Dec 11, 2010

Les gens sont fous

exp. – people are crazy

When we first got our puppy, I was telling a fellow dog lover friend how many nice people I’ve met while walking him. She agreed, but added that many of them are a little crazy. I see what she means now since I’ve become a little crazy myself.

I tend to rationalize things for the dog, which is ridiculous, since he doesn’t. I’ve watched endless hours of the DOG WHISPERER and have been working so hard on my “calm, assertive” behaviour. I keep repeating the mantra “I am the pack leader, I am the pack leader” over and over again. The crazy part is that I’ll do it outside and out loud when I’m walking him.

Felix is going through his adolescent stage right now, which is just as bad as it sounds. The various developmental stages of dogs are sped up exponentially given that their time on earth is much shorter than ours. Imagine going from baby to teenager in just six months – it can’t be easy. At first I thought the lifting of his leg was so cute – now I’m trying desperately to stop him from doing it EVERY few feet! The biggest mistake is to ask other dog owners for advice because everyone will tell you something different.

The trainer tells me I shouldn’t let him do that – there’s no reason he can’t let it all out so to speak, at once, making a much more fluid, no pun intended, and agreeable walk, for me at least. A woman just this morning, however, insisted that it’s part of their nature and that it’s perfectly normal. She also admits she lets her dog walk her rather than the other way around and when she wants to run an errand she has to ask him to take her to the butcher, or the dry cleaner, or wherever it may be.

She’s not the only one who apparently lets the dog decide. I met one of my neighbours who had a lovely, big, albeit not very sociable, dog. She invited Felix and me over for coffee, the owner that is, but when I arrived I had to wait in the hall until the dog finished her breakfast because she likes to eat alone. She then proceeded to dig under the table, the dog that is, at which point I looked at Felix and channelled the thought – don’t get any ideas.

One topic that I’ve still yet to resolve is whether or not to neuter the pup. In the US it’s practically mandatory and I always thought it the sensible thing to do – unless you want to breed or show your dog, I understand. Here, it seems only to be a necessary option for female dogs, which I find a bit sexist. In English, we use the words personality and character interchangeably, although a character is used for someone with an out of the ordinary personality. Here the word for personality is "caractère” and “personnage” is actually the word they use for a character. If someone is a real character and not in a good way, they’ll use “special.” Anyway, the French think that castrating male dogs will ruin their personality or take away their character. Don’t female dogs have personalities, too?

The woman who has walked Felix and dog sat him the last time we were away thinks he absolutely should be castrated. Why let him look at all the pretty girl dogs and be able to do nothing about it. I tend to agree with her. I thought I was endearing myself to Felix by sending him off to walk with her since she takes a pile of dogs in her little van to the woods for hours at a time. But the DOG WHISPERER made a very good point in one of his episodes that the dog doesn’t know you’ve paid the dog walker and the last time Felix came home, he went into total crisis mode when she left.

Anyone who has a dog and certainly anyone who doesn’t will tell you that they’re a lot of work – all day, every day, for the rest of their lives. Just like people they have phases where they’re more difficult and just like people, a relationship with a dog is a commitment. Unlike people though, the dog will rarely let you take him for granted. We will get through this difficult phase because I will remain calm, assertive and above all, the pack leader, crazy or not.

Embêter, emmerder, se fâcher

v. – to bug

Not surprisingly here there are many verbs that mean to bother or exasperate. The culture of the French can lean towards the dramatic. Discussing, as I’ve mentioned before, along with debating and even complaining, is part of their way of life.

Recently we had a snowstorm or “tempête de neige” in Paris. By East Coast standards, it wasn’t monumental and the perky weather lady on the news made it clear it was coming, but for some reason, it took Paris by surprise. The city became instantly paralyzed and not surprisingly since to my view, there were no provisions to be seen.

People were slipping and sliding, cars came grinding to a halt and the buses ceased running leaving the metros jammed with panicked commuters trying desperately to get home.

As a former New Yorker, I felt like crying out “People, it’s just a little snow – relax and bring on the salt, “sel” or at least some sand, “sable!” Instead everyone was making excuses – “C’est exceptionnel!” it’s exceptional, everyone kept saying. I’m going on my third winter here and every year we’ve had snow – it was in the weather forecast – what was exceptional about it!

The “éboueurs” or trash collectors went into hiding leaving frozen garbage piling up on the streets. At the risk of sounding dramatic because I am after all becoming more and more French, I felt like I was in a war zone and it all bugged me very, very much!

This is the time of year when the trash collectors, like the “pompiers” or fireman, come door to door to sell you their “calendriers” or calendars. I know this because I was already visited by the latter, catching me off guard by ringing the bell at 8 o’clock at night. Since I wasn’t expecting anyone and am used to my protective doorman bubble back home, I was concerned when he identified himself as a fireman thinking there must be something wrong. Instead, he explained he just wanted to sell me a calendar and while I have the utmost respect for firemen and would be happy to contribute, I was a little bugged that he chose the dinner hour to stop by. On top of it, the price is discretionary, just leading to further confusion with the dinner bubbling over and the dog barking at my heels.

The end of the year does bring out stress in people. The shortened days lead to shortened fuses, the lack of sunlight leads to lack of humour. Winter has started early and unforgivingly this year, but without winter there can be no spring and there’s not a prettier city than Paris when the sun is shining and the flowers are blooming. So until then I will be marking the days off on my calendar and looking forward to that.

