuity. Coming from the word gratitude, it’s something you leave for service you were pleased with. The word TIPS traditionally stood for To Insure Proper Service. Pourboire, literally translated, means “for drink.”
In the US, even though technically it’s at the patron’s discretion how much they want to leave, a tip is still pretty much expected. The only question is whether you leave between 15% and 20% because leaving anything less than that could indicate that you weren’t happy and in some cases will encourage a waiter to come running after you to see what was wrong. As such, doubling the tax only really works fairly if you’re in a state where that would amount to at least 15% of the bill. I think a lot of waiters have been shortchanged since someone suggested that as an easy calculation.
You’re not supposed to tip on tax or alcohol on a restaurant bill, but try doing the calculation like that and you’ll feel like your skimping. Plus the server is never going to bring back the tip and say, this it too much – it looks like you tipped on top of the tax and alcohol. And of course you’re expected to tip a bartender so why not tip on the alcohol that’s brought with your meal? So I find tipping time consuming and even stressful.
Tipping taxis in New York is no better. You’re always going to end up rounding up and sometimes it feels like you’re giving too much proportionately to what the ride cost. But be careful not to skimp with the drivers because they will yell at you or at the least glare at you if you ask for change that they think should rightfully be theirs to keep.
In France, service is “compris” or included. This counts for restaurants and taxis as well as services such as hair salons, spas, etc. So here it is simple – in theory. You can walk away from a perfectly good, well served lunch or dinner without leaving an extra centime. However, don’t be fooled into thinking that people still won’t accept a little something extra. And this is where it gets complicated.
If you decide the service was exceptional, you can leave one or two euros for a more casual spot – never less than one though and maybe five if you’re somewhere more upscale. In any case, these amounts are generally closer to a 5 or 10% gratuity that’s appreciated just as much, but make me feel like a cheapskate at times. Of course, there's little to no recourse if the meal is bad or the server is rude. He gets his tip either way.
A taxi driver will genuinely thank you if you tell him to keep the change and I’m talking about literally just the change. So if a ride is 15 euros and 60 cents, you give him a 20 euro bill and just ask for 3 euros back, you will get a “merci.” This isn’t to say if you told him to keep the 20, you wouldn’t get an even bigger merci.
It’s the same rule of thumb for hairdressers or masseuses, but if you ask how much is appropriate to leave, they absolutely won’t tell you. Obviously, I never ask the person directly, but will try to find out from someone else in the salon, for example. The first response will be “c’est compris,” it’s included. But this is inevitably followed by “c’est comme vous voulez,” “it’s as you want.” What makes it even more awkward to me is that the smallest bill denomination is five euros. So even a two-euro tip, which can be perfectly appropriate seems cheap since you’re handing over a coin.
I’ve never been good at haggling or bartering. If I want something, I just want someone to tell me how much it costs and I will pay for it. So with tipping, I don’t want someone to tell me it’s up to me – I just want them to tell me how much to leave - for that, I would be grateful.
Oct 2, 2009
Se faire de nouveaux amis
exp. – making new friends
When moving to a new city, there’s an even bigger opportunity to make new friends since everything including them, is new. In Paris, it’s easy to get to know the local merchants since you frequent their shops on a regular basis. We know the newsstand vendor near our office by name, Jacques. And we often chat about the latest topics that grace the cover of our favourite magazines or share opinions on the latest soccer scores when my husband picks up the sports-paper, L’Equipe.
Near our apartment, we almost always go to the same friendly baker just down the street. There’s one just across the street that’s even closer, but since the ladies who run it aren’t as friendly, “ca n’est pas le peine,” it’s not worth it. The beauty of having so many choices in our neighbourhood is being able to find quality goods and service with a smile.
Not long ago I went to our baker to buy a quiche for the following day. I wanted her to just hold one for me to pick up later since I was on my way out. I think she was confused why I wouldn’t wait and buy it fresh the following day, but I didn’t want to tell her I was too lazy to get up early to collect it. So to avoid any further confusion, I decided to take it back upstairs to the apartment before heading out again. I forgot to ask her if I should keep it in the fridge or not so I ran back again on my back out.
She then realized how close I lived and said she lived on the same street, too, just above the bakery in fact. “On peut prendre un verre,” we should have a drink sometime she said, to which I replied “avec plaisir!” with pleasure! And then not sure if I should set the date there and then or not, I just kept repeating “avec plaisir” and left.
Each time I walked by the bakery after that or even went in, I thought about our date and how to make the next move. We would exchange the usual warm greetings, she asked how the quiche was and told my husband that we were going to meet for drinks at some point. I felt like the ball was in my court since she is after all trapped behind the bakery counter and I’m the one free to come in and go out. So finally one day I went in and asked if she was free the following Monday since that’s her day off and I thought we could meet earlier since the rest of the week she has to wait until after the shop is closed.
We exchanged phone numbers, set the time and I was back on my way, pleased with myself for following through. The Monday came and I got a call from her explaining she had to cancel because something had come up. “Pas de probleme, une autre fois,” no problem, another time, I said, to which she responded “avec plaisir!”
All of this coincided with my husband taking a break from bread. While he has no weight problems, he does sometimes have stomach problems and the doctor wanted him to experiment with eliminating certain food groups to see if that might help. I felt badly because I didn’t want the baker to think I was upset about the cancelled date since I wasn’t coming to see her any more. Each time I walked by the shop to wave at her though she was either busy or in the back.
Finally last night, we stopped in on the way home from work. My husband was treating himself to some pate, which requires bread so there we were in front of our friendly baker. She apologized again for cancelling and again, I said we could do it another time. She said she had wondered why she hadn’t seen us so I felt relieved to give her the explanation. And I couldn’t help observe that making friends, just like dating, can have its awkward moments. But while I’m happy to have my dating days behind me, I’m thoroughly enjoying making new friends here and realize that new friendships are some of the many wonderful gifts a new city has to offer.
When moving to a new city, there’s an even bigger opportunity to make new friends since everything including them, is new. In Paris, it’s easy to get to know the local merchants since you frequent their shops on a regular basis. We know the newsstand vendor near our office by name, Jacques. And we often chat about the latest topics that grace the cover of our favourite magazines or share opinions on the latest soccer scores when my husband picks up the sports-paper, L’Equipe.
Near our apartment, we almost always go to the same friendly baker just down the street. There’s one just across the street that’s even closer, but since the ladies who run it aren’t as friendly, “ca n’est pas le peine,” it’s not worth it. The beauty of having so many choices in our neighbourhood is being able to find quality goods and service with a smile.
Not long ago I went to our baker to buy a quiche for the following day. I wanted her to just hold one for me to pick up later since I was on my way out. I think she was confused why I wouldn’t wait and buy it fresh the following day, but I didn’t want to tell her I was too lazy to get up early to collect it. So to avoid any further confusion, I decided to take it back upstairs to the apartment before heading out again. I forgot to ask her if I should keep it in the fridge or not so I ran back again on my back out.
She then realized how close I lived and said she lived on the same street, too, just above the bakery in fact. “On peut prendre un verre,” we should have a drink sometime she said, to which I replied “avec plaisir!” with pleasure! And then not sure if I should set the date there and then or not, I just kept repeating “avec plaisir” and left.
Each time I walked by the bakery after that or even went in, I thought about our date and how to make the next move. We would exchange the usual warm greetings, she asked how the quiche was and told my husband that we were going to meet for drinks at some point. I felt like the ball was in my court since she is after all trapped behind the bakery counter and I’m the one free to come in and go out. So finally one day I went in and asked if she was free the following Monday since that’s her day off and I thought we could meet earlier since the rest of the week she has to wait until after the shop is closed.
We exchanged phone numbers, set the time and I was back on my way, pleased with myself for following through. The Monday came and I got a call from her explaining she had to cancel because something had come up. “Pas de probleme, une autre fois,” no problem, another time, I said, to which she responded “avec plaisir!”
All of this coincided with my husband taking a break from bread. While he has no weight problems, he does sometimes have stomach problems and the doctor wanted him to experiment with eliminating certain food groups to see if that might help. I felt badly because I didn’t want the baker to think I was upset about the cancelled date since I wasn’t coming to see her any more. Each time I walked by the shop to wave at her though she was either busy or in the back.
Finally last night, we stopped in on the way home from work. My husband was treating himself to some pate, which requires bread so there we were in front of our friendly baker. She apologized again for cancelling and again, I said we could do it another time. She said she had wondered why she hadn’t seen us so I felt relieved to give her the explanation. And I couldn’t help observe that making friends, just like dating, can have its awkward moments. But while I’m happy to have my dating days behind me, I’m thoroughly enjoying making new friends here and realize that new friendships are some of the many wonderful gifts a new city has to offer.
Chambres de bonne
n. – maid’s rooms
The top floors of virtually all the old apartment buildings in Paris are made up of small rooms that once housed the maids. The British have their own system referring to them as the servant’s quarters. In any event, it’s a concept that’s a bit dated to say the least.
Here the chambres de bonne, despite their often spectacular views for those with windows large enough to look out of, are tiny rooms sometimes only large enough to fit a bed. Because they’re often located directly under the eaves, they can be stiflingly hot in the summer and freezing in the winter. In other words, they were not built as places of comfort, but rather simply created to function as rudimentary shelter for the staff.
When I think of the name chambre de bonne, I can’t help thinking it would be a great title and topic for a horror movie with the subtitle – “The Maid’s Room” said in that ominous horror movie trailer voice. Both the apartments we’ve lived in have them. Sometimes owners will incorporate them into their own larger apartments. Our neighbours here use theirs as their bedroom. But often times they are rented out separately mostly to students because they’re the only ones with the energy to climb the six, seven or eight flights of stairs depending on the height of the buildings. You see the chambres de bonne usually can’t be accessed by the elevator in buildings that have one, as they have their own separate stairwell access. This is why most of the apartments have a service door usually located in the kitchen where the maids could once go in and out.
Our service door was walled over when our landlord renovated. So if I wanted to access the chambres de bonne, I would have to go down to the ground floor and take the stairs all the way back up to the 8th floor where they are located just above us. Fortunately, the ones above us are not directly overhead so we still have the sense of being on the top floor ourselves.
I went up to explore the chambres de bonne in our last building, which was a mistake. The back stairs were dimply lit, dirty and frankly quite scary. When I reached the top, it reminded me of something out of The Shining with a long hallway and lots of doors. Some people have combined chambres de bonne allowing for more space and even the ability to rig plumbing etc. But for the ones that remain only as big as a bed, there is a shared bathroom in the hallway.
It’s illegal to rent out something under 6 square meters or roughly 60 square feet (with good reason!), but many can be about that size and a blind eye is turned. So while some of them might be creepy, they are character building and I suppose it affords the luxury of living in Paris to those who can’t pay the steep rents. Also again for most, there is a view over Paris that is unbeatable. So that is well deserved for all the flights of stairs, the heat, the cold and the cramped space because a view over Paris can make one forget many a hardship. I would take a chambre de bonne with a view over a larger apartment with none. But luckily for me, my student days are over so that’s a choice I no longer have to make.
The top floors of virtually all the old apartment buildings in Paris are made up of small rooms that once housed the maids. The British have their own system referring to them as the servant’s quarters. In any event, it’s a concept that’s a bit dated to say the least.
Here the chambres de bonne, despite their often spectacular views for those with windows large enough to look out of, are tiny rooms sometimes only large enough to fit a bed. Because they’re often located directly under the eaves, they can be stiflingly hot in the summer and freezing in the winter. In other words, they were not built as places of comfort, but rather simply created to function as rudimentary shelter for the staff.
When I think of the name chambre de bonne, I can’t help thinking it would be a great title and topic for a horror movie with the subtitle – “The Maid’s Room” said in that ominous horror movie trailer voice. Both the apartments we’ve lived in have them. Sometimes owners will incorporate them into their own larger apartments. Our neighbours here use theirs as their bedroom. But often times they are rented out separately mostly to students because they’re the only ones with the energy to climb the six, seven or eight flights of stairs depending on the height of the buildings. You see the chambres de bonne usually can’t be accessed by the elevator in buildings that have one, as they have their own separate stairwell access. This is why most of the apartments have a service door usually located in the kitchen where the maids could once go in and out.
Our service door was walled over when our landlord renovated. So if I wanted to access the chambres de bonne, I would have to go down to the ground floor and take the stairs all the way back up to the 8th floor where they are located just above us. Fortunately, the ones above us are not directly overhead so we still have the sense of being on the top floor ourselves.
I went up to explore the chambres de bonne in our last building, which was a mistake. The back stairs were dimply lit, dirty and frankly quite scary. When I reached the top, it reminded me of something out of The Shining with a long hallway and lots of doors. Some people have combined chambres de bonne allowing for more space and even the ability to rig plumbing etc. But for the ones that remain only as big as a bed, there is a shared bathroom in the hallway.
It’s illegal to rent out something under 6 square meters or roughly 60 square feet (with good reason!), but many can be about that size and a blind eye is turned. So while some of them might be creepy, they are character building and I suppose it affords the luxury of living in Paris to those who can’t pay the steep rents. Also again for most, there is a view over Paris that is unbeatable. So that is well deserved for all the flights of stairs, the heat, the cold and the cramped space because a view over Paris can make one forget many a hardship. I would take a chambre de bonne with a view over a larger apartment with none. But luckily for me, my student days are over so that’s a choice I no longer have to make.
Sep 24, 2009
Saison
n. – season
Mois
n. – month
I’m going to begin with my favourite season in Paris which is “printemps” or spring. Usually, this starts around “mars” or March. (Note: the French don’t capitalize months or days of the week like we do). While the first weeks of the month may still be a bit cool, you can feel the openness of the city as the grey gloom of winter gives way to sunshine and blue skies. Colourful flowers decorate window boxes and accent the lush green of the gardens and parks. People are happier, lighter and even friendlier as the city awakens after its winter slumber.
As the weeks pass from “avril,” April into “mai,” May, the days get longer and warmer and by “juin” or June, “l’été” or summer has arrived. Sandals, sunglasses and sun dresses are sported as people take just a little more time over lunches at outdoor cafes while planning their upcoming vacations. From “mi-juillet,” mid-July until “fin aôut,” the end of August, the city thins out as people head to the beaches, the country, or even to exotic locales overseas. And rather than feeling desolate as it clears out, the city just feels peaceful. Traffic is lighter, restaurants are more accessible and even if you’re still here working, you sense that the load is lighter whatever it may be.
“Automne” or fall can begin as abruptly as the “rentrée” or re-entry at the beginning of “septembre,” September. Parents looks as sleepy as their children on the first day of school and it seems like the weather turns from sultry to crisp almost overnight. The leaves start to turn, the traffic starts to churn and everything comes back to life and back to work. The temperature keeps dipping as “octobre,” October turns to “novembre,” November and the trees are finally stripped bare leaving them looking naked and vulnerable.
By “décembre,” December, “l’hiver” or winter has officially arrived. The sun has faded away as if to take its own vacation now. Replacing it is a sheet of grey that covers the pretty city fading its spectacular lustre. While it may not be as cold as New York, the dampness of the climate makes it feel worse and the lack of sun and blue sky makes it depressing and sad. My husband says it’s like looking at a beautiful painting in the dark. You can no longer appreciate it even though it’s right there in front of you.
“Janvier,” January and “février,” February are probably the worst months since whatever festive sparkle was created around the holidays has now disappeared. For this reason, it’s nice that February is the shortest month and when its final day rolls around, you can take a breath of fresh even if still frigid air knowing that it’s uphill from there. And so the cycle begins again with sunshine and flowers erasing the memories of sadness and frost. Perhaps it’s true that without the one extreme we would never appreciate the other so I have to be thankful for both and the transition that fall and spring allow between the peaks and lows of summer and winter.
Mois
n. – month
I’m going to begin with my favourite season in Paris which is “printemps” or spring. Usually, this starts around “mars” or March. (Note: the French don’t capitalize months or days of the week like we do). While the first weeks of the month may still be a bit cool, you can feel the openness of the city as the grey gloom of winter gives way to sunshine and blue skies. Colourful flowers decorate window boxes and accent the lush green of the gardens and parks. People are happier, lighter and even friendlier as the city awakens after its winter slumber.
As the weeks pass from “avril,” April into “mai,” May, the days get longer and warmer and by “juin” or June, “l’été” or summer has arrived. Sandals, sunglasses and sun dresses are sported as people take just a little more time over lunches at outdoor cafes while planning their upcoming vacations. From “mi-juillet,” mid-July until “fin aôut,” the end of August, the city thins out as people head to the beaches, the country, or even to exotic locales overseas. And rather than feeling desolate as it clears out, the city just feels peaceful. Traffic is lighter, restaurants are more accessible and even if you’re still here working, you sense that the load is lighter whatever it may be.
“Automne” or fall can begin as abruptly as the “rentrée” or re-entry at the beginning of “septembre,” September. Parents looks as sleepy as their children on the first day of school and it seems like the weather turns from sultry to crisp almost overnight. The leaves start to turn, the traffic starts to churn and everything comes back to life and back to work. The temperature keeps dipping as “octobre,” October turns to “novembre,” November and the trees are finally stripped bare leaving them looking naked and vulnerable.
By “décembre,” December, “l’hiver” or winter has officially arrived. The sun has faded away as if to take its own vacation now. Replacing it is a sheet of grey that covers the pretty city fading its spectacular lustre. While it may not be as cold as New York, the dampness of the climate makes it feel worse and the lack of sun and blue sky makes it depressing and sad. My husband says it’s like looking at a beautiful painting in the dark. You can no longer appreciate it even though it’s right there in front of you.
“Janvier,” January and “février,” February are probably the worst months since whatever festive sparkle was created around the holidays has now disappeared. For this reason, it’s nice that February is the shortest month and when its final day rolls around, you can take a breath of fresh even if still frigid air knowing that it’s uphill from there. And so the cycle begins again with sunshine and flowers erasing the memories of sadness and frost. Perhaps it’s true that without the one extreme we would never appreciate the other so I have to be thankful for both and the transition that fall and spring allow between the peaks and lows of summer and winter.
Sep 23, 2009
Medicament
n. – medicine
Certain medicines are handled differently here than in the US. Several of the over-the-counter drugs that we find there are only available by prescription here and vice versa. A doctor once recommended ibuprofen to me when I had a sore throat. The normal dose is 200 mg or one pill, but she recommended I take at least two to be effective (which I always do). She asked me if I needed a prescription to which I responded I already had some, but what I realized she meant was that if I wanted to take a dose of 400mg or the equivalent of two pills, that would only be available by prescription. This must be why they sell them so parsimoniously in boxes of only 10 at a time and why you have to ask for them at the counter. In New York, I used to buy bottles of 200. I imagine here, that could make me eligible for rehab!
Claritin, the popular anti-histamine available OTC in the US, is only available by prescription here where Zyrtec, another type of the same medication that is only available by prescription in the US is available OTC here. Melatonin, which is often recommended to aid in jet lag and is easily accessible in the U.S., is also a prescription medication here.
While anti-depressants are prescription only, they are relatively easily prescribed. I once read that France has the highest percentage of people on anti-depressants which I think has less to do with a nation of depressed people and more to do with the ease by which they can be attained. Medication to treat the ills is covered generously within the health care system. However in the case of depression, therapy, is not. Therapy is looked at as an indulgence where the medication is looked at as a necessity to directly affect that condition. Homeopathy on the other hand is popular among many pharmacists who seem to prefer a more natural remedy to pharmaceuticals. I’m sure there is a fair amount of disagreement between internists, psychologists and pharmacists on appropriate methods of treatments.
Of course everyone is concerned with swine flu here – so much so that the customary kissing on both cheeks has been forbidden in many work places and schools. When my husband felt under the weather recently after a trip, we stopped by the pharmacy to ask for a remedy. The pharmacist panicked, pulling her shirt over her mouth and threw face masks at us. My husband was instructed not to touch anything in the apartment or our building and to call emergency services right away, which we thought was a bit extreme. We decided to wait it out a night so while he sat on the couch behind his mask, I was in charge of opening doors and turning on lights. In the morning, he was as good as new.
At our office, there are now signs in the restrooms with detailed instructions on how to properly wash your hands. I think I had that one down already, but question whether this is designed for people who are only now starting this practice in light of a pandemic.
I’m often amused by instructions on products. “For external use only” is one of my favourites. Hardly anything with this warning on it is something I would ever think of ingesting. We have quite a few toxic things around the apartment at the moment in my never ending quest to destroy the mosquitoes that seem to have targeted us specifically since nobody else in Paris seems to be bothered by them.
There are oil diffusers that we plug in, citronella candles that we burn, a light that’s supposed to attract and then trap them and my all time favourite, the swatter that’s electrically charged with the push of a button. It looks like a small tennis racket, but rather than having to swat and squish the bugs against a surface, all you have to do is catch them within the net and they’re electrocuted.
Many of these items render our apartment a somewhat hazardous environment for children or small animals so we always have to take care when either come to visit. I’m sure the oils produced by the plug-in repellent are completely poisonous to us as well, but again, I respect that they’re for external use only and since I started practicing washing my hands long before the swine flu came about, feel that I’m pretty thorough with this procedure following any handling of them. Now if they could only come up with a medicine that protects against mosquitoes, prescription or not, I would be first in line.
Certain medicines are handled differently here than in the US. Several of the over-the-counter drugs that we find there are only available by prescription here and vice versa. A doctor once recommended ibuprofen to me when I had a sore throat. The normal dose is 200 mg or one pill, but she recommended I take at least two to be effective (which I always do). She asked me if I needed a prescription to which I responded I already had some, but what I realized she meant was that if I wanted to take a dose of 400mg or the equivalent of two pills, that would only be available by prescription. This must be why they sell them so parsimoniously in boxes of only 10 at a time and why you have to ask for them at the counter. In New York, I used to buy bottles of 200. I imagine here, that could make me eligible for rehab!
Claritin, the popular anti-histamine available OTC in the US, is only available by prescription here where Zyrtec, another type of the same medication that is only available by prescription in the US is available OTC here. Melatonin, which is often recommended to aid in jet lag and is easily accessible in the U.S., is also a prescription medication here.
While anti-depressants are prescription only, they are relatively easily prescribed. I once read that France has the highest percentage of people on anti-depressants which I think has less to do with a nation of depressed people and more to do with the ease by which they can be attained. Medication to treat the ills is covered generously within the health care system. However in the case of depression, therapy, is not. Therapy is looked at as an indulgence where the medication is looked at as a necessity to directly affect that condition. Homeopathy on the other hand is popular among many pharmacists who seem to prefer a more natural remedy to pharmaceuticals. I’m sure there is a fair amount of disagreement between internists, psychologists and pharmacists on appropriate methods of treatments.
Of course everyone is concerned with swine flu here – so much so that the customary kissing on both cheeks has been forbidden in many work places and schools. When my husband felt under the weather recently after a trip, we stopped by the pharmacy to ask for a remedy. The pharmacist panicked, pulling her shirt over her mouth and threw face masks at us. My husband was instructed not to touch anything in the apartment or our building and to call emergency services right away, which we thought was a bit extreme. We decided to wait it out a night so while he sat on the couch behind his mask, I was in charge of opening doors and turning on lights. In the morning, he was as good as new.
At our office, there are now signs in the restrooms with detailed instructions on how to properly wash your hands. I think I had that one down already, but question whether this is designed for people who are only now starting this practice in light of a pandemic.
I’m often amused by instructions on products. “For external use only” is one of my favourites. Hardly anything with this warning on it is something I would ever think of ingesting. We have quite a few toxic things around the apartment at the moment in my never ending quest to destroy the mosquitoes that seem to have targeted us specifically since nobody else in Paris seems to be bothered by them.
There are oil diffusers that we plug in, citronella candles that we burn, a light that’s supposed to attract and then trap them and my all time favourite, the swatter that’s electrically charged with the push of a button. It looks like a small tennis racket, but rather than having to swat and squish the bugs against a surface, all you have to do is catch them within the net and they’re electrocuted.
Many of these items render our apartment a somewhat hazardous environment for children or small animals so we always have to take care when either come to visit. I’m sure the oils produced by the plug-in repellent are completely poisonous to us as well, but again, I respect that they’re for external use only and since I started practicing washing my hands long before the swine flu came about, feel that I’m pretty thorough with this procedure following any handling of them. Now if they could only come up with a medicine that protects against mosquitoes, prescription or not, I would be first in line.
Mariage
n. – marriage
Noces
n. – wedding
Voyage de noces, lune de miel
n. – honeymoon
French weddings make me think of the expression, “It’s not a race, it’s a marathon.” I have been to quite a few now, including my own and each time I’m fascinated by the endurance of the participants and the tradition of game playing that never seems to get old.
Here the couple is officially married during the civil ceremony. This can precede a religious ceremony, but it the only one that validates the union. This comes from the separation of church and state so while there is religious tolerance of course, only the state is recognized as the official ruling party if you will.
The civil ceremony takes place at the mairie, or the city hall. Depending on the location, the room where this happens can be large enough to accommodate an entire wedding party or quite small. Many couples don’t even have the civil ceremony on the same day. It can be just a small gathering of family, optional and “temoins” or witnesses, obligatory.
At the wedding we attended last year, the civil ceremony was followed immediately by the church ceremony and then the reception. Usually the city hall and the church will be within walking distance. In the case of the wedding we attended last weekend, the city hall was located just across the street from the “salle” or hall where the reception took place. There was no church.
At our last church wedding, the reception that followed was at a winery, which was a lovely setting. However, first we had to make our way to a location nearby for a group photo, something that seems to be increasingly popular. It’s not that easy getting a hundred or more people in a group shot so in this case, it involved bleachers that we had to stand on. As my luck would have it, I was asked to stand on the top rung in three inch heels causing me to wonder if I may upstage the wedding with my early demise.
The “vin d’honeur” literally translated is the wine of honor, or cocktail hour. I should clarify though that it is never just an hour and there are rarely cocktails. Champagne or sweet wines are commonly served and hors d’oeuvres range from light to heavy depending on tastes and budgets.
The bar was set high by the first French wedding I attended as it was impeccable in every detail down to the ice sculptured vodka bar that followed the dinner and opened the disco. The setting was exquisite, the food extraordinary and the celebration punctuated by several meaningful and lovely speeches.
I prefer this to one that is constantly being interrupted by games or entertainment of some kind. One wedding we went to actually had a play in the middle of it. This was probably one of my all time least favorites. The vin d’honor was endless with only sweet wine and cookies to nibble on. It was a buffet which I have to admit I’m not a fan of anywhere even if it’s at the Four Seasons. And someone decided it would be a good idea to separate all the people who knew each other. It wasn’t.
There’s a game of musical chairs that’s popular. Twelve people are chosen and the MC, if you will, yells out a particular object that they have to retrieve while one chair is removed. For example, a sock, a lipstick, etc. The people then grab these things from the rest of the guests. Each time a person is eliminated, they are given a theme during a month of the following year where they have to entertain the couple. In order to make it even funnier, it could be making a fondue in July or having a picnic in December.
The first time I saw this was during a post-wedding brunch. This is also common especially in remote areas where a hall has been rented out or in the case of our first French wedding, a tent has been erected. The last time I saw the game played it was at the wedding dinner, which was scarier to me since you now had people who were well into their cups running and grabbing things and attempting to make it back to their chairs in one piece.
There was an even more dangerous game played at this wedding which involved the two fathers, bare feet, blindfolds and axes. They had to attempt to slice a wine cork that was placed on top of their socks while blindfolded. I’m surprised they didn’t cut off their toes, but the worst damage that was done was to the socks that were of course completely shredded.
This wedding was particularly festive and themed no less. The hall was creatively decorated in a pirate theme complete with pirate servers. The dinner was a buffet that left us a little nutritionally challenged, but clearly the priority was the décor and they pulled that off very well. We were served cold cuts and cheeses and my husband naively waited for the hot entrée that never came. Instead, dessert followed in the form of a variety of cakes and sweets. Normally, there is a “piece montée” or wedding cake, but this time there was a sculpture made entirely out of sugar representing a desert island and hidden treasure in keeping with the theme.
Dancing usually starts around 1 or 2am by which point, these days, I’m ready to leave. So we snuck out quietly since the night was just getting started. Usually the last to leave pack up around 7 or 8 the following morning, which doesn’t give them much turnaround time preceding the brunch continuation.
If the bride and groom have left before the party is completely over, they can be visited by some of the guests with a “pot de la mariée” or soup of the bride. Basically, it’s a disgusting mixture of whatever is at hand that she has to drink. (Our location at our wedding remained a secret for this reason). Another pre-wedding tradition especially in the provinces that I found interesting is a spin on the bachelor party called “enterrement de vie de garcon” or literally translated, the burial of the boy’s life.
A miniature coffin is filled with gifts, wine, liquor, cigarettes, gum, candy, photos, basically whatever people want to put in it. The groom is then forced to walk around the town, preferably dressed in a costume (think prisoner with fake ball and chain) carrying the coffin along with his friends and at the end of the evening, burying it in the backyard if there is one available. The coffin is to be unearthed either after the birth of the couple’s first child or five years after the wedding, whichever comes first. In our case, it came when my in-laws sold the land where it was buried.