Dec 10, 2010

Demander

v. – to ask
Exiger
v. – to demand
Insister
v. – to insist

Sometimes French words are exactly the same as English ones and sometimes not at all. I wondered why “demander” doesn’t mean to demand. It seems more logical to me to have another word for to ask rather than coming up with another word for demand.

It’s similar with the verb “marcher,” which doesn’t mean march, but rather walk. There are other words for walk such as “se ballader” and “se promener,” but the word for march is actually “défiler.” This is the same verb they use for cat walk, which makes sense since the models do sort of march to a certain degree. It has nothing to do with the English verb to defile unless you really take offense at some of the latest fashions.

“Se défiler” means to back out as in, at the last minute. There are many other verbs like this, “se manquer,” to miss, “s’appeller,” to call or to name, “se doucher” or “se laver,” to bathe or to wash, “se coucher,” to sleep, etc. All of these things we do to ourselves literally when translated. So even if you miss someone you would say “tu me manques” or you are missed by me. That one is always a little complicated for me even though the rest make sense. “Je me couche,” I put myself to sleep or “je me lave,” I wash myself are logical unless you’re a baby and can’t really do either without help.

The root for the verbs for washing and bathing can be found in the nouns that describe the things we wash and bathe in. For example, “douche” is the word for shower, “lavabo,” the word for sink, “bain,” the word for tub from “se beiner” or to swim. “Robinet” is another word for sink – and makes the distinction between kitchen sink vs. bathroom sink. Hence, “l’eau du robinet” means tap water.

The word “eau” for water rhymes with the word “peau” for skin. The former isn’t that great for the latter here because of the high calcium content or “calcaire.” There are many products aimed at “canilization” or unclogging and freshening drains. The calcium deposits aren’t the only problem. Hair clogs drains as well, but sometimes I wonder if it’s the calcium deposited water that actually causes your hair to fall out. There are also a variety of products targeted at “chute de cheveux” or hair loss, which I suppose is a universal concern.

I’ve always thought it a pity that so many people have too much hair where they don’t want it and not enough where they do. Since humans have worn clothes for centuries now, you would think there would have been a modification at the evolutionary level to redistribute more to the tops of our heads, especially men’s.

I constantly toy with the idea of cutting bangs. Here they are called “franges” or fringe I suppose like the British call them. “Meche” is what the layered side bang is called. It’s also the word for highlighting so you have to be sure you’re clear on what you mean in order to avoid confusion at the salon.

There’s a certain hairstyle that’s very popular here now with boys. It’s a mesh pulled way over to one’s side…sort of like the teen version of the comb over. It looks like it takes a great deal of effort to keep the hair that clearly belongs on one side, all the way over on the other one. It’s the same sort of effort I imagine that it takes to keep their jeans tightly wrapped around the tops of their thighs. But we’ve all been there. I remember spending hours blow-drying my feathered wings, which ended up looking more like little flaccid horns on either side of my head and of course I had many a bell bottom fashion disaster moment as well.

It’s funny how as we age, or at least in my case, I spend a lot less time on my hair and make-up. The French women also have a less is more approach to their looks. I like it – it’s clean and elegant. There is also a healthier approach to getting older here. I don’t see the same lips pulled over forehead looks that I do in the US and that’s refreshing. Sensible eating vs. starvation and diet pills also seem to be the norm. Exercise is practised, but nothing that will emit heavy sweating. Perhaps this has something to do with people not wanting to seek reasons for multiple showers during the day given the harsh water. Instead, a nice healthy “promenade” or walk, will do just fine.

Nov 18, 2010

Sentir

v. – to feel or to smell

Someone I recently met suggested I blog about this French word because of its dual meanings. I realized though that in English, the verbs for smell and feel can also be interchangeable. Allow me to back track for a moment in order to give an example.

A few weeks ago while walking my dog in the Champs de Mars, I met a lovely woman walking her own. She happens to be a writer and her latest book is called Consequential Strangers http://www.consequentialstrangers.com. To borrow a quote from her own blog on the topic, consequential strangers are “people who bring novelty and information into our lives, allow us to exercise different parts of ourselves, and open us up to new opportunities.” And this is what we immediately became.

Not long after our encounter, we ran into each other again and since she was about to leave Paris for a while, she invited us to a going away party at her place. It was here that I met the person who suggested blogging about sentir. So now I will get to my example about that verb since it’s all intertwined.

Even though I didn’t know my new stranger/friend for very long, her absence is marked. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that it coincided with the nasty turn in weather and as a result a feeling of emptiness in the park. Where as a few weeks ago, the park was filled with sunlight and golden leaves, now it’s grey and grim and the center where all the dogs congregate looks barren and cold. The French call it grisaille and it's just as it sounds, grey and drizzly or grizzly as I like to call it.

Today as Felix and I approached that center where he used to love to run and play, we came upon a man, his child, one dog off leash and one dog on. Something about the dog on the leash didn’t “smell” right and I slowed my approach. Sure enough the man warned me that the dog wasn’t nice. In fact, he looked downright vicious with one eye missing surely from a fight. I managed to grab my little pup in time to avoid harm, but as another woman passing by pointed out, if the dog is vicious it should be muzzled, not just leashed.

Perhaps the reason we use this word to mean both smell and feel comes from the fact that a dog’s sense of smell is so strong that he can actually learn many things from it. Today, unfortunately, Felix and I both learned to smell danger. And today I met an INconsequential stranger I hope never to see again.