Marriages are usually fun and festive events. Even if it rains, the French have an expression, “Marriage pluvieux, marriage heureux,” a rainy marriage is a happy marriage. If it rains at your wedding as it did at ours, you will hear this repeatedly. Rain or shine, theme or none, one thing is certain, all cultures enjoy celebrating this tradition and on a personal note, I hope the day comes when all couples who wish to will be allowed to. Perhaps it will begin here where “egalité” or equality is part of the country’s credo. Vive l’egalité et vivent les marriés!
Noces
n. – wedding
Voyage de noces, lune de miel
n. – honeymoon
French weddings make me think of the expression, “It’s not a race, it’s a marathon.” I have been to quite a few now, including my own and each time I’m fascinated by the endurance of the participants and the tradition of game playing that never seems to get old.
Here the couple is officially married during the civil ceremony. This can precede a religious ceremony, but it the only one that validates the union. This comes from the separation of church and state so while there is religious tolerance of course, only the state is recognized as the official ruling party if you will.
The civil ceremony takes place at the mairie, or the city hall. Depending on the location, the room where this happens can be large enough to accommodate an entire wedding party or quite small. Many couples don’t even have the civil ceremony on the same day. It can be just a small gathering of family, optional and “temoins” or witnesses, obligatory.
At the wedding we attended last year, the civil ceremony was followed immediately by the church ceremony and then the reception. Usually the city hall and the church will be within walking distance. In the case of the wedding we attended last weekend, the city hall was located just across the street from the “salle” or hall where the reception took place. There was no church.
At our last church wedding, the reception that followed was at a winery, which was a lovely setting. However, first we had to make our way to a location nearby for a group photo, something that seems to be increasingly popular. It’s not that easy getting a hundred or more people in a group shot so in this case, it involved bleachers that we had to stand on. As my luck would have it, I was asked to stand on the top rung in three inch heels causing me to wonder if I may upstage the wedding with my early demise.
The “vin d’honeur” literally translated is the wine of honor, or cocktail hour. I should clarify though that it is never just an hour and there are rarely cocktails. Champagne or sweet wines are commonly served and hors d’oeuvres range from light to heavy depending on tastes and budgets.
The bar was set high by the first French wedding I attended as it was impeccable in every detail down to the ice sculptured vodka bar that followed the dinner and opened the disco. The setting was exquisite, the food extraordinary and the celebration punctuated by several meaningful and lovely speeches.
I prefer this to one that is constantly being interrupted by games or entertainment of some kind. One wedding we went to actually had a play in the middle of it. This was probably one of my all time least favorites. The vin d’honor was endless with only sweet wine and cookies to nibble on. It was a buffet which I have to admit I’m not a fan of anywhere even if it’s at the Four Seasons. And someone decided it would be a good idea to separate all the people who knew each other. It wasn’t.
There’s a game of musical chairs that’s popular. Twelve people are chosen and the MC, if you will, yells out a particular object that they have to retrieve while one chair is removed. For example, a sock, a lipstick, etc. The people then grab these things from the rest of the guests. Each time a person is eliminated, they are given a theme during a month of the following year where they have to entertain the couple. In order to make it even funnier, it could be making a fondue in July or having a picnic in December.
The first time I saw this was during a post-wedding brunch. This is also common especially in remote areas where a hall has been rented out or in the case of our first French wedding, a tent has been erected. The last time I saw the game played it was at the wedding dinner, which was scarier to me since you now had people who were well into their cups running and grabbing things and attempting to make it back to their chairs in one piece.
There was an even more dangerous game played at this wedding which involved the two fathers, bare feet, blindfolds and axes. They had to attempt to slice a wine cork that was placed on top of their socks while blindfolded. I’m surprised they didn’t cut off their toes, but the worst damage that was done was to the socks that were of course completely shredded.
This wedding was particularly festive and themed no less. The hall was creatively decorated in a pirate theme complete with pirate servers. The dinner was a buffet that left us a little nutritionally challenged, but clearly the priority was the décor and they pulled that off very well. We were served cold cuts and cheeses and my husband naively waited for the hot entrée that never came. Instead, dessert followed in the form of a variety of cakes and sweets. Normally, there is a “piece montée” or wedding cake, but this time there was a sculpture made entirely out of sugar representing a desert island and hidden treasure in keeping with the theme.
Dancing usually starts around 1 or 2am by which point, these days, I’m ready to leave. So we snuck out quietly since the night was just getting started. Usually the last to leave pack up around 7 or 8 the following morning, which doesn’t give them much turnaround time preceding the brunch continuation.
If the bride and groom have left before the party is completely over, they can be visited by some of the guests with a “pot de la mariée” or soup of the bride. Basically, it’s a disgusting mixture of whatever is at hand that she has to drink. (Our location at our wedding remained a secret for this reason). Another pre-wedding tradition especially in the provinces that I found interesting is a spin on the bachelor party called “enterrement de vie de garcon” or literally translated, the burial of the boy’s life.
A miniature coffin is filled with gifts, wine, liquor, cigarettes, gum, candy, photos, basically whatever people want to put in it. The groom is then forced to walk around the town, preferably dressed in a costume (think prisoner with fake ball and chain) carrying the coffin along with his friends and at the end of the evening, burying it in the backyard if there is one available. The coffin is to be unearthed either after the birth of the couple’s first child or five years after the wedding, whichever comes first. In our case, it came when my in-laws sold the land where it was buried.
Marriages are usually fun and festive events. Even if it rains, the French have an expression, “Marriage pluvieux, marriage heureux,” a rainy marriage is a happy marriage. If it rains at your wedding as it did at ours, you will hear this repeatedly. Rain or shine, theme or none, one thing is certain, all cultures enjoy celebrating this tradition and on a personal note, I hope the day comes when all couples who wish to will be allowed to. Perhaps it will begin here where “egalité” or equality is part of the country’s credo. Vive l’egalité et vivent les marriés!
Sep 6, 2009
Fierté
n. – pride
Cadre
n. – frame
cher
adj. – expensive
Rentrée
n. – re-entry
September 1st signifies the re-emergence of the Parisians from their vacations. The word for vacation in French, vacances, is always plural, perhaps because they have so many of them. This year since the Monday of the first week in September was actually August 31st, many Parisians chose to extend their vacations one more week.
I’ve been trying to get a picture framed for a while now. It’s nothing of particular value as we tore it out of a magazine, but the colors are perfect for the place I want to put it which is in the small space that houses our toilet.
There’s a little frame shop just around the corner, but like with many French merchants, his hours are basically the same as ours, only open during the week and closed during lunch. Since I don’t work on Fridays, that’s my only window of opportunity so I went over there a couple of weeks ago to deposit my picture.
The sign on the door clearly posted his hours and left a number to call in case he wasn’t there during those times, which he wasn’t. So I called and he explained as if I should have already known that he was still on vacation and wouldn’t be back until the following week after Tuesday.
Well this was unfortunate because the following Friday was my day learning about civil laws where I thought I would be stuck until his closing time. So imagine my delight when we were let out early and I knew I had time to run home and go back over with my picture.
Once again, he wasn’t there so I called the number and got the same response – to try again the following Tuesday. Well fed up now, I decided I needed to find another framer. I asked a woman who worked in a store nearby that restored paintings and she suggested another shop not far away.
So I wandered over there just to confirm that he was open before returning to get the picture. He was and told me that normally he is open until 7pm, but that day he was closing early because he was still partially on vacation. I couldn’t bear the thought of waiting another week so I sprinted back to the apartment, grabbed the picture and sprinted back.
I think I impressed him with my perseverance so he didn’t rush me as we selected an appropriate frame. I explained, not that he couldn’t see for himself, that the picture wasn’t anything of value and as such I didn’t really want to spend a lot of money framing it. At the same time, I was embarrassed to admit that it would be hanging in our “toilette” since he is after all an artisan who takes pride in his work.
He totaled everything up and to my surprise, it came out to just under 100 euros (twice what I imagined paying even on the high end). Of course by then, I didn’t want to say never mind. After all, he had taken his time and almost risked missing his train. When I told a friend who was visiting from New York the story, she thought that maybe because the picture itself wasn’t of any value that he wanted to make it more special by creating a nice frame. Maybe that’s true or maybe it’s just that custom framing always costs more than you realize.
The French are a proud people and I noticed examples of this with the same friend and her daughter who were visiting. They don’t speak French so I was proud myself to translate on their behalf. But since we visited a lot of tourist spots and live ourselves in a very international neighborhood, I noticed that many of the merchants or waiters would respond to me in English.
At first, I found this disconcerting because it made me question whether my French was good enough. But I realized that they’re proud to speak English and don’t want someone to make them feel inferior. My husband can get away with speaking French because he is French, but with me it’s almost like a competition…oh you can speak French, Madame, well guess what, I can speak English. It’s funny in a way because I realized I was just as proud of my skills as they were. Perhaps I am becoming a little bit French myself.
Cadre
n. – frame
cher
adj. – expensive
Rentrée
n. – re-entry
September 1st signifies the re-emergence of the Parisians from their vacations. The word for vacation in French, vacances, is always plural, perhaps because they have so many of them. This year since the Monday of the first week in September was actually August 31st, many Parisians chose to extend their vacations one more week.
I’ve been trying to get a picture framed for a while now. It’s nothing of particular value as we tore it out of a magazine, but the colors are perfect for the place I want to put it which is in the small space that houses our toilet.
There’s a little frame shop just around the corner, but like with many French merchants, his hours are basically the same as ours, only open during the week and closed during lunch. Since I don’t work on Fridays, that’s my only window of opportunity so I went over there a couple of weeks ago to deposit my picture.
The sign on the door clearly posted his hours and left a number to call in case he wasn’t there during those times, which he wasn’t. So I called and he explained as if I should have already known that he was still on vacation and wouldn’t be back until the following week after Tuesday.
Well this was unfortunate because the following Friday was my day learning about civil laws where I thought I would be stuck until his closing time. So imagine my delight when we were let out early and I knew I had time to run home and go back over with my picture.
Once again, he wasn’t there so I called the number and got the same response – to try again the following Tuesday. Well fed up now, I decided I needed to find another framer. I asked a woman who worked in a store nearby that restored paintings and she suggested another shop not far away.
So I wandered over there just to confirm that he was open before returning to get the picture. He was and told me that normally he is open until 7pm, but that day he was closing early because he was still partially on vacation. I couldn’t bear the thought of waiting another week so I sprinted back to the apartment, grabbed the picture and sprinted back.
I think I impressed him with my perseverance so he didn’t rush me as we selected an appropriate frame. I explained, not that he couldn’t see for himself, that the picture wasn’t anything of value and as such I didn’t really want to spend a lot of money framing it. At the same time, I was embarrassed to admit that it would be hanging in our “toilette” since he is after all an artisan who takes pride in his work.
He totaled everything up and to my surprise, it came out to just under 100 euros (twice what I imagined paying even on the high end). Of course by then, I didn’t want to say never mind. After all, he had taken his time and almost risked missing his train. When I told a friend who was visiting from New York the story, she thought that maybe because the picture itself wasn’t of any value that he wanted to make it more special by creating a nice frame. Maybe that’s true or maybe it’s just that custom framing always costs more than you realize.
The French are a proud people and I noticed examples of this with the same friend and her daughter who were visiting. They don’t speak French so I was proud myself to translate on their behalf. But since we visited a lot of tourist spots and live ourselves in a very international neighborhood, I noticed that many of the merchants or waiters would respond to me in English.
At first, I found this disconcerting because it made me question whether my French was good enough. But I realized that they’re proud to speak English and don’t want someone to make them feel inferior. My husband can get away with speaking French because he is French, but with me it’s almost like a competition…oh you can speak French, Madame, well guess what, I can speak English. It’s funny in a way because I realized I was just as proud of my skills as they were. Perhaps I am becoming a little bit French myself.
Formation Civique
n. – course in understanding French civil laws
The final requirement in securing my carte sejour was to take a class in French civil law. There are four types of classes that are offered to immigrants such as myself: one to help you learn about the daily life in France, “Session information sur la vie en France;” one to help you find work, “Dipense d’un bilan de competences professionelles;” one to help you improve your French speaking skills, “Dipense de formation linguistic;” and the final and unlike the others, obligatory, one to teach you about civil laws.
I was given a date and required to be there from nine in the morning until seven at night. I was dreading it like a bad rash, panicked about being late or quizzed at the end and failing somehow. I have to admit though that I was more than pleasantly surprised.
There were about 20 of us including the teacher and a translator. The majority of the group was made up of native Spanish speakers representing Chile, Nicaragua, Mexico, Costa Rica, Colombia, Peru and the translator from Cuba. I was the only American and the rest of the group was comprised of an Asian woman, several Africans and two Algerians.
Our teacher was Tunisian and as with most teachers, her sprit and personality helped keep us interested in the information, even thought it, in and of itself, was already interesting. We learned about the history of France, how it evolved from a monarchy to an empire and finally a republic.
We learned about the regions (22), the departments (100) and the communities (36,000). We learned about the constitution, the organization of the government and the fact that it is laic, meaning that religioun is something to be practiced privately and not imposed on by the state. We learned about human rights, liberty, equality and fraternity, the French creed, as well as the various symbols of France, Marianne, the flag and the Marseillaise.
In addition, we learned a little bit more about the various cultures of each of us sitting in the class. How our countries and our laws may be similar in some ways and very different in others. I imagine at the core, these classes are designed for people coming from regimes that are less free, if you will, or less concerned with human rights. The fact that polygamy and female circumcision, “excision,” are illegal here is not shocking to me, but for some, these practices are common where they are from.
Being faced with this reality reinforced in me how lucky I am. I moved from a country where human rights and freedoms are revered to one that feels the same. And in many ways, the French people are even more protected with regards to unemployment insurance and health benefits. It is both a democracy as well as a socialized system that work in tandem.
So I learned a great deal in a short day and even made some new friends. After nine months, I have finally completed all the requirements for my carte sejour and have a few months to relax before starting the process of renewing it again. But the next time it will be with a more profound respect of the place I now call home in thanks to the chance to be educated further in what all of that entails.
The final requirement in securing my carte sejour was to take a class in French civil law. There are four types of classes that are offered to immigrants such as myself: one to help you learn about the daily life in France, “Session information sur la vie en France;” one to help you find work, “Dipense d’un bilan de competences professionelles;” one to help you improve your French speaking skills, “Dipense de formation linguistic;” and the final and unlike the others, obligatory, one to teach you about civil laws.
I was given a date and required to be there from nine in the morning until seven at night. I was dreading it like a bad rash, panicked about being late or quizzed at the end and failing somehow. I have to admit though that I was more than pleasantly surprised.
There were about 20 of us including the teacher and a translator. The majority of the group was made up of native Spanish speakers representing Chile, Nicaragua, Mexico, Costa Rica, Colombia, Peru and the translator from Cuba. I was the only American and the rest of the group was comprised of an Asian woman, several Africans and two Algerians.
Our teacher was Tunisian and as with most teachers, her sprit and personality helped keep us interested in the information, even thought it, in and of itself, was already interesting. We learned about the history of France, how it evolved from a monarchy to an empire and finally a republic.
We learned about the regions (22), the departments (100) and the communities (36,000). We learned about the constitution, the organization of the government and the fact that it is laic, meaning that religioun is something to be practiced privately and not imposed on by the state. We learned about human rights, liberty, equality and fraternity, the French creed, as well as the various symbols of France, Marianne, the flag and the Marseillaise.
In addition, we learned a little bit more about the various cultures of each of us sitting in the class. How our countries and our laws may be similar in some ways and very different in others. I imagine at the core, these classes are designed for people coming from regimes that are less free, if you will, or less concerned with human rights. The fact that polygamy and female circumcision, “excision,” are illegal here is not shocking to me, but for some, these practices are common where they are from.
Being faced with this reality reinforced in me how lucky I am. I moved from a country where human rights and freedoms are revered to one that feels the same. And in many ways, the French people are even more protected with regards to unemployment insurance and health benefits. It is both a democracy as well as a socialized system that work in tandem.
So I learned a great deal in a short day and even made some new friends. After nine months, I have finally completed all the requirements for my carte sejour and have a few months to relax before starting the process of renewing it again. But the next time it will be with a more profound respect of the place I now call home in thanks to the chance to be educated further in what all of that entails.
Sep 5, 2009
Respect
n. – respect
Rules in France are truly meant to be broken. Lines are meant to be cut and subway turnstiles are meant to be jumped. For this reason the latter are designed to challenge only the most acrobatic. I have trouble getting though their double barriers myself even though I pay. For those less agile, there’s always the method of squeezing behind the person in front thereby piggybacking on their ride, but this invasion of personal space is frowned upon slightly more. If they had the same system here as they do in Germany where there are no turnstiles, nobody would ever pay for a metro ticket.
When it comes to parking on the street, many people would prefer taking the chance of risking a ticket than paying. They figure with the law of averages, they’ll end up paying less in the long run since the tickets aren’t that expensive. Breaking the rules is often not only embraced, but even encouraged. A good example of this happened the other day to a friend of mine visiting from the US.
She is quite small for her age, in fact although she is twenty-two, she could easily pass for sixteen or even less. As she entered a museum, the man behind the ticket counter assumed she was younger and started to give her a half priced ticket, but she told him her real age. Since people under twenty-five are still entitled to certain discounts here, he asked her if she lived in Europe to which she responded truthfully that she did not. He rolled his eyes and shook his head as if to say, I gave you every chance to break the rules and you failed. He was truly disappointed in her.
Of course I generalize to make a point. Many people do not break the rules and to clarify for the ones who do, it’s not so much a question of dishonesty, but rather entitlement. They make their own exceptions, as is often the case with the language itself, to justify their behavior. They will question a speeding ticket or driving infraction far more than an American would. Perhaps it’s because they’re less intimidated by authority or perhaps it’s simply because it’s in their nature to not go down without a fight.
It’s that pluckiness that often makes for interesting and challenging dinner conversations. And when questioning or even arguing a point, the French almost always remain polite and even formal. Once when a women felt that my husband had cut in front of her while driving (he didn’t), she pulled up along side us, rolled her window down and using the formal tense, told him, “Vous êtes un vrai con, Monsieur!” (You are a real asshole, Sir!), to which he responded, “Vous aussi, Madame!” (You are too, Madam!). I loved that two grown people could swear at each other in a civilized fashion. And it’s that civility that makes the French unique. Liberté, égalité, fraternité and above all, respect, if not for the rules, at least for one another.
Rules in France are truly meant to be broken. Lines are meant to be cut and subway turnstiles are meant to be jumped. For this reason the latter are designed to challenge only the most acrobatic. I have trouble getting though their double barriers myself even though I pay. For those less agile, there’s always the method of squeezing behind the person in front thereby piggybacking on their ride, but this invasion of personal space is frowned upon slightly more. If they had the same system here as they do in Germany where there are no turnstiles, nobody would ever pay for a metro ticket.
When it comes to parking on the street, many people would prefer taking the chance of risking a ticket than paying. They figure with the law of averages, they’ll end up paying less in the long run since the tickets aren’t that expensive. Breaking the rules is often not only embraced, but even encouraged. A good example of this happened the other day to a friend of mine visiting from the US.
She is quite small for her age, in fact although she is twenty-two, she could easily pass for sixteen or even less. As she entered a museum, the man behind the ticket counter assumed she was younger and started to give her a half priced ticket, but she told him her real age. Since people under twenty-five are still entitled to certain discounts here, he asked her if she lived in Europe to which she responded truthfully that she did not. He rolled his eyes and shook his head as if to say, I gave you every chance to break the rules and you failed. He was truly disappointed in her.
Of course I generalize to make a point. Many people do not break the rules and to clarify for the ones who do, it’s not so much a question of dishonesty, but rather entitlement. They make their own exceptions, as is often the case with the language itself, to justify their behavior. They will question a speeding ticket or driving infraction far more than an American would. Perhaps it’s because they’re less intimidated by authority or perhaps it’s simply because it’s in their nature to not go down without a fight.
It’s that pluckiness that often makes for interesting and challenging dinner conversations. And when questioning or even arguing a point, the French almost always remain polite and even formal. Once when a women felt that my husband had cut in front of her while driving (he didn’t), she pulled up along side us, rolled her window down and using the formal tense, told him, “Vous êtes un vrai con, Monsieur!” (You are a real asshole, Sir!), to which he responded, “Vous aussi, Madame!” (You are too, Madam!). I loved that two grown people could swear at each other in a civilized fashion. And it’s that civility that makes the French unique. Liberté, égalité, fraternité and above all, respect, if not for the rules, at least for one another.
Aug 12, 2009
Bibliotheque
n. – library
Librarie
n. – bookstore
I was reading recently about a movie star’s son who is facing jail time for dealing drugs. His girlfriend is now also facing jail time for trying to smuggle drugs into him while under house arrest – foolish, perhaps - desperate, definitely. I drew a parallel from this to my effort to secure fresh orange juice this morning in the sense that not being able to get what I wanted started to make me feel like a junkie in need of a fix.
I’ve felt the same way when not able to access the internet immediately as we’ve all grown so accustomed to doing. It’s a bit pathetic to admit, but true. There is a similar feeling of desperation when something you love is discontinued. This happened once with a perfume of mine and I became so obsessed that I resorted to searching on Ebay where I was overjoyed to find seven bottles left at half the price. Of course, the scent had gone off because they had probably been sitting on a shelf somewhere for years so it was all for naught.
I love searching for things that are hard to find. A friend recently asked me to secure an obscure out of print French book for him, which I thought would be easy given that I was in Paris, the land of old book sellers. I’ve been asking around, but to no avail. I visited one particularly musty old bookstore in the Latin Quarter literally exploding with inventory. The owner sat behind a small desk underneath a spiral staircase that let to even more books. When I asked him about the book in question, he answered immediately that he didn’t have a copy as if he actually knew each and every one of the thousands of books he had in his possession. That impressed me to no end.
So patience and a little luck will see me through my search. This is the sort of winning combination that can also be applied to my continuing battle with service challenged eating spots. Today at lunch, we made the mistake of asking for a table outside. We were there first inside the restaurant, but our request needed to be directed to the waiter outside and by the time we got to him, another couple had made their way in front of us and secured the last table in the shade. We took the last one left in the sun, but it wasn’t long before I realized my arm was burning so when I saw two tables next to each other open up in the shade, I asked the waiter if we could move.
“Ca va futre un bordel pas possible!” he cried. “Bordel,” similar to bordello or whorehouse when literally translated, isn’t really a very polite expression. It’s more like shit storm. “Bazar” would be more appropriate to indicate something that’s a complete mess or in a total state of chaos. In any case, I didn’t see how moving to a shaded table could create "an impossible shit storm." He then proceeded to explain that they needed to keep those two tables open for a party of four – that is until another couple came along and sat down!
At this point, my husband pointed out there wasn’t really any point in making a fuss. We knew the answer would be something along the lines of “If you don’t like it, you can leave” and we were hungry. You see there’s very little recourse here for bad service since the tip is included in the bill. So we muddled through and spitefully kept the 60 cents of change we got back after paying. They make really good pizzas, but I will have to condition myself the next time I have a craving and find an alternative.
Librarie
n. – bookstore
I was reading recently about a movie star’s son who is facing jail time for dealing drugs. His girlfriend is now also facing jail time for trying to smuggle drugs into him while under house arrest – foolish, perhaps - desperate, definitely. I drew a parallel from this to my effort to secure fresh orange juice this morning in the sense that not being able to get what I wanted started to make me feel like a junkie in need of a fix.
I’ve felt the same way when not able to access the internet immediately as we’ve all grown so accustomed to doing. It’s a bit pathetic to admit, but true. There is a similar feeling of desperation when something you love is discontinued. This happened once with a perfume of mine and I became so obsessed that I resorted to searching on Ebay where I was overjoyed to find seven bottles left at half the price. Of course, the scent had gone off because they had probably been sitting on a shelf somewhere for years so it was all for naught.
I love searching for things that are hard to find. A friend recently asked me to secure an obscure out of print French book for him, which I thought would be easy given that I was in Paris, the land of old book sellers. I’ve been asking around, but to no avail. I visited one particularly musty old bookstore in the Latin Quarter literally exploding with inventory. The owner sat behind a small desk underneath a spiral staircase that let to even more books. When I asked him about the book in question, he answered immediately that he didn’t have a copy as if he actually knew each and every one of the thousands of books he had in his possession. That impressed me to no end.
So patience and a little luck will see me through my search. This is the sort of winning combination that can also be applied to my continuing battle with service challenged eating spots. Today at lunch, we made the mistake of asking for a table outside. We were there first inside the restaurant, but our request needed to be directed to the waiter outside and by the time we got to him, another couple had made their way in front of us and secured the last table in the shade. We took the last one left in the sun, but it wasn’t long before I realized my arm was burning so when I saw two tables next to each other open up in the shade, I asked the waiter if we could move.
“Ca va futre un bordel pas possible!” he cried. “Bordel,” similar to bordello or whorehouse when literally translated, isn’t really a very polite expression. It’s more like shit storm. “Bazar” would be more appropriate to indicate something that’s a complete mess or in a total state of chaos. In any case, I didn’t see how moving to a shaded table could create "an impossible shit storm." He then proceeded to explain that they needed to keep those two tables open for a party of four – that is until another couple came along and sat down!
At this point, my husband pointed out there wasn’t really any point in making a fuss. We knew the answer would be something along the lines of “If you don’t like it, you can leave” and we were hungry. You see there’s very little recourse here for bad service since the tip is included in the bill. So we muddled through and spitefully kept the 60 cents of change we got back after paying. They make really good pizzas, but I will have to condition myself the next time I have a craving and find an alternative.
Jus d’orange pressée
n. – fresh squeezed orange juice
We recently bought a juicer. It’s a relatively simple model, but effective. It’s not the speediest process so given my tardiness most weekday mornings, it’s reserved primarily for the weekends. So today I decided I would pick up a fresh orange juice on my way into the office.
There is a place near our garage called Noon. I suppose it’s called that because noon is when it opens. So that was no good. There’s another place not far from the office that serves all sorts of fresh juices, but the machine was broken. There is yet another place called Le Paradis du Fruit, “Paradise of the Fruit,” but they were also closed.
After a certain point when one can’t satisfy a craving one becomes a little desperate. I was now contemplating the practicality of going back home. I tried the super market, no dice, then a place called Jour, “Day,” closed too which made no sense unless they’re on vacation. Finally, it was Starbucks, the American institution and maker of giant coffees that saved my day. A fresh orange juice never tasted so good – merci!
We recently bought a juicer. It’s a relatively simple model, but effective. It’s not the speediest process so given my tardiness most weekday mornings, it’s reserved primarily for the weekends. So today I decided I would pick up a fresh orange juice on my way into the office.
There is a place near our garage called Noon. I suppose it’s called that because noon is when it opens. So that was no good. There’s another place not far from the office that serves all sorts of fresh juices, but the machine was broken. There is yet another place called Le Paradis du Fruit, “Paradise of the Fruit,” but they were also closed.
After a certain point when one can’t satisfy a craving one becomes a little desperate. I was now contemplating the practicality of going back home. I tried the super market, no dice, then a place called Jour, “Day,” closed too which made no sense unless they’re on vacation. Finally, it was Starbucks, the American institution and maker of giant coffees that saved my day. A fresh orange juice never tasted so good – merci!
Aug 11, 2009
Août
n. – August
Fermeture Annuelle
n. – annual closing
Tranquil
adj. – tranquil, quiet, calm, dead
August in Paris is when most of the French are away on vacation leaving it much quieter for the tourists. One hears less French and more English, Italian and Spanish spoken. Even the local bums I pass by on my way to work seem to have left for some time off. Stores literally close down, some for the entire month for their “fermeture annuelle” or annual closing. My husband and I took a week off to go back to New York and catch up with family and friends. I was struck by the differences in so many things now that I have adjusted to life in France. One thing is the difference in sizes. My first large cappuccino in the US was big enough to swim in!
There is also a marked difference in customer service. While in France, you have to earn the respect of the merchant, in the US, the client is still king. The economy is struggling to get back on its feet, yet I felt a sense of effort as the country tries to move forward once more. In France, there is more of an effort to hold on to age old traditions. This is merely an observation on both cultures, not a judgement on either.
My mother had a big birthday while we were in New York which we celebrated with lots of surprises and visits to her favourite places. Like most mothers, she is thrilled to be with family and both my husband and I are fortunate because we all get along with our respective in-laws. In French, the word for in-laws is “belle famille” or pretty family literally translated. “Belle mere” is mother-in-law, or pretty mother, “beau père,” father-in-law or handsome father, etc. The same expressions also apply to step-parents or siblings. I’m not sure how you distinguish other than just to know if you’re referring to your step brother or brother-in-law, the latter of my own who is in fact also handsome so the description fits well.
I’m not sure what the word for godparents is, but I know that godfather is “parrain” and godmother is “marraine.” I was just recently bestowed the honour of becoming a godmother myself. I am tickled pink and over the moon about it I might add. My own godmother who passed on years ago was an amazing woman filled with compassion, strength and grace. So I have a lot to live up to.