Nov 15, 2010

Prononciation

n. – pronunciation
While my French may not be perfect, I do take great pride in my accent. Recently an old friend and former colleague of mine who was coming to France for work asked if I knew anyone who could accompany him during his assignment and translate for him. My husband suggested I volunteer so I did.

Once he arrived in Paris, we travelled to Burgundy where the story he was reporting on took place. On the way, we stopped in Fontainebleau and had lunch just near the magnificent chateau. The name came from a fresh water spring or “Beautiful Water Fountain” if you break down the name Fontaine-Belle-Eau.

When we arrived at our final destination in the small town of Nuits Saint Georges, we were greeted by the owner of the Chambres d’Hôtes where we were staying. Literally translated this means, hosted rooms or bed and breakfast would be the way I would describe it. In this case it was a hôtel particulier, which is another way of describing a single family home. While not as grand on the scale of the Hôtel Lambert on Ile Saint Louis which was recently sold for somewhere around 80 million euros, it was still a large multi-roomed mansion of sorts and expensive to keep up, which is why the woman and her mother had decided to turn it into a guest house.

I cheerily told her about our visit to Fontainebleau, but she cocked her head indicating she didn’t understand. I repeated Fontainebleau. Again, she cocked her head and looked confused. Fontainebleau, I kept saying, surprised that she hadn’t heard of it since it’s so famous. Finally, she said “ah, Fontainebleau.” It was not a good start to a translating effort if I couldn’t even make her understand one of the most famous French cities within an hour’s drive from where she lived.

However, my friend and I had a giggle about it because neither one of us could figure out what I had done wrong. I explained the story to my husband when I got home and he spotted the error right away. I was pronouncing the end more like the color blue is pronounced in French. Instead, I should have pronounced the end to sound more like blow. It’s a subtle difference I can assure you!

I run into the same situation with my dog’s name, which is Felix. People ask me what he’s called and I answer, Felix. They ask me to repeat it and then they say “ah, Félix.” I guess it’s because I don’t use the accent when I speak. I’m getting used to it because I’m not changing the way I pronounce it, which is more like Feelix than Fehlix. Someone I know who is from Peru pronounces it Feliz, which is cute so sometimes my husband and I call him Feliz Navidad. I like the fact that Felix comes from the Latin word for happy. I do get tired of people telling me that Felix is a cat, though.

My friend and I had more language giggles during our excursion, mostly at his expense because he doesn’t speak a word of French. As such, his pronunciation or lack thereof, make it hard for even me to understand what he’s trying to say. He did make some valid points though, like why put an “s” in the middle of a word if you’re not going to use it. In Vosne Romanée, a region in Burgundy, the first word is pronounced Vone, not Voznee as he liked to say.

With the arrival of the accent circumflex in the French language around the 16th century, many an “s” before a consonant disappeared. For example in the word hôtes seen above, the accent over the “o” has eliminated the need for an “s” which surely used to be there as we see in the English word, host. It’s the same with hôtel or hôpital. In English, while we also use the word hotel, we still use hostel to describe lodging of a more practical manner. Gîtes, which is another word for inn, also has an accent circumflex, this time over the “i” replacing an “s” that must have been there preceding the “t.”

But my favorite language faux pas or false step, literally translated, was when my friend said bonjour at the end of a conversation. I explained it’s not like aloha or ciao. Bonjour is always hello and never goodbye. We had a good giggle over that one.

Bonjour!

Nov 13, 2010

Supermarché

n. – supermarket
Marcher
v. – walk
Faire les courses
v. – go (or literally make) grocery shopping
Cours
n. – class or course
Court
adj. – short
Faire les magasins
v. – go (or literally make) shopping (for anything other than groceries)

Magasin
n. – store (that sells anything other than groceries)
Magazine
n. – magazine
Carte
n. menu or card
Caddie
n. – caddy or cart
Online food delivery exists here although I have yet to use it. I did, however, break down and buy what I call the “granny trolley” to do my grocery shopping and how I do love that! I simply wheel the trolley along the tiny sidewalk to the supermarket, throw everything in it as I wheel it up and down the aisles and then throw everything back in it once the delightful check out clerk has rung everything up, ready to pay as soon as she’s finished and be on my way. It sure beats the pressure of begging for and then un-sticking the plastic bags while the line mounts up behind you. I used to refuse to pay until everything was packed because once you do, the clerks just start moving the next person’s things along piling up on top of yours. I know I’ve written about this before, but I’m still waiting for someone to explain why oh why can’t they simply help!

The culture of real grocery shopping in Paris or most European cities for that matter is different from many American cities in that you run your errands at several shops all located nearby. The butcher, baker, cheese shop, fishmonger, greengrocer, etc. are all separate entities. Pharmacies are also separate stores and here are more like old-fashioned chemists than drugstores like we’re used to. I don’t usually take my granny trolley when I shop like this, but rather only when I’m cheating and going to the market where I can get almost everything in one place.

It’s not the same of course because there you don’t strike up a conversation with the butcher who is so fond of our puppy that he’ll let him lick his hands across the counter. Of course in the States, you would never see a dog in a butcher shop much less the supermarket. Here they are tolerated and left tied up near the check out awaiting their masters if not actually condoned running wild through the store.

The thing I like about the supermarket is that it’s open all day. Most of the other little specialty stores shut down for lunch and by lunch I mean from 1-4. There is a great store for dogs, but they don’t even open until 2 and there’s another little repair store that never seems to be open. It's called “Je repare tout” or “I repair everything,” but I've added to that, “Mais je ne suis jamais la,” “But I’m never here.” In fairness I did go in once with a broken alarm clock, but he couldn’t fix it. Maybe a simple amendment to “Je repair presque tout quand je suis la” would be better, “I repair almost everything when I’m here.”