These qualities along with patience are important in navigating life anywhere and the latter especially so in Paris. I have grown remarkably comfortable with my life here and felt right at home yesterday afternoon when visiting a museum restaurant after taking in an exhibit with my husband. He explained to the hostess as she seated us that we would just be having coffee since it was well after lunch time. After waiting for almost 20 minutes for someone to take our order, we called her over and asked if someone could help us and also if I could take a look at the menu. “Mais vous prenez seulement un café?!” she barked at me, “But you’re only having coffee?!” I defensively replied that I may want a dessert and then wondered why I had to justify myself to her. No more giant coffees and client as king – welcome back.
Fermeture Annuelle
n. – annual closing
Tranquil
adj. – tranquil, quiet, calm, dead
August in Paris is when most of the French are away on vacation leaving it much quieter for the tourists. One hears less French and more English, Italian and Spanish spoken. Even the local bums I pass by on my way to work seem to have left for some time off. Stores literally close down, some for the entire month for their “fermeture annuelle” or annual closing. My husband and I took a week off to go back to New York and catch up with family and friends. I was struck by the differences in so many things now that I have adjusted to life in France. One thing is the difference in sizes. My first large cappuccino in the US was big enough to swim in!
There is also a marked difference in customer service. While in France, you have to earn the respect of the merchant, in the US, the client is still king. The economy is struggling to get back on its feet, yet I felt a sense of effort as the country tries to move forward once more. In France, there is more of an effort to hold on to age old traditions. This is merely an observation on both cultures, not a judgement on either.
My mother had a big birthday while we were in New York which we celebrated with lots of surprises and visits to her favourite places. Like most mothers, she is thrilled to be with family and both my husband and I are fortunate because we all get along with our respective in-laws. In French, the word for in-laws is “belle famille” or pretty family literally translated. “Belle mere” is mother-in-law, or pretty mother, “beau père,” father-in-law or handsome father, etc. The same expressions also apply to step-parents or siblings. I’m not sure how you distinguish other than just to know if you’re referring to your step brother or brother-in-law, the latter of my own who is in fact also handsome so the description fits well.
I’m not sure what the word for godparents is, but I know that godfather is “parrain” and godmother is “marraine.” I was just recently bestowed the honour of becoming a godmother myself. I am tickled pink and over the moon about it I might add. My own godmother who passed on years ago was an amazing woman filled with compassion, strength and grace. So I have a lot to live up to.
These qualities along with patience are important in navigating life anywhere and the latter especially so in Paris. I have grown remarkably comfortable with my life here and felt right at home yesterday afternoon when visiting a museum restaurant after taking in an exhibit with my husband. He explained to the hostess as she seated us that we would just be having coffee since it was well after lunch time. After waiting for almost 20 minutes for someone to take our order, we called her over and asked if someone could help us and also if I could take a look at the menu. “Mais vous prenez seulement un café?!” she barked at me, “But you’re only having coffee?!” I defensively replied that I may want a dessert and then wondered why I had to justify myself to her. No more giant coffees and client as king – welcome back.
Jul 28, 2009
CV
n. – curriculum vitae (Latin) or resume
I had to re-do my resume in French which was challenging since there are many words and expressions in business language that can’t be directly translated. There is also additional information that isn’t mandatory, but is often included such as marital status, whether one has a driver’s license or not and even a photo. I felt that at this stage in my life none of these things were necessary. At the same time, I wondered if I didn't put a photo woould people wonder why.
I remember when we took international interns at my previous company, potential candidates would email me their resumes with the above mentioned information. Once, a girl actually included her photo as a separate attachment and when I opened it, there she was smiling at a bar, cocktail in hand. Needless to say, we didn’t select her. She sent her resume again, this time with the separate photo attached of her in front of her car. Still no dice.
One thing I realized literally only today is that I have never had to prove my education once to an employer even though it’s a critical part of one’s resume. My information is accurate – I graduated with a BA in Modern European History from a well respected East Coast university, but it just makes me wonder if anyone embellishes that information. Perhaps the girl with the cocktail and the car will do that one day seeing how her photos aren’t helping that much.
Here many people are cautious before hiring someone full time. CDD’s are temporary contracts of up to six months that can be renewed once. After that, a company must either hire you for a permanent contract (CDI) or let you go. If a company lets you go, even if it’s at the end of a CDD, you are eligible for “chaummage” or unemployment. The French are very well protected in the case of their employment benefits, medical care and general civil rights. So in the case of employee vs. employer, tenant vs. landlord, it will always be the former that’s protected from the latter. This is why many landlords require so many guarantees before renting their apartments. If a tenant moves in and stops paying rent, it can take years to get them out.
There has been much debate recently about lifting some of laws forbidding work on Sunday. In a perfect world, one would think, if people want to work, why shouldn’t they be allowed to? Wouldn’t it open up opportunities to create more work and ease unemployment? Well, if you see the glass half full, that’s probably how you would look at it. However, there are people who worry that some employers might take advantage by not hiring more people, but rather overworking the people they have and so on. Glass half full would also look at it as an opportunity to increase profits for businesses. Cautionary glass would see it as a possible threat to businesses unable to extend their hours for whatever reason and become obliterated by those who can. In any event a vote has been passed to ease the restrictions so we’ll see how it works out.
Speaking of towels, which I wasn’t at all, but was reminded of since I had the conversation about working on Sundays with a friend of mine who had also pointed out something interesting about towels. We had different opinions on the former subject, which is always healthy since I think you learn more from the people who don’t agree with you than those that do. And we have different opinions on the latter subject with regards to how we like them washed and dried. She prefers hers air dried, I prefer mine machine dried. There is a very distinctive difference with the air dried towels coming out rougher and not as fluffy. I had never given this much thought until now, not that it warrants a tremendous amount, if any at all.
Great health care, employee benefits and more including the freedom of choice between fluffy or scruffy towels are things to be thankful for. And while no place is perfect, it does often come down to how one looks at things so here’s a toast to Paris with glass half full. Santé!
I had to re-do my resume in French which was challenging since there are many words and expressions in business language that can’t be directly translated. There is also additional information that isn’t mandatory, but is often included such as marital status, whether one has a driver’s license or not and even a photo. I felt that at this stage in my life none of these things were necessary. At the same time, I wondered if I didn't put a photo woould people wonder why.
I remember when we took international interns at my previous company, potential candidates would email me their resumes with the above mentioned information. Once, a girl actually included her photo as a separate attachment and when I opened it, there she was smiling at a bar, cocktail in hand. Needless to say, we didn’t select her. She sent her resume again, this time with the separate photo attached of her in front of her car. Still no dice.
One thing I realized literally only today is that I have never had to prove my education once to an employer even though it’s a critical part of one’s resume. My information is accurate – I graduated with a BA in Modern European History from a well respected East Coast university, but it just makes me wonder if anyone embellishes that information. Perhaps the girl with the cocktail and the car will do that one day seeing how her photos aren’t helping that much.
Here many people are cautious before hiring someone full time. CDD’s are temporary contracts of up to six months that can be renewed once. After that, a company must either hire you for a permanent contract (CDI) or let you go. If a company lets you go, even if it’s at the end of a CDD, you are eligible for “chaummage” or unemployment. The French are very well protected in the case of their employment benefits, medical care and general civil rights. So in the case of employee vs. employer, tenant vs. landlord, it will always be the former that’s protected from the latter. This is why many landlords require so many guarantees before renting their apartments. If a tenant moves in and stops paying rent, it can take years to get them out.
There has been much debate recently about lifting some of laws forbidding work on Sunday. In a perfect world, one would think, if people want to work, why shouldn’t they be allowed to? Wouldn’t it open up opportunities to create more work and ease unemployment? Well, if you see the glass half full, that’s probably how you would look at it. However, there are people who worry that some employers might take advantage by not hiring more people, but rather overworking the people they have and so on. Glass half full would also look at it as an opportunity to increase profits for businesses. Cautionary glass would see it as a possible threat to businesses unable to extend their hours for whatever reason and become obliterated by those who can. In any event a vote has been passed to ease the restrictions so we’ll see how it works out.
Speaking of towels, which I wasn’t at all, but was reminded of since I had the conversation about working on Sundays with a friend of mine who had also pointed out something interesting about towels. We had different opinions on the former subject, which is always healthy since I think you learn more from the people who don’t agree with you than those that do. And we have different opinions on the latter subject with regards to how we like them washed and dried. She prefers hers air dried, I prefer mine machine dried. There is a very distinctive difference with the air dried towels coming out rougher and not as fluffy. I had never given this much thought until now, not that it warrants a tremendous amount, if any at all.
Great health care, employee benefits and more including the freedom of choice between fluffy or scruffy towels are things to be thankful for. And while no place is perfect, it does often come down to how one looks at things so here’s a toast to Paris with glass half full. Santé!
Jul 27, 2009
Tôt
adj. – early, soon
Dormir, se coucher, se reposer
v. – to sleep, rest
Se lever
v. – to get up
I have never been nor do I ever see myself being a naturally early riser. I remember when I was a teenager putting the alarm clock clear across the room forcing me to get out of bed to turn it off. Could it be this was before the snooze button was invented – I’m not sure. In any event, one of the things that’s great about Paris is the fact that the pace is a bit slower here with things beginning (and ending) later than in the US.
“Tôt” which is the word for early is also the word for soon. It is used when saying goodbye in the expression “à bientôt.” In other words, I’ll see you soon. "A toute a l’heure" is literally until the next hour which is our equivalent of saying see you later. “Au revoir” means until the next time I see you, “voir” being the verb for “to see.” This is why "déjà vu" means already seen – “déjà” meaning already and “vu” the past tense of “voir.” "Adieu" is more permanent as it translates to see you again with God. And "à jamais" which means see you never, is reserved for a passionate break-up line once used in a letter to a friend of mine.
Before we arrived here, 7:30 was a suitable dinner time. Now I look up sometimes to realize it’s almost 9:00 and we still haven’t eaten. People generally arrive at their offices sometime between 9:00 and 9:30 in the morning, but often stay past 8 at night, dining around 8:30 or 9:00. Lunches tend to be a bit protracted as well. The lunch hour begins anywhere between 12:30 and 1:00 and ends respectively between 2:00 and 2:30. Lunch is eaten out or at a canteen if your company has one, not at one’s desk. Lunch also consists of what I call real food. You see more salads in the summer, but generally people eat courses and hot dishes. Most restaurants will have a prix fixe selection of a starter plus a main course or a main course plus a dessert. Fast food and sandwiches do exist here of course, but whenever possible, people prefer to sit down and eat a meal rather than rush with their food.
The French have a reputation for being late or “en retard,” which is sometimes true in social settings, but professionally, I find them to be quite punctual. The Italians and the Spanish are much more lax as are the Indians. One of my Indian friends always asks “French time or Indian time?” because you literally have to factor in a good 45 minute wait for her. It’s always worth it I might add because she is lovely, but I did think for a moment about printing one of our wedding invitations with an earlier time just for her.
The expression “sleep tight” may come from the time when beds were made from ropes pulled across a frame in a zig zag pattern. Over time, they would slip and sag, hence the expression keeping them tight for a better night’s sleep. Here you sleep well “dormir bien” or “se reposer bien.” And you don’t have good dreams, but rather make them, “faire des beaux rèves.” Also, you make a nap vs. taking one, “faire une sieste.” “Faire la grasse matinee” is to sleep in or literally translated, make the fat morning.
“L’avenir appartient a ceux qui se levent tot” or the future comes to those who wake up early is the French equivalent of the early bird gets the worm. I’m not a bird so getting the worm never appealed to me. However, we don’t really benefit from a later start in the morning since we don’t work for a French company. So until I become a nightclub impresario, I will have to find a way to marry my now increasingly later night life with the same early morning punctuality respected by the Anglo Saxon culture. Maybe a nap or maybe re-working the expression to the early bird gets the croissant might help better revive me from my slumber.
Dormir, se coucher, se reposer
v. – to sleep, rest
Se lever
v. – to get up
I have never been nor do I ever see myself being a naturally early riser. I remember when I was a teenager putting the alarm clock clear across the room forcing me to get out of bed to turn it off. Could it be this was before the snooze button was invented – I’m not sure. In any event, one of the things that’s great about Paris is the fact that the pace is a bit slower here with things beginning (and ending) later than in the US.
“Tôt” which is the word for early is also the word for soon. It is used when saying goodbye in the expression “à bientôt.” In other words, I’ll see you soon. "A toute a l’heure" is literally until the next hour which is our equivalent of saying see you later. “Au revoir” means until the next time I see you, “voir” being the verb for “to see.” This is why "déjà vu" means already seen – “déjà” meaning already and “vu” the past tense of “voir.” "Adieu" is more permanent as it translates to see you again with God. And "à jamais" which means see you never, is reserved for a passionate break-up line once used in a letter to a friend of mine.
Before we arrived here, 7:30 was a suitable dinner time. Now I look up sometimes to realize it’s almost 9:00 and we still haven’t eaten. People generally arrive at their offices sometime between 9:00 and 9:30 in the morning, but often stay past 8 at night, dining around 8:30 or 9:00. Lunches tend to be a bit protracted as well. The lunch hour begins anywhere between 12:30 and 1:00 and ends respectively between 2:00 and 2:30. Lunch is eaten out or at a canteen if your company has one, not at one’s desk. Lunch also consists of what I call real food. You see more salads in the summer, but generally people eat courses and hot dishes. Most restaurants will have a prix fixe selection of a starter plus a main course or a main course plus a dessert. Fast food and sandwiches do exist here of course, but whenever possible, people prefer to sit down and eat a meal rather than rush with their food.
The French have a reputation for being late or “en retard,” which is sometimes true in social settings, but professionally, I find them to be quite punctual. The Italians and the Spanish are much more lax as are the Indians. One of my Indian friends always asks “French time or Indian time?” because you literally have to factor in a good 45 minute wait for her. It’s always worth it I might add because she is lovely, but I did think for a moment about printing one of our wedding invitations with an earlier time just for her.
The expression “sleep tight” may come from the time when beds were made from ropes pulled across a frame in a zig zag pattern. Over time, they would slip and sag, hence the expression keeping them tight for a better night’s sleep. Here you sleep well “dormir bien” or “se reposer bien.” And you don’t have good dreams, but rather make them, “faire des beaux rèves.” Also, you make a nap vs. taking one, “faire une sieste.” “Faire la grasse matinee” is to sleep in or literally translated, make the fat morning.
“L’avenir appartient a ceux qui se levent tot” or the future comes to those who wake up early is the French equivalent of the early bird gets the worm. I’m not a bird so getting the worm never appealed to me. However, we don’t really benefit from a later start in the morning since we don’t work for a French company. So until I become a nightclub impresario, I will have to find a way to marry my now increasingly later night life with the same early morning punctuality respected by the Anglo Saxon culture. Maybe a nap or maybe re-working the expression to the early bird gets the croissant might help better revive me from my slumber.