So like everything in France, errand running is an art. Timing, patience and the art of conversation are all part of the equation to ensure success. And if I did choose to do all my shopping online, I would have nothing to blog about!

Nov 8, 2010

Avoir du temps à tuer

Exp. – killing time
Entrepreneur
n. - from the words "entre" or under and "prendre" to take

Nearly four months after our kitchen ceiling collapsed, I’m sitting here waiting for the entrepreneur or as we would call him, handyman, to come and finish repairing the hole. He began on Friday, today is Monday and as long as he continues to show up, it should be fixed by the end of the week.

Nothing happens quickly in France – nothing. People don’t rush here because there’s no point. We had brunch yesterday with friends, leaving the apartment at noon to return at 5pm. Getting back to the kitchen ceiling, it took six weeks just to get our insurance expert to come and take a look at it. Of course it was during August when everyone is on vacation. The process then had to be repeated two months later since there was some dispute over how much the repairs would cost.

Disputes or discussions are a way of life here. And both take time. The unions are still disputing and discussing the retirement reform. To explain it simply, the reform would raise the retirement age by two years in order to keep the pension coffers from running out. I think it’s already been passed into law, but that doesn’t stop the unions from holding their manifestations or protests. Even the lyceens or high school students got into the act, protesting in a show of solidarity while their representatives made the talk show rounds to discuss the topic even further. It’s difficult sometimes to understand anyone’s points of view though since another French habit is talking over one another.

When I was on the bus the other day I started up a conversation with a lovely French woman. A young lyceen got on the bus without paying. Apparently he didn’t have his metro card for some reason, but he did have a healthy sense of entitlement. He and the bus driver started to dispute and the woman rolled her eyes and said “ah we French love to discuss things – you see how much they discuss this and all it’s doing is wasting time.”

Time here is not a luxury, but a right. People deserve their time and they will take it and yours. This is why vacation time is not a privilege, but an expectation. When discussing the strikes one day with a Nigerian taxi driver, he said, “In my country, we work to get ahead, to buy a home, to make our lives. In France, people work to get to their vacation.” That’s why adding another two years to the retirement age feels like a life sentence.

The French have a reputation for being tardy, which while not true for all of them, does play into their relationship with time. Even television timing can be off as we have witnessed when trying to tape French shows. For some reason and especially with films, we have to remember to build in some extra time in order to risk missing the end since they don’t seem to start when the guide says they will.

An hour and a half after expected, the handyman has shown up. When it comes to repairs, I’m happy for him to take his time and in fairness, he does a very good job. Traffic and bad weather got in the way of punctuality this morning and because I had nothing else planned, “ca me derange pas,” it doesn’t bother me. He tells me he still has another three days of work to do – further patching tomorrow followed by first and second coats of paint the following two days. But we just realized in talking that Thursday is a holiday, Friday a “pont” or bridge for those who can take it allowing for a nice long four-day weekend. So the job will actually finish next week, which is a good thing too because he tells me that after that he will be on vacation.

Nov 5, 2010

Poubelle


n. – trash can

Upon leaving my apartment, I have six doors to open and two buttons to push just to get outside. This doesn’t include the door to the trash and recycling room in case I need to drop anything off on my way out. And it also doesn’t include the various light switches that I need to push in times of darkness.

I was spoiled living in New York where I barely had to use my hands until it was time to unlock the door to my apartment. With 24/7 doormen and electronic elevator doors, I could keep my hands safely in my pockets if I wanted until I reached my final destination. Locking and unlocking my apartment door was also much less complicated there. The lock to our Paris apartment is spring loaded, which actually requires both hands to operate.

I mention all of this only because if it was troublesome before, it’s only more so with a little ball of fur underfoot that needs precision timing in order to successfully coordinate his disposal needs at street level.

Last night at around 11pm, after suspecting the timing may be right, I proceeded along my ritual of door opening, closing, locking and button pushing giving myself the additional challenge of disposing of the trash and paper/plastic items. Here bottles fall into a third category and since they make such a loud crash in their receptacle, I don’t take them down between the hours of 10pm and 10am.

Lo and behold, no trash or recycle cans to be found since they had already been put out in the street. I thought Monday night was trash pick up, but with only one can for a seven story building, it makes sense that this is a two or maybe even three time a week event. Maybe it occurs every night and I just don’t notice unless I have anything to take down with me after hours.

Trash and recycle disposal in New York was so much easier – there was a room at the end of the hall on every floor with a chute for the garbage and all other items, glass, paper and plastic could simply be left next to said chute. Oh how spoiled we Americans are with all of our space and conveniences. Adapting to a new day-to-day life or “vie quotidienne” has been challenging at times, but there’s always a light at the end of the tunnel. Here all you have to do is remember to turn it on.

Sep 30, 2010

Dresseur

n. – trainer as in for dogs
It wasn’t that long ago that I was the head of a department that brought in millions of dollars in international advertising revenue working with high-end luxury clients worldwide. Today I was taking directions from a dog trainer a good generation behind me in age.

The economic crisis was partly responsible for the change in my life. Advertising budgets being cut causing revenue to drastically decrease was one of the reasons that the office I ran, once the in-house sales team for one of the largest international magazine publishers, was outsourced to a media rep firm. The city I lived in and loved, New York, is now one I love to visit since a great work opportunity brought my French husband to Paris. So it is here in my new home that I have been spending my time carving out a new niche, a new identity for myself.