Jul 22, 2009
Règles
n. – rules
One of the things that makes Paris unique, like many older cities, is its resistance to change. In the US, we seem to be constantly adapting to the latest fad or craze whether it’s low carb dieting or reality TV. Here when it comes to eating, there are traditions that are carefully respected.
For example, there is no bread basket before the food. Bread is an accompaniment, not a snack. And this is very logical. Bread is also served alone, not with olive oil, not with butter. You can ask, but be cautious where you are first. In a classic bistro, you’re likely to get a look and on top be charged extra. Yes, butter comes at a price.
Cheese is never served as an hors d’oeuvre (unless it’s the little laughing cow or “vache qui rit” cubes). These are fun because the wrappers come with little trivia questions. Of course if you eat a lot of them, you start to see the same questions come up, but it’s fun nevertheless. Traditionally the aperitif is prepared in the salon or living room. In many French people’s homes, they will bring out all the liquor bottles available and let you make your choice from there. Don’t expect a lot of ice since it is also a rare commodity sort of like the butter.
Cocktails must be finished before passing to the table. Sometimes, but not always there will be glasses for water as well as wine. If there is only one glass, it can get tricky if you’re thirsty and have to chug down the wine in order to refill with water. Many times, you are expected to keep your cutlery between courses. There are lovely little holders sort of like what you see in Japanese restaurants for your chopsticks. This way you don’t soil the table cloth. Bread can be used as a sopper for dressing or anything that’s left on your plate, but don’t expect a bread plate.
Dessert comes after cheese and before coffee. Today I decided after ordering my coffee that I wanted something sweet and the waiter offered to take my coffee back so I could have it afterward. The dessert was lovely actually – an ice cream called Taro in a delicious Thai restaurant we like. When I asked what it was, he explained that it was a “patate douce,” which I didn’t really understood, but ordered it anyway. When we asked again, we realized it was sweet potato, which I would have translated as “pomme de terre sucrée.” You say potayto, I say potahto.
Coffee here is always in the form of an espresso. You can ask for cappuccino’s or café au laits, but best not to after a meal. In Italy, it’s actually considered offensive. Coffees with milk are reserved for breakfast only. There is one exception with the “noisette” or “macchiato” in Italian, which is an espresso with a little dollop of steamed milk. Coffees here almost always come with chocolate – mostly dark and never with a slice of lemon peel which I’ve never understood.
Back to bread, the cliché of the Frenchman with his baguette under his arm is alive and well – the beret a little less so. Baguette is also the word for chopsticks. Bread must be bought fresh every day. It is not to be kept overnight unless you have a special holder for it. My in-laws keep it in a linen sack of sorts that keeps it pretty fresh, but otherwise it will harden and dry out quickly. Sometimes I get away with freezing it, but the sooner after eating the better. When possible we try to get a demi-baquette because a whole one is a lot to go through even between two people.
There are several types of baguettes, most commonly “normal,” your basic white loaf or “tradition,” which is my favourite and a little heartier and wheatier in colour. You can get them with poppy seeds, sesame seeds, whole grain, etc. There’s nothing like timing the visit to the “boulanger” or baker, right after a fresh batch has been baked and being handed a warm baguette of your choice. My husband will start nibbling on it on the walk home. It’s a temptation hard to resist.
So it’s all of these traditions, habits, familiarities, whatever you want to call them, that make Paris unique. They are things we have accustomed to quickly and even been spoiled by. At first, you’re thrown when faced with new ways of doing things, but now it’s comforting to know what’s expected as we follow along happily with the routine and the rhythm that’s been working here since long before we arrived.
One of the things that makes Paris unique, like many older cities, is its resistance to change. In the US, we seem to be constantly adapting to the latest fad or craze whether it’s low carb dieting or reality TV. Here when it comes to eating, there are traditions that are carefully respected.
For example, there is no bread basket before the food. Bread is an accompaniment, not a snack. And this is very logical. Bread is also served alone, not with olive oil, not with butter. You can ask, but be cautious where you are first. In a classic bistro, you’re likely to get a look and on top be charged extra. Yes, butter comes at a price.
Cheese is never served as an hors d’oeuvre (unless it’s the little laughing cow or “vache qui rit” cubes). These are fun because the wrappers come with little trivia questions. Of course if you eat a lot of them, you start to see the same questions come up, but it’s fun nevertheless. Traditionally the aperitif is prepared in the salon or living room. In many French people’s homes, they will bring out all the liquor bottles available and let you make your choice from there. Don’t expect a lot of ice since it is also a rare commodity sort of like the butter.
Cocktails must be finished before passing to the table. Sometimes, but not always there will be glasses for water as well as wine. If there is only one glass, it can get tricky if you’re thirsty and have to chug down the wine in order to refill with water. Many times, you are expected to keep your cutlery between courses. There are lovely little holders sort of like what you see in Japanese restaurants for your chopsticks. This way you don’t soil the table cloth. Bread can be used as a sopper for dressing or anything that’s left on your plate, but don’t expect a bread plate.
Dessert comes after cheese and before coffee. Today I decided after ordering my coffee that I wanted something sweet and the waiter offered to take my coffee back so I could have it afterward. The dessert was lovely actually – an ice cream called Taro in a delicious Thai restaurant we like. When I asked what it was, he explained that it was a “patate douce,” which I didn’t really understood, but ordered it anyway. When we asked again, we realized it was sweet potato, which I would have translated as “pomme de terre sucrée.” You say potayto, I say potahto.
Coffee here is always in the form of an espresso. You can ask for cappuccino’s or café au laits, but best not to after a meal. In Italy, it’s actually considered offensive. Coffees with milk are reserved for breakfast only. There is one exception with the “noisette” or “macchiato” in Italian, which is an espresso with a little dollop of steamed milk. Coffees here almost always come with chocolate – mostly dark and never with a slice of lemon peel which I’ve never understood.
Back to bread, the cliché of the Frenchman with his baguette under his arm is alive and well – the beret a little less so. Baguette is also the word for chopsticks. Bread must be bought fresh every day. It is not to be kept overnight unless you have a special holder for it. My in-laws keep it in a linen sack of sorts that keeps it pretty fresh, but otherwise it will harden and dry out quickly. Sometimes I get away with freezing it, but the sooner after eating the better. When possible we try to get a demi-baquette because a whole one is a lot to go through even between two people.
There are several types of baguettes, most commonly “normal,” your basic white loaf or “tradition,” which is my favourite and a little heartier and wheatier in colour. You can get them with poppy seeds, sesame seeds, whole grain, etc. There’s nothing like timing the visit to the “boulanger” or baker, right after a fresh batch has been baked and being handed a warm baguette of your choice. My husband will start nibbling on it on the walk home. It’s a temptation hard to resist.
So it’s all of these traditions, habits, familiarities, whatever you want to call them, that make Paris unique. They are things we have accustomed to quickly and even been spoiled by. At first, you’re thrown when faced with new ways of doing things, but now it’s comforting to know what’s expected as we follow along happily with the routine and the rhythm that’s been working here since long before we arrived.
Jul 18, 2009
Vacances
n. – vacation
Temps
n – time or weather
Once July rolls around in Paris, a popular topic of conversation is where one is going on vacation. Anyone from your friends to the neighborhood baker or newsstand vendor will ask. Most French people have an average of five weeks vacation not including religious and other holidays. Summer, for the obvious reasons, is a popular time to take time off. August is practically a non-month leaving the city filled with mostly tourists – the Parisians enjoying time by the sea or in the countryside.
Summer in Paris is far more bearable than that in New York. We haven’t had a “canicule” or heat wave this year so with the windows open on both sides of the apartment, the cross breeze has been enough to keep us cool. I stress that this is a good thing because air conditioners are not commonly found.
In French the word for weather is “temps” which makes sense since it’s like temperature. However, the weather ISN'T hot or cold, but rather it MAKES hot or cold, “il fait chaud” or “il fait froid.” (The weather is also masculine hence the word “il” for he). Similarly, one IS not hot or cold, but rather HAS hot or cold, “j’ai chaud” or “j’ai froid.”
Temps is also the word for time where “heure” or hour is more specifically used for telling the time. In this case, the time IS, not MAKES or HAS. So we’re looking forward to taking some time and hoping the weather still makes nice to enjoy our vacation at the end of the month.
Temps
n – time or weather
Once July rolls around in Paris, a popular topic of conversation is where one is going on vacation. Anyone from your friends to the neighborhood baker or newsstand vendor will ask. Most French people have an average of five weeks vacation not including religious and other holidays. Summer, for the obvious reasons, is a popular time to take time off. August is practically a non-month leaving the city filled with mostly tourists – the Parisians enjoying time by the sea or in the countryside.
Summer in Paris is far more bearable than that in New York. We haven’t had a “canicule” or heat wave this year so with the windows open on both sides of the apartment, the cross breeze has been enough to keep us cool. I stress that this is a good thing because air conditioners are not commonly found.
In French the word for weather is “temps” which makes sense since it’s like temperature. However, the weather ISN'T hot or cold, but rather it MAKES hot or cold, “il fait chaud” or “il fait froid.” (The weather is also masculine hence the word “il” for he). Similarly, one IS not hot or cold, but rather HAS hot or cold, “j’ai chaud” or “j’ai froid.”
Temps is also the word for time where “heure” or hour is more specifically used for telling the time. In this case, the time IS, not MAKES or HAS. So we’re looking forward to taking some time and hoping the weather still makes nice to enjoy our vacation at the end of the month.
Jul 3, 2009
Numéros
n. – numbers
I finally have my carte-sejour. It’s been seven months since I arrived in France and in only a few months I will have to begin the process of renewing it, but it was finally ready for pick up today.
Yesterday, I called to check if it was ready because that seemed like a reasonable thing to do. I was asked for my number so I gave them my cell phone number. I got chided because they wanted the case number, which I didn’t have with me so I called again this morning from the apartment.
I like to give out my cell number because I’ve memorized how to say it. The French like to divide their numbers in units of two so while we will spell out each number individually, albeit grouped into area code, first three and then last four, here it will start with 06 (for cell numbers) or 01 for landlines (in Paris). The remaining numbers are also grouped together in two's so 7 2 becomes seventy-two. I use this as an example because once you hit the 70’s, things get complicated. Instead of having a word for seventy, the word is actually “soixante-dix.” “Soixante” means 60 and “dix” means 10. So for 70, the following increments are no longer 1, 2, 3, 4, but 11,12, 13, 14 if you see what I mean. Then there’s 80 which is actually “quatre-vingt” – “quatre” meaning four and “vingt” meaning 20. 90 is “quatre-vingt-dix,” following the same pattern as 60 into 70. By the time I get to 90, I’m usually confused so it took me a moment to decide whether to call a number on my dossier (96) quatre-vingt-six, which would have been wrong since it means 86, or quatre-vingt-seize, which was correct – 96 or four times 20 plus 16.
I was chided again for not knowing the difference and finally blurted out the right number after which I could hear the woman muttering something about Americans as she put the phone down. Anyway, the card was ready so I was happy and I felt even better after calling my husband to complain about the numbering system in his language.
Another problem I have is with telling time. Well, I know how obviously, but the French often use military time. I have to agree with the logic of it because there can be no confusion between am or pm, but again the use of the words am or pm can also avoid any confusion.
Since 1 pm becomes “treize” or 13, I get stuck on the three and think that’s what time it should be. Same thing as it continues, “quatorze” or 14 feels like it should be four and so on. Increments of 15 minutes can either be added or subtracted so it can be “onze heures et quart” (11 and a quarter) or “onze heures moins quart” (11 minus a quarter) or even dix heures quarante-cinq” (10:45) – am, of course.
Well, it’s almost “vingt heures et demi” (8 and a half) pm and I must get ready for guests who are arriving. “A toute a l’heure” (see you later).
I finally have my carte-sejour. It’s been seven months since I arrived in France and in only a few months I will have to begin the process of renewing it, but it was finally ready for pick up today.
Yesterday, I called to check if it was ready because that seemed like a reasonable thing to do. I was asked for my number so I gave them my cell phone number. I got chided because they wanted the case number, which I didn’t have with me so I called again this morning from the apartment.
I like to give out my cell number because I’ve memorized how to say it. The French like to divide their numbers in units of two so while we will spell out each number individually, albeit grouped into area code, first three and then last four, here it will start with 06 (for cell numbers) or 01 for landlines (in Paris). The remaining numbers are also grouped together in two's so 7 2 becomes seventy-two. I use this as an example because once you hit the 70’s, things get complicated. Instead of having a word for seventy, the word is actually “soixante-dix.” “Soixante” means 60 and “dix” means 10. So for 70, the following increments are no longer 1, 2, 3, 4, but 11,12, 13, 14 if you see what I mean. Then there’s 80 which is actually “quatre-vingt” – “quatre” meaning four and “vingt” meaning 20. 90 is “quatre-vingt-dix,” following the same pattern as 60 into 70. By the time I get to 90, I’m usually confused so it took me a moment to decide whether to call a number on my dossier (96) quatre-vingt-six, which would have been wrong since it means 86, or quatre-vingt-seize, which was correct – 96 or four times 20 plus 16.
I was chided again for not knowing the difference and finally blurted out the right number after which I could hear the woman muttering something about Americans as she put the phone down. Anyway, the card was ready so I was happy and I felt even better after calling my husband to complain about the numbering system in his language.
Another problem I have is with telling time. Well, I know how obviously, but the French often use military time. I have to agree with the logic of it because there can be no confusion between am or pm, but again the use of the words am or pm can also avoid any confusion.
Since 1 pm becomes “treize” or 13, I get stuck on the three and think that’s what time it should be. Same thing as it continues, “quatorze” or 14 feels like it should be four and so on. Increments of 15 minutes can either be added or subtracted so it can be “onze heures et quart” (11 and a quarter) or “onze heures moins quart” (11 minus a quarter) or even dix heures quarante-cinq” (10:45) – am, of course.
Well, it’s almost “vingt heures et demi” (8 and a half) pm and I must get ready for guests who are arriving. “A toute a l’heure” (see you later).
Bus vs. metro
argument – same meaning as in English
Yesterday evening I made a mental note not to take the bus home at rush hour again, at least not in summer. First of all the wait can take forever. There’s a little digital timer at the bus stop like you find on the subway tracks indicating how far away the bus is in minutes. The ones in the subway are far more accurate. There’s a number on top and a number on the bottom. The top number varied between one minute, then up to two minutes and even three minutes before going back to one minute. Aren’t the minutes supposed to get smaller not bigger? The bus finally arrived at the time indicated by the bottom timer that slowly counted down from 21 to one.