At the moment, my role is nurturing, rearing and training a puppy. It may sound trivial, but anyone who has dedicated themselves to it as I have will tell you it is no small feat. I am humbled by the patience and discipline that it takes along with the respect I have for someone who is an expert in his field, the dog trainer, just as I used to like to think I was an expert in mine, an advertising executive.

Once the boss, I am now the trainee. In fact sometimes I think I have more to learn than the puppy himself. I was so proud today when I told the trainer that I taught the dog “attends” or wait in addition to “assis” or sit. He tells me “Down,” (because like most French people he has trouble pronouncing Dawn for some reason) “Felix doesn’t understand French, there is no point in teaching him the word for wait.” “But you’ve taught him the word for sit.” I insist, confused as to what I’ve done wrong. “Exactly, and the word for sit is enough – to wait on top of that doesn’t mean anything.”

It’s amazing how we complicate our lives. The trainer is absolutely right. As long as the dog is sitting, he’s not moving, therefore he is naturally waiting. The puppy doesn’t need many words, which doesn’t come naturally to someone like me. I used to spend hours meticulously drafting emails whether it was to convince a client that our titles were the right environment for their products or to explain the rationale for our negotiations. Now it has come down to several “mots clefs” or literally translated, key words: “laisse,” leave or stop; “prends,” take it; “assis,” sit; “avance,” go; “couché,” lie down and “c’est fini,” it’s finished, to signify the end of the game or exercise.

Once ecstatic at landing a million dollar marketing campaign, I’m now thrilled at the sight of my puppy peeing anywhere outside of our apartment. Once exhilarated by gaining a new client through endless prospecting, I’m now elated when my puppy follows me in the park without his leash. There is a different, but undoubtedly far more profound feeling of accomplishment that my new role brings me. And while I have the time to dedicate myself to it, I want to excel at it. I want to make the trainer proud, but more importantly I want to make my puppy the best that he can be.

Mind you, not everyone is pro trainer. Many think it unnecessary and a waste of money. I think that for the basics of dog psychology, it’s been very helpful. I see how affective the theory of rewarding or “récompense” is. My puppy will do anything for those tasty little treats the trainer keeps in his pocket hanging on his hip. On the other hand, they make the dog thirsty and after a session with the trainer, my pup poos and pees more than ever! But I don’t follow all of the trainer’s rules. I still pick my puppy up and put him on my lap from time to time (just don’t tell him.)

So while Felix may not bring me much in terms of revenue, he brings me everything in terms of loyalty and unconditional love. As for the housetraining and leash training and all the rest, it will come with time and perseverance. There is an expression here, “Petit a petit, l'oiseau fait son nid.” Little by little, the bird makes his nest."

C’est fini.

Sep 14, 2010

En baver des ronds de chapeau

Exp. – have a tough time of it
The trainer used this expression about the dog and I see what he meant. While I tried to get a better handle of the expression by looking it up, I couldn’t really find a satisfactory explanation of its orgins, but because “baver” is the verb for drool and “ronds de chapeau” is the noun for hat brim, it makes sense that this would be a difficult thing to do – unless you’re standing upside down, which is what it feels like sometimes when training a pooch.

We human adults take so many things for granted. But when I now take Felix for his walks, I realize how many perils lurk outside. The streets are filled with trash, even in our pristine neighborhood. I really don’t know why it’s so hard to reach one’s arm out and throw something in the many trash bags that line the street. I remember once in New York when I was in the subway, I watched a woman drop her metro card on the ground. I called after her because I genuinely thought she dropped it by mistake, but she gave me a look to say “I don’t need it anymore.” My jaw sort of dropped unconsciously as I looked a foot past her where there was a trash can. She got the message, picked up the card and threw it away.

I watched a woman here the other day open up her packet of cigarettes as she crossed the street and just drop the plastic wrapping on the ground. That plastic wrapping is not only litter, but now a possible choking hazard for my dog. I’m constantly pulling wads of paper, cigarette butts, metro tickets, you name it, out of the dog’s mouth. He also loves leaves and pigeon feathers. I sometimes feel I’m walking a dustbuster.

As I’ve mentioned before, the French love their dogs, but apparently they don’t love cleaning up after them so much. This leaves another obstacle to navigate, which I was always cautious of before, but now I have the added concern of my dog’s open mouth ready to ingest anything he sees.

Felix is happy to have the attention of anyone, man, woman, child, fellow dog. Total strangers want to take his picture and hold him. Today while we were walking, a woman stopped to tell me how adorable he is. She went on to tell me about her dog that had died. When I asked if the dog was old, she explained that she had actually eaten something that killed her and started to cry. It broke my heart to see such profound sadness in her eyes. I told her she should get another dog to which she replied that she was too old. That broke my heart even more. She wished me all the best with Felix and I tried to take comfort in the fact that maybe for just a few moments he gave her some happiness, but her sadness lingers with me as I write this.

Just as it’s readily apparent when people love dogs, it’s equally so when they do not. I always wonder what goes through the minds of people who glare in disgust at my little innocent ball of fur. I wonder how unhappy they must be to look at something that makes most people’s heart melt with such contempt. What amuses me the most though is the expression on Felix’s face as they march past him as if to say “Wait, don’t you think I’m cute – what’s wrong with you?”