By then of course a line had formed, but because the French are incapable of properly forming a line the two of us who were there at the beginning now risked getting on last because of the way people placed themselves in front of us. This happens to be a personal pet peeve of mine. Back in New York, I would have a fit if someone cut in line, but it happened more rarely. I remember someone once saying to me, “You won’t get there any faster,” which clearly I’m aware of which is why I don’t feel the need to rush in front of people boarding a plane (well unless I’m terrified of having no overhead room left). But the point is on a plane, you have an assigned seat (well unless you’re flying a low cost airline). On a bus there are limited seats and especially on French buses so if you want to sit down, it helps to get on first.
I wasn’t able to get on the bus first, but I did manage to get in the bus first because while the person who cut in front of me was paying with his navigo card, I paid with a ticket therefore blocking his way. I found a nice seat at the front of the bus and despite the fact that they’re supposed to be reserved for people who really need them I sat down without guilt since the bus wasn’t that full.
The ride started well. There was no “circulation” or traffic and the bus was surprisingly cool despite the 90-degree weather. We picked up more passengers and then the young woman got on the bus. She just came right up to me and asked for my seat. “Je suis enceinte,” she said (I’m pregnant). She looked as pregnant as I do – I’m not. But of course, I got up and now that the bus had more people, I had nowhere else to sit. As I stood there glaring at her – yes, I glared at a pregnant woman – I thought of my response the next time someone says that to me and I came up with two. “Moi aussi.” (I am, too) and if I’m feeling particularly cheeky “Ca n’est pas ma faute.“ (It’s not my fault).
More people crowded on and the bus got hotter and hotter. I was able to secure another seat, but it was facing the opposite direction, something I don’t like since I have a tendency to get carsick. So I was relieved when it finally deposited my now sweaty, cranky self at home. It took twice as long as the subway would have and clearly only made me irritable so the next time I’m on the metro, I will try to channel that moment and appreciate it a bit more.
Yesterday evening I made a mental note not to take the bus home at rush hour again, at least not in summer. First of all the wait can take forever. There’s a little digital timer at the bus stop like you find on the subway tracks indicating how far away the bus is in minutes. The ones in the subway are far more accurate. There’s a number on top and a number on the bottom. The top number varied between one minute, then up to two minutes and even three minutes before going back to one minute. Aren’t the minutes supposed to get smaller not bigger? The bus finally arrived at the time indicated by the bottom timer that slowly counted down from 21 to one.
By then of course a line had formed, but because the French are incapable of properly forming a line the two of us who were there at the beginning now risked getting on last because of the way people placed themselves in front of us. This happens to be a personal pet peeve of mine. Back in New York, I would have a fit if someone cut in line, but it happened more rarely. I remember someone once saying to me, “You won’t get there any faster,” which clearly I’m aware of which is why I don’t feel the need to rush in front of people boarding a plane (well unless I’m terrified of having no overhead room left). But the point is on a plane, you have an assigned seat (well unless you’re flying a low cost airline). On a bus there are limited seats and especially on French buses so if you want to sit down, it helps to get on first.
I wasn’t able to get on the bus first, but I did manage to get in the bus first because while the person who cut in front of me was paying with his navigo card, I paid with a ticket therefore blocking his way. I found a nice seat at the front of the bus and despite the fact that they’re supposed to be reserved for people who really need them I sat down without guilt since the bus wasn’t that full.
The ride started well. There was no “circulation” or traffic and the bus was surprisingly cool despite the 90-degree weather. We picked up more passengers and then the young woman got on the bus. She just came right up to me and asked for my seat. “Je suis enceinte,” she said (I’m pregnant). She looked as pregnant as I do – I’m not. But of course, I got up and now that the bus had more people, I had nowhere else to sit. As I stood there glaring at her – yes, I glared at a pregnant woman – I thought of my response the next time someone says that to me and I came up with two. “Moi aussi.” (I am, too) and if I’m feeling particularly cheeky “Ca n’est pas ma faute.“ (It’s not my fault).
More people crowded on and the bus got hotter and hotter. I was able to secure another seat, but it was facing the opposite direction, something I don’t like since I have a tendency to get carsick. So I was relieved when it finally deposited my now sweaty, cranky self at home. It took twice as long as the subway would have and clearly only made me irritable so the next time I’m on the metro, I will try to channel that moment and appreciate it a bit more.
Jul 2, 2009
Verlan
n. – a type of slang
Verlan is somewhat the equivalent of Pig Latin in French. Basically you take the first syllable of a word and add it to the end spelling it phonetically. So “fête” or party becomes “teuf.” “Femme” or woman becomes “meuf.” It’s fairly basic, but if used aggressively, can be difficult for a non-native speaker to follow. The word verlan itself is the inverse if you will of the word “l’envers,” which means upside down. It’s ironic actually because verlan is really more like the inverse, which is “l’inverse.” My husband was trying to explain the difference to me – well I know the difference between upside down and inverse, but he used the example of putting my shirt on upside down. I said I would be more likely to put it on inside out than upside down which also appears to be described by the same word.
The other day I saw a poster for “Pesctacles” and of course the obvious English word came to mind. What I found odd about it was that it looked like something geared for children. My husband explained that children often confuse the word for show which is “spectacle” with “pestacle” – almost a form of juvenile verlan. It reminded me of a friend’s three year old niece who can’t yet differentiate the soft “s” from the hard “ck” in socks so it becomes cocks. She says it’s pretty hilarious when she’s running around the house looking for her cocks!
Socks in French are “chaussettes,” shoes “chaussures” and slippers “chaussons” so that makes it pretty easy to remember. “Talons” is the word for heels where “griffe” is the word for talons. Perhaps that’s where the word griffin comes from. “Bottes” is the word for boots, also fairly easy, “baskets,” the word for sports shoes and can be applied to any kind of sport. “Collants” is the word for stockings, tights or panty-hose. “Slip” is actually the word for men’s underwear or “calçons” if they’re boxers. Women’s underwear are called “strings” (if they are) or “culottes” (if they’re not). And my favorite is “soutien-gorge” for bra. “Gorge” is the word for throat, “soutien” from the verb “soutenir” to support so it’s as if you’re supporting the throat all the way down from the breasts!
“Costume” is not the word for something you would wear at Halloween, but rather the word for suit. “Déguisement” (coming from the word disguise) is the word for costume. “Vest” is actually the word for jacket and if you say “être de la jaquette” it’s the same thing as saying he’s a friend of Dorothy’s. A vest is called a “gilet” and it gets easier again from there. A cardigan is “un cardigan,” a pullover, “un pullover” and a t-shirt, “un t-shirt.”
“Pantalon” is also fairly obvious for pants although here it's singular so really a pant like “un jean” for a jean or jeans. “Jupe” means skirt. “Chemise” means shirt, “manteau” means coat and “écharpe” is scarf. “Chapeau” is hat and “gants” are gloves. All of these things you would store in your “armoire,” closet, in your “tiroirs,” drawers and you would take a look at yourself in your “miroir,” mirror when you’re dressed. And then off you go to your teuf or your pestacle dressed to the nines or “sur ton trente-et-un (as if dressed for the 31st or New Year’s Eve). Have fun!
Verlan is somewhat the equivalent of Pig Latin in French. Basically you take the first syllable of a word and add it to the end spelling it phonetically. So “fête” or party becomes “teuf.” “Femme” or woman becomes “meuf.” It’s fairly basic, but if used aggressively, can be difficult for a non-native speaker to follow. The word verlan itself is the inverse if you will of the word “l’envers,” which means upside down. It’s ironic actually because verlan is really more like the inverse, which is “l’inverse.” My husband was trying to explain the difference to me – well I know the difference between upside down and inverse, but he used the example of putting my shirt on upside down. I said I would be more likely to put it on inside out than upside down which also appears to be described by the same word.
The other day I saw a poster for “Pesctacles” and of course the obvious English word came to mind. What I found odd about it was that it looked like something geared for children. My husband explained that children often confuse the word for show which is “spectacle” with “pestacle” – almost a form of juvenile verlan. It reminded me of a friend’s three year old niece who can’t yet differentiate the soft “s” from the hard “ck” in socks so it becomes cocks. She says it’s pretty hilarious when she’s running around the house looking for her cocks!
Socks in French are “chaussettes,” shoes “chaussures” and slippers “chaussons” so that makes it pretty easy to remember. “Talons” is the word for heels where “griffe” is the word for talons. Perhaps that’s where the word griffin comes from. “Bottes” is the word for boots, also fairly easy, “baskets,” the word for sports shoes and can be applied to any kind of sport. “Collants” is the word for stockings, tights or panty-hose. “Slip” is actually the word for men’s underwear or “calçons” if they’re boxers. Women’s underwear are called “strings” (if they are) or “culottes” (if they’re not). And my favorite is “soutien-gorge” for bra. “Gorge” is the word for throat, “soutien” from the verb “soutenir” to support so it’s as if you’re supporting the throat all the way down from the breasts!
“Costume” is not the word for something you would wear at Halloween, but rather the word for suit. “Déguisement” (coming from the word disguise) is the word for costume. “Vest” is actually the word for jacket and if you say “être de la jaquette” it’s the same thing as saying he’s a friend of Dorothy’s. A vest is called a “gilet” and it gets easier again from there. A cardigan is “un cardigan,” a pullover, “un pullover” and a t-shirt, “un t-shirt.”
“Pantalon” is also fairly obvious for pants although here it's singular so really a pant like “un jean” for a jean or jeans. “Jupe” means skirt. “Chemise” means shirt, “manteau” means coat and “écharpe” is scarf. “Chapeau” is hat and “gants” are gloves. All of these things you would store in your “armoire,” closet, in your “tiroirs,” drawers and you would take a look at yourself in your “miroir,” mirror when you’re dressed. And then off you go to your teuf or your pestacle dressed to the nines or “sur ton trente-et-un (as if dressed for the 31st or New Year’s Eve). Have fun!
Jun 25, 2009
Patience
n. – patience
Patience is not only a virtue, but a necessity when living in Paris. Take my carte sejour, for example. I finally had my medical exam on Monday, which was supposed to be the final element among the requirements. It took half the day, which I had been prepared for, but when it was over I still didn’t get the card. “C’est prêt mais pas encore envoyé,” it’s ready, but hasn’t been sent yet, was the explanation I received. I’ve already been here for seven months. The card is good for one year. At this rate, it will expire before I even have it.
On the way home, I stopped at the pharmacy. There is always a line at the pharmacy, any pharmacy, any time of day or night. I love French pharmacies though. They’re smaller than the giant drugstores we’re used to in the US and filled with lovely things. Even the packaging for things like aspirin or vitamins seems nicer here. It’s difficult to browse in a pharmacy though because of its small size. It’s assumed you know exactly what you want when you enter, so if you’re not standing in the line, people will come over to you and ask if you need help. It seems silly to say no, I’m just looking – at toothpaste.
In almost any store except the supermarket perhaps, it’s helpful to know what you want and if you have questions you must be prepared for detailed explanations. Not long ago, my husband was looking innocently for mache, a lovely lettuce alternative here that looks like giant watercress. He received an education on the seasonality of mache – early spring being the expiration date so an alternative was suggested. I recently learned that geraniums seem to be on the seasonal brink of extinction as well. This is unfortunate because I was told that they are good at warding off mosquitoes, which have been plaguing us for the last few months.
I did find something at the pharmacy that’s supposed to help, a mini oil lamp of sorts. It’s actually a small diffuser you plug into the wall at night. So far I don’t think it’s done any good just like the citronella candles. And now that I’ve discovered the geranium solution, there aren’t any to be found. Of course screens on the window would be out of the question. Even I would hate to put anything between me and my beautiful view of the Paris rooftops. If I can’t get rid of the bugs, maybe I can find something at the pharmacy that will heal the itch. In any event, it’s a good excuse to go back in and take a look around.
Patience is not only a virtue, but a necessity when living in Paris. Take my carte sejour, for example. I finally had my medical exam on Monday, which was supposed to be the final element among the requirements. It took half the day, which I had been prepared for, but when it was over I still didn’t get the card. “C’est prêt mais pas encore envoyé,” it’s ready, but hasn’t been sent yet, was the explanation I received. I’ve already been here for seven months. The card is good for one year. At this rate, it will expire before I even have it.
On the way home, I stopped at the pharmacy. There is always a line at the pharmacy, any pharmacy, any time of day or night. I love French pharmacies though. They’re smaller than the giant drugstores we’re used to in the US and filled with lovely things. Even the packaging for things like aspirin or vitamins seems nicer here. It’s difficult to browse in a pharmacy though because of its small size. It’s assumed you know exactly what you want when you enter, so if you’re not standing in the line, people will come over to you and ask if you need help. It seems silly to say no, I’m just looking – at toothpaste.
In almost any store except the supermarket perhaps, it’s helpful to know what you want and if you have questions you must be prepared for detailed explanations. Not long ago, my husband was looking innocently for mache, a lovely lettuce alternative here that looks like giant watercress. He received an education on the seasonality of mache – early spring being the expiration date so an alternative was suggested. I recently learned that geraniums seem to be on the seasonal brink of extinction as well. This is unfortunate because I was told that they are good at warding off mosquitoes, which have been plaguing us for the last few months.
I did find something at the pharmacy that’s supposed to help, a mini oil lamp of sorts. It’s actually a small diffuser you plug into the wall at night. So far I don’t think it’s done any good just like the citronella candles. And now that I’ve discovered the geranium solution, there aren’t any to be found. Of course screens on the window would be out of the question. Even I would hate to put anything between me and my beautiful view of the Paris rooftops. If I can’t get rid of the bugs, maybe I can find something at the pharmacy that will heal the itch. In any event, it’s a good excuse to go back in and take a look around.
Jun 24, 2009
Aurore, l’aube
n. dawn
The French have trouble with my name (Dawn) since it’s not common here. Aurore is the word for dawn and l’aube or “à l’aube de” more specifically means just before, so in this case, just before the day. My name is usually pronounced as Down, but the other day someone actually pronounced it more appropriately, which in French makes it sound like “donne” from the verb “donner,” which means to give.
Most of the time people just assume I’m a man if they haven’t met me or they’ll use my last name (Erickson) as my first name since I guess it looks more familiar to them with the word Eric in it. My husband used to have trouble with his first name (Olivier) in the States. I never understood why and would always explain that it’s like Oliver, but with an “i.” Then someone once spelled it Oliveri so I realized that wasn’t helping.
Rather than saying my name is, here you actually say “je m’appelle” which translates to I call myself. This is a similar with bathing, sitting and remembering as in “je me lave,” I bathe myself, “je m’assoir,” I seat myelf and “je me souviens,” I remember myself.
On another level, to be, “être” and to have, “avoir” here are often interchanged. For example, you aren’t cold or hot, but rather you have cold or hot, “j’ai froid” or “j’ai chaud.” You also have your age rather than are your age, “j’ai 25 ans” or I have 25 years (well a few more in my case, but who’s counting). When you are finished, you say I have finished or “j’ai fini” vs. I am finished. And so I have with this little lecture of the day. Aurore or dawn will bring a new day tomorrow and with it continued observations on life and language in France.