My dog is napping now – a time when the world goes quiet and I can tend to things that need to be done. Sometimes he dreams and according to the trainer, only predators dream because they feel safe when they’re sleeping. Sometimes I feel like napping, too because when the little whirling dervish of energy comes alive, I need to be fortified. Another thing the trainer explained to me is the role of the alpha male (or female in my case). He said that when puppies get too unruly, the alpha will simply turn away from them or even turn their back on them completely. Another trick they use is to yawn signifying that they’re bored with the behaviour. But after dealing with a puppy at play, I actually believe the alphas yawn because they’re just really tired!

Sep 1, 2010

Chien

n. dog
Chiot
n. – puppy
We did it. We broke down or “craque” as the French say and we bought a puppy. His name is Felix and he is just a little over two kilos of pure heaven. He is a blonde, miniature wire-haired dachshund. His name is Felix because this is the year of the F. As I explained in an earlier post, the French have a “rule” that a pet’s name corresponds with a letter of the alphabet. I use brackets because I’m not really sure how it could be enforced. My husband liked Winston, but in fact there is never a W year – I believe it stops at T and then resumes again at A based on the fact that U, V, W, Y, Y and Z names are less common. Anyway, we actually like the name Felix, which is why we went with that. His middle name is Winston.

Anyone who has a dog and even those who don’t, know the incredible amount of work a puppy is. While he’s cute enough to eat when resting, he can quickly turn into a mini spawn of Satan when insisting on chewing the furniture or eating the leaves of my ficus tree. Sometimes I think he believes his name is NO.

I use “no” since it’s fairly universal – “no” and “non” sound the same and it’s more the tone you use vs. the word itself. But I have to consider my key words carefully since not everyone is going to be speaking to him in English. Since I want him to be well behaved and well adjusted, we have invested in some training sessions for him. I have already learned far more than I thought I knew, having had pets as a child. The important thing is to think like a dog and not like a human.

I am the Alpha Male I keep telling myself. Well for now since my husband is away. I will be the Alpha Female when he gets back. There’s no question though that my schedule now revolves around the puppy’s. I just took a 15 minute nap on the floor since he’s sleeping in his bed. Unlike him, I don’t have the luxury of napping for three hours at a time during the day. So like a new mother, I am feeling the effects of sleep deprivation. And especially so because I am a big sleeper!

“Faire la grasse matinée” is an expression here that means literally “to make a fat morning” or to sleep in. “Une grosse merde” is another less polite way to put it. I’ll let you figure out the translation for that. I never thought I would see the day when I was actually thrilled to sleep in until 7am. I also never thought I would get so excited to see a poop on a sidewalk. You see Felix loves to walk outside only to come home and do his business in the apartment. While watching another dog pee outside the other day, my husband said Felix is thinking, “That’s so rude – I go in my apartment!”

It’s a process. The trainer told me not to coddle him since he already has a Napoleon complex. Well of course he does, the poor thing only comes up to my ankle! I like the trainer though very much and I trust him even if I feel like he’s training me too. He talks to me sort of the same way he talks to the dog. It’s ok though because I don’t have a Napoleon complex and I will do anything he says if it means my dog will be good and housebroken.

Everybody and I mean everybody will give you their opinion on raising a dog. When to walk him, how long to walk him, how often to walk him, when to feed him, how often, collar leash vs. harness leash, crate vs. bed, wee wee pads vs. none and so on and so on. But the beauty of it all is that you meet the nicest people and the French are especially dog friendly. There is an instant connection with fellow animal lovers. I just made a coffee date with a neighbor who owns a big Boarder Collie.

My in-laws are already treating Felix as their grandson with fur and I think we’ve inspired my brother-in-law and his girlfriend to get a puppy and upgrade from their guinea pig or “cochin dinde,” literally translated as pig from India. “Cobaye” is the word they use for a guinea pig in the experimental sense. I already made my first play on words since getting the dog. When our friend was over the other night, I asked “Qu’est ce que tu veux aboies?” instead of “Qe’est ce que tu veux a boire?” meaning what would you like to drink and substituting the verb for to drink with the verb for to bark. I was quite pleased with myself, although apparently from the reaction, it wasn’t one of my better repartees!

Well the little native is getting restless so time for our afternoon constitutional. We’ll see who we make friends with next. Woof.

La rentrée

n. the return
It’s September 1 and also the first Wednesday of the month. This means that at noon, an alarm will go off – a left over from the air raids of World War II. I’m not sure if I find it comforting or distressing that they still feel the need to keep this system in check. It’s a bit like the boy who cried wolf or fire drills though because if there were really an emergency, nobody would pay attention just as they do now when it goes off.

The beginning of September also signals the “rentrée” or the return from vacation. It’s not to be confused with another word for return, which is “retour” because this is much bigger. It’s a mass exodus in reverse as Parisians swarm back into the city. Lights in apartments that have been dark all summer come back to life. The streets are no longer sleepy and tranquil, but bustling with activity, as cars are unpacked and homes are filled again.

It’s fascinating to me how a culture can all but shut down for an entire month. Fascinating and somewhat annoying for those of us who haven’t shuttered up our lives. It reminds me of that time in the afternoon in New York when all the cabbies go off duty. Can’t they stagger it? Do all three butchers within close walking distance have to close down at the same time?

For the next few weeks, everyone will ask how your “vacances” or vacation was. It’s sort of the equivalent of the first few weeks in January when everyone keeps wishing you a happy new year. If you haven’t taken a vacation, it’s best to just lie and say you had a great time, lest not be judged.

Last year, I actually liked the solitude of Paris in August. There’s no traffic, restaurants are easy to get into, parking places easy to find. This year however, I found it more desolate and inconvenient. But I suppose that’s because now I’m getting used to the pattern of life here and being in Paris in August isn’t the natural order of things. I suppose in some way, I did actually follow the pattern myself as I didn’t write anything in August. But I’m back along with the rest and can assure more to come…

Jul 29, 2010

Moisissure

n. – mould
Faux plafond
n. – dropped ceiling
The day following a torrential rainstorm earlier this month, we awoke to a loud crash. I knew what it was right away without even looking – the ceiling in the kitchen had collapsed. Well, in order not to over exaggerate, it wasn’t the entire ceiling, but rather one of the “plaques” or panels that separates it from the roof allowing for the spot lighting that we have.

Nevertheless, it was a mess with water and plaster everywhere. We had warned the owner that we had seen some cracks and the day before I could hear dripping even though I couldn’t see any water. So when my husband called to tell her the latest news, it couldn’t have come as a surprise. He pointed out that it was a good thing neither one of us were standing in the kitchen at the time to which she actually had the nerve to respond that the panels aren’t that heavy. Trust me, we picked up the pieces (literally) and I wouldn’t want something not that heavy falling on my head!

This was two weeks ago and given that it’s July and everyone in Paris is on vacation, not only has it not been repaired, but nobody has even come to assess the damage. I had a mini fit about the mould that had gathered on what was now our ceiling, but after cleaning that off with a sponge in rubber gloves and protective face mask, I’ve become resigned to the fact that this could take not days, but maybe weeks or even months to rectify.

You see that’s the beauty of July and August in France. It’s as if the months don’t even exist because life in its normal pace simply doesn’t. Several years ago when they had the “canicule” or heatwave that left many elderly dead, it was primarily the result of the “vacances.” People were away and not checking on their older relatives and that coupled with nursing staff also reduced because of vacation, led to a tragedy that rocked the country.

A little air conditioning might come in handy, but people say the same thing every summer when it gets hot – “c’est exceptional,” it’s exceptional. But it isn’t if it happens every summer! It’s that stubbornness that is a characteristic of the French. And while it helps secure so many of the wonderful traditions that mark the French lifestyle, it can also be a bit of a hindrance as the world changes.

So while they may not always be that adaptable, I have become more so. That combined with patience and a healthy sense of humour is what gets me through the frustrating moments. And somehow, things work out – after all it can’t stay summer all year long and eventually people have to come back. Until then, I remain zen and just hope that it doesn’t rain hard again any time soon.

Voler

v. - to steal or to fly
I guess this makes sense since things fly off when they’re stolen.

Filleul

n. – godson
Last year for the first time I was asked to be a godmother. I was deeply honoured. We were in New York for a visit when my friend told me the news of her pregnancy. I was so thrilled for her and her husband, a fellow Franco-American couple like us. We went out to dinner that night with my husband and hers who asked me if I thought I would be a good mother. I replied that I thought I would be a good mother even though I wasn’t sure if I would ever be a mother. I thought it was a strange question since his wife was the one who was pregnant, not me. He kept repeating the question until finally I understood through his slightly accented English that he was asking me if I would be the godmother!

I couldn’t wait to tell people. As soon as we got back to Paris I proudly told our friends that I was going to be a “marraine” or godmother. People were very excited for me. I was convinced that the baby was going to be a girl. I reminisced about my own godmother, a fascinating woman who was one of a few colonels in the army at the time and this was a while back. She was widowed twice and never had any children of her own. She had the discipline of someone in the army. When the Surgeon General issued the first warning about cigarette smoking, she quit a three pack a day habit cold turkey. She held herself ramrod straight, but at the same time was feminine, elegant and gracious. I adored her.

So I felt that she would be my role model to be the perfect godmother. She was the first person to take me to Disneyland and I would have sleep-overs at her house where we would talk about grown up things. It was a wonderful relationship, nurturing and non-judgmental. And this is the relationship I wanted with my goddaughter.

The results from the first sonogram were in. I was having a godson! So a few mental adjustments were made – I was no less thrilled, but it would just mean that I wouldn’t be giving him the little gold baby bracelet of mine that I had kept for all these years.

I did quite a bit of research into godparenting. From what I could find, godmother and godson are both one word and are not capitalized. Traditionally the godmother is supposed to ensure the spiritual education of the baby where the godfather or “parrain” is to ensure the financial security in case anything should happen to the parents. The mother’s brother is the godfather.

I followed the pregnancy closely with frequent emails from my friend as well as online research of what to expect at the different stages. When the baby was finally born, they called me and I cried. Into the world arrived seven plus pounds of pure perfection named Preston. And his godmother couldn’t have been prouder.

My first sight of him apart from photos was via Skype. I felt so close, but at the same time so far. I couldn’t wait for our trip to New York for the “Baptême” or Baptism. I did more research on that to understand if there was a difference between that and Christening, but the only nuance is that they used to use the word Christening since it was where the child was given his or her Christian name. It’s interesting because when my friend was telling my about names they had chosen, the girl’s name would have been the same as my maternal and my husband’s paternal grandmother. Instead, my godson’s first name is actually the maiden name of my friend, which I think is lovely and his middle name is coincidentally the same as my maternal grandfather, who sadly I never knew, and my beloved uncle who just recently passed on. So I felt a connection with all of that as well.

The ceremony was wonderful, the baby slept peacefully and we bonded during our all too brief visit. I held this precious two-month bundle of love and happiness until we finally had to make our way back to Paris.