The French have trouble with my name (Dawn) since it’s not common here. Aurore is the word for dawn and l’aube or “à l’aube de” more specifically means just before, so in this case, just before the day. My name is usually pronounced as Down, but the other day someone actually pronounced it more appropriately, which in French makes it sound like “donne” from the verb “donner,” which means to give.
Most of the time people just assume I’m a man if they haven’t met me or they’ll use my last name (Erickson) as my first name since I guess it looks more familiar to them with the word Eric in it. My husband used to have trouble with his first name (Olivier) in the States. I never understood why and would always explain that it’s like Oliver, but with an “i.” Then someone once spelled it Oliveri so I realized that wasn’t helping.
Rather than saying my name is, here you actually say “je m’appelle” which translates to I call myself. This is a similar with bathing, sitting and remembering as in “je me lave,” I bathe myself, “je m’assoir,” I seat myelf and “je me souviens,” I remember myself.
On another level, to be, “être” and to have, “avoir” here are often interchanged. For example, you aren’t cold or hot, but rather you have cold or hot, “j’ai froid” or “j’ai chaud.” You also have your age rather than are your age, “j’ai 25 ans” or I have 25 years (well a few more in my case, but who’s counting). When you are finished, you say I have finished or “j’ai fini” vs. I am finished. And so I have with this little lecture of the day. Aurore or dawn will bring a new day tomorrow and with it continued observations on life and language in France.
Jun 12, 2009
Manifestation
n. – protest
Protests are very popular in Paris. While not quite as disruptive as full blown strikes, they still manage to serve their purpose in disrupting the every day rhythm. This is why one always needs to allow enough time to get around.
At the same time, they don’t really seem to faze people very much. I suppose this is because they’re so used to them. The other day, the bus I was on came to a complete standstill in the midst of gridlock traffic surrounded by sirens. When I finally escaped, I saw police standing on the corners in full riot gear. I couldn’t see any sign of the disruption and they seemed approachable to I asked what was happening. Ever so politely they explained that there was a “manifestation,” but it was over now. “A Paris, il y a toujours quelque chose.” There’s always something in Paris, said the young gendarme with a smile.
The lack of deep concern or even real fear of authority can be seen daily. Paris drivers make up their own set of road rules and it’s almost as if the mutual chaos is what keeps them safe from each other. Gridlock is an art form and a broken stop light is simply a challenge to see how many cars can get through without stopping. The Arc de Triomphe is a perfect example of the controlled chaos. Through this giant roundabout, cars come streaming through from all directions and there are no stop signs for anyone. While technically the right of way is given to the people on the right (a good way to remember that), it’s a bit of “n’importe quoi” which in this case means anything goes. The liability, however, if there is an accident is shared 50/50. So I think this has a lot to do with the fact that people don’t push beyond the limits although there are times when I feel like luck is the only thing that get us through the roundabout safely.
I think the French have a tendency to question things more. They love a good argument and respect a decent rationale. So it’s important that one is provided before enforcing anything. There is a small street that’s almost like an alley next to our apartment. The other day it was blocked by two orange cones. A driver, wanting to go through, got out of his car, looked down the street and when he could see no reason why the cones were there, he simply moved them out of the way. I loved that. This is one of the reasons the subway gates are so complicated to go through in Paris. If they were as easy to jump over as the ones in New York for example, hardly anyone would pay!
This morning there was a bomb scare in our neighborhood so access in or out was blocked. Of course, it turned out to be nothing at all, but instead of panic and fear, the people who were temporarily trapped simply sat down at the nearest café, ordered a coffee and lit up their cigarettes. Pas de probleme, a Paris il y a toujours quelque chose.
Jun 3, 2009
Comment ca va?
exp. – how do you feel?
To follow up on my last entry, I took the metro again this week when there wasn’t a strike and found it just as unpleasant during the rush hour commute. So I guess the strike wasn’t as much to blame after all, but regardless I still appreciate our car even more. We took the bus over the weekend with my father who is visiting and he pointed out that there’s an awful lot of wasted space where there could be more seats. We realized after talking it over that in fact the empty space is well utilized when the bus is crowded as more people can stand, but luckily that’s been something I haven’t experienced yet.
Being squeezed into a crowded space makes me cranky or as the French say, “etre de mauvais poil.” Literally translated this means to be of bad hair. “A poil” or at hair actually means to be naked. While “cheveux” refers to the hair(s) on your head, “poil” refers to the hair that covers the rest of your body. So you can just be at hair when you’re undressed, be of bad hair when you’re in a bad mood, or be of good hair, “etre de bon poil,” when you’re in a good mood.
To be in a good mood can also be described as “avoir la peche” or “avoir la patate,” having the peach or having the potato. I’m not sure what the connection is with the two other than the fact that they both begin with the letter “p” and both can be eaten. Of course Americans do use the expression peachy or peachy keen which is really cheesy if you’ll forgive another food reference. Food references also come into play with another way to say you’re not feeling your best, “je ne suis pas dans mon assiette” or I'm not in my plate. “Gronion” is a word for grumpy, usually used for children and not to be confused with “ronion,” which are veal kidneys and “onion,” which means the same thing in French as in English…once more, back to food.
“Heureux,” “content,” “ravi” mean happy, content, thrilled in that order. “J’ai hate de…” actually doesn’t mean you hate something, but rather you’re looking forward to something. “Detester” is the verb for hate or detest. Of course my mother always told me that you shouldn’t hate anyone or anything, but rather you should use the word dislike. So to reiterate I dislike being in a crowded space as it makes me be of bad hair when I would rather have the peach and be in my plate.
To follow up on my last entry, I took the metro again this week when there wasn’t a strike and found it just as unpleasant during the rush hour commute. So I guess the strike wasn’t as much to blame after all, but regardless I still appreciate our car even more. We took the bus over the weekend with my father who is visiting and he pointed out that there’s an awful lot of wasted space where there could be more seats. We realized after talking it over that in fact the empty space is well utilized when the bus is crowded as more people can stand, but luckily that’s been something I haven’t experienced yet.
Being squeezed into a crowded space makes me cranky or as the French say, “etre de mauvais poil.” Literally translated this means to be of bad hair. “A poil” or at hair actually means to be naked. While “cheveux” refers to the hair(s) on your head, “poil” refers to the hair that covers the rest of your body. So you can just be at hair when you’re undressed, be of bad hair when you’re in a bad mood, or be of good hair, “etre de bon poil,” when you’re in a good mood.
To be in a good mood can also be described as “avoir la peche” or “avoir la patate,” having the peach or having the potato. I’m not sure what the connection is with the two other than the fact that they both begin with the letter “p” and both can be eaten. Of course Americans do use the expression peachy or peachy keen which is really cheesy if you’ll forgive another food reference. Food references also come into play with another way to say you’re not feeling your best, “je ne suis pas dans mon assiette” or I'm not in my plate. “Gronion” is a word for grumpy, usually used for children and not to be confused with “ronion,” which are veal kidneys and “onion,” which means the same thing in French as in English…once more, back to food.
“Heureux,” “content,” “ravi” mean happy, content, thrilled in that order. “J’ai hate de…” actually doesn’t mean you hate something, but rather you’re looking forward to something. “Detester” is the verb for hate or detest. Of course my mother always told me that you shouldn’t hate anyone or anything, but rather you should use the word dislike. So to reiterate I dislike being in a crowded space as it makes me be of bad hair when I would rather have the peach and be in my plate.
May 26, 2009
Grève
n. – strike
Striking is a way of life in France. Today someone was striking about something they were unhappy about and through striking, they can in turn make everyone else unhappy as well. There were many of us unhappy people on the metro this morning.
Usually I take the car with my husband to work, but since he had a meeting, I was on my own. Well, not really if you consider the hundreds of people I was squished against on the train. The first one was too crowded to even get on, but since I was already running late, I couldn’t let the second one go by.
I don’t think I’ve ever even been as close to my husband as I was to the strangers surrounding me. I had to laugh at the ones trying to hold on to something. There was no need since there was no way to fall down. It’s as if we were one collective mass of heat and sweat. I was sweating from places I didn’t know you could sweat from. Well, make that glow, my mother always said “horses sweat, men perspire, women glow.” I was glowing like a nuclear reactor.
I know to a metro/subway veteran my story is probably not that shocking. I know people in Tokyo are actually pushed into trains with spatulas until they're ready to burst. But I don’t want to take the metro in Tokyo. I don’t want to take the metro anywhere ever again after this morning. And if the strike is designed to make you feel empathy for the strikers, it doesn’t. It only makes me hate them, whoever they are. What’s ironic to me is that today is the day people celebrate Fête des Voisins (party for the neighbours) as a way to meet one another. So I guess I celebrated my Fête des Voisins on the train thanks to the grève.
Striking is a way of life in France. Today someone was striking about something they were unhappy about and through striking, they can in turn make everyone else unhappy as well. There were many of us unhappy people on the metro this morning.
Usually I take the car with my husband to work, but since he had a meeting, I was on my own. Well, not really if you consider the hundreds of people I was squished against on the train. The first one was too crowded to even get on, but since I was already running late, I couldn’t let the second one go by.
I don’t think I’ve ever even been as close to my husband as I was to the strangers surrounding me. I had to laugh at the ones trying to hold on to something. There was no need since there was no way to fall down. It’s as if we were one collective mass of heat and sweat. I was sweating from places I didn’t know you could sweat from. Well, make that glow, my mother always said “horses sweat, men perspire, women glow.” I was glowing like a nuclear reactor.
I know to a metro/subway veteran my story is probably not that shocking. I know people in Tokyo are actually pushed into trains with spatulas until they're ready to burst. But I don’t want to take the metro in Tokyo. I don’t want to take the metro anywhere ever again after this morning. And if the strike is designed to make you feel empathy for the strikers, it doesn’t. It only makes me hate them, whoever they are. What’s ironic to me is that today is the day people celebrate Fête des Voisins (party for the neighbours) as a way to meet one another. So I guess I celebrated my Fête des Voisins on the train thanks to the grève.
May 24, 2009
Météo
n. – weather
Every week night from 7-8:45, there is a show called Le Grand Journal (the great newspaper literally translated, but really like a combination news /talk show). Emphasis is more on entertainment even when it comes to the weather.
Miss Météo as she’s called or the weather girl (because she’s always been a girl) comes on mid-show and prior to the forecast puts on a sort of skit. It’s relatively basic, but short and she’s pretty so nobody seems to mind if it’s not hilarious.
Paris weather is mercurial. This past 4-day weekend we were told to expect clouds and rain and instead awoke each day to blue skies and sun. I joked with my husband that maybe it’s because the weather girl is too busy thinking of skits and not paying enough attention to the weather patterns that her forecasts are inaccurate. But I think it’s just another facet of the unpredictability of this place. And in the case of sun over showers, being pleasantly surprised makes you appreciate it even more.
Every week night from 7-8:45, there is a show called Le Grand Journal (the great newspaper literally translated, but really like a combination news /talk show). Emphasis is more on entertainment even when it comes to the weather.
Miss Météo as she’s called or the weather girl (because she’s always been a girl) comes on mid-show and prior to the forecast puts on a sort of skit. It’s relatively basic, but short and she’s pretty so nobody seems to mind if it’s not hilarious.
Paris weather is mercurial. This past 4-day weekend we were told to expect clouds and rain and instead awoke each day to blue skies and sun. I joked with my husband that maybe it’s because the weather girl is too busy thinking of skits and not paying enough attention to the weather patterns that her forecasts are inaccurate. But I think it’s just another facet of the unpredictability of this place. And in the case of sun over showers, being pleasantly surprised makes you appreciate it even more.
Salé
adj. – salty
Sucré
adj. – sweet
The other night we went to the movies, my first time since moving to Paris. I decided to treat myself to popcorn, another thing I haven’t had much of since moving here. The woman asked me if I wanted it “salé,” salty or “sucré,” sweet to which my husband responded affirmatively, “sucré.” I assumed this meant that there wasn’t extra salt on the popcorn vs. actually sweet popcorn. So I tried to clarify with both my husband and the lady and discovered that in fact it really did mean sweet.
I still didn’t understand, sweet like caramel corn sweet or just popcorn with sugar on it instead of salt? I told her I would rather have the salty to which she defensively responded that I had asked for sweet. Indeed I had, but that was before I actually understood that it was really sweet. I can understand her confusion. She was even willing to let me try some of the sweet, which I declined. I would imagine that she would have no problem re-selling the container from which I plucked a sweet kernel where in the U.S. it would have been discarded immediately.
Well having that sorted out, we proceeded into the theatre. I think it was the first time in my life when I’ve actually been the first person in. It was massive and empty. The long weekend and lovely weather had kept the crowds away. So my husband, friend and I chose our seats smack dab in the center. A few more people trickled in and what I found so amusing is that they proceeded to sit right next to us. They didn’t even allow one courtesy seat’s difference. Here we were, albeit in the middle, of a theatre that could hold hundreds and yet, directly on either side of us the few people sat. I chalk it up to the Latin culture and the way they view personal space. They like as little as possible where we prefer to keep our distance a bit more. Or perhaps it was because despite our salty popcorn, there was just something sweet about us.
Sucré
adj. – sweet
The other night we went to the movies, my first time since moving to Paris. I decided to treat myself to popcorn, another thing I haven’t had much of since moving here. The woman asked me if I wanted it “salé,” salty or “sucré,” sweet to which my husband responded affirmatively, “sucré.” I assumed this meant that there wasn’t extra salt on the popcorn vs. actually sweet popcorn. So I tried to clarify with both my husband and the lady and discovered that in fact it really did mean sweet.
I still didn’t understand, sweet like caramel corn sweet or just popcorn with sugar on it instead of salt? I told her I would rather have the salty to which she defensively responded that I had asked for sweet. Indeed I had, but that was before I actually understood that it was really sweet. I can understand her confusion. She was even willing to let me try some of the sweet, which I declined. I would imagine that she would have no problem re-selling the container from which I plucked a sweet kernel where in the U.S. it would have been discarded immediately.
Well having that sorted out, we proceeded into the theatre. I think it was the first time in my life when I’ve actually been the first person in. It was massive and empty. The long weekend and lovely weather had kept the crowds away. So my husband, friend and I chose our seats smack dab in the center. A few more people trickled in and what I found so amusing is that they proceeded to sit right next to us. They didn’t even allow one courtesy seat’s difference. Here we were, albeit in the middle, of a theatre that could hold hundreds and yet, directly on either side of us the few people sat. I chalk it up to the Latin culture and the way they view personal space. They like as little as possible where we prefer to keep our distance a bit more. Or perhaps it was because despite our salty popcorn, there was just something sweet about us.
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