Lucky me because two months later, I was back on a plane this time to act as nanny fill-in for three days. It was a delight to spend so much quality time with my little godson, enjoying the rhythm of an infant’s life – sleep, eat, change, play or maybe sleep, play, change, eat. I would watch his little face in repose, sleeping so soundly and then watch it come to life and his studious observation of me and his surroundings. And then there would be a smile, bright and wide and really very few tears. We got along swimmingly and I enjoyed every second.

It’s true that it’s work, no doubt about that. I guess I looked more tired than I thought at the end of it because when we went to the doctor for his four-month check-up, the doctor asked if I was the grandmother. Yikes! I’m 16 years older than my friend so I suppose theoretically, I could be, but still. I felt the doctor could have erred on the side of caution and asked if I was the aunt or even just a friend or maybe just asked who I was. I’m sure she was mortified – as she should be! I sympathized with little Preston after she gave him his shots. As the poor little guy cried briefly from the pain, I agreed with him that she was a mean doctor.

The next time I see my godson, he will be almost seven months old. I know the time will go quickly, but I can’t wait yet again to see how he’s changed and enjoy spending time with him. It’s true that children are gifts so by sharing their son with me by giving me the role of godmother, my friends have given me the greatest gift of all. For that I will always be touched and grateful.

Jul 8, 2010

Blague

n. – joke
Rigoler
v. – to joke
Our local butcher is a very jolly fellow – almost a young Kris Kringle type without the beard and with less of a girth. He’s always making jokes – asking how many hundred of pounds of this or that I want. At first, I had trouble getting them because his method is very tongue in cheek, but now I’ve caught on. So today when I went in to ask for some veal, he asked me how many dozens of cuts I wanted. I thought I was very clever by responding, “une sixieme d’une douzaine” or a sixth of a dozen so in other words, two. I guess he didn’t get my humor either though since he started cutting six pieces.

Back when we first arrived in Paris and were living on the Ile St. Louis, there was a very hot butcher as he was known on the island. I wrote about him in an earlier posting, but what I should have done was take a picture of him! On the other hand, thanks to my mother who was here at Christmas, I have a picture of our current butcher, not hot, but very pleasant.

My hairdresser is quite handsome and the grocer is a bit of a player, but everyone these days is hot – whether attractive or not. The main topic of conversation lately is the “chaleur” or heat. The French are living in fear of another “canicule” or heat wave. A little “clime” or air conditioning would go a long way, but I doubt I will see that in my lifetime if ever. We make due with a giant “ventilateur” or fan and it suffices.

It’s surprising that especially the French women don’t put up more of a fuss. I say this because recently I was having a conversation with an Italian woman about working out, more specifically, power yoga and how it’s not that common here where as a more gentle practise is preferred. She explained that French women don’t like to sweat.

We’re all creatures of habit, which is why it can be challenging to move to a different way of life. I remember discussing the showerhead dilemma with a former French intern of mine who had lived in New York for six months. Where I can’t understand why they can’t be attached, she couldn’t understand how you could take a shower without being able to remove it from the wall. Personally I prefer having both my hands free in the shower, especially when washing my hair, but to each his own.

Here the windows don’t have screens, another topic I’m sure I’ve broached. It’s lovely for the view, but not helpful in dissuading bugs from coming in. Last year, I was eaten alive by mosquitoes and just the other day I was attacked by a giant moth. I never had these issues in New York, but wouldn’t you know that the tenant renting my apartment there now, who happens to be French, asked me if she could actually remove the screens.

So it all comes down to what you’re used to and the beauty of adaptability is that you get used to more and more things. That’s why change should be looked as an opportunity - to learn how to live with or without different things and to grow as a result.

Jul 7, 2010

Lentement

adj. – slowly
I think I’ve made this observation before, but Paris is not a place where you want to be in a hurry. As I walk along at my somewhat fast pace, I’m often forced to slow down for a number of reasons. First of all there are a lot of stoplights in Paris and while you don’t risk a ticket if you cross against them, with the circular streets, it’s not often a safe idea. Cars can come out of nowhere from a direction you didn’t even realize was crossing your path so I tend to play it safe and wait until the little man has gone green in the crossing sign. Unlike in other places where there is a flashing between the green and red options, here he goes from green directly to red giving you little idea of how much time you really have left and again forcing you to err on the side of caution and wait rather than crossing at your peril.

The sidewalks are often small, in some case with barely enough room for people to walk abreast. If people do choose to walk this way though, it leaves absolutely no room for the oncoming people yet there is a stubbornness about the Parisians where they refuse to budge forcing you, the oncomer, into the street. The sidewalks are also uneven and often made of cobblestones, another impetus to fleeting feet.

Running an errand is an oxymoron here. It’s really more like walking an errand or even waiting an errand. There’s no rush anywhere ever. Lunches or dinners can take hours. I would say a dinner is a commitment of three hours minimum. First there’s the half hour factor for running late. Then by the time it takes to order, you should be able to have committed the menu to memory. Dessert, followed by coffee will easily add another half an hour and asking for and then paying the check could take another half an hour on top of that.

Today I was in a Subway sandwich shop - please don't judge me. Let’s just say it’s not run with the same lightening speed efficiency I’m used to in New York. It can hardly be called fast food here because it’s anything but. I supposed it serves me right though to eat that kind of fare in one of the culinary capitals of the world.

I sometimes marvel at how quickly the days go by here, but I realize it’s simply because everything takes so long and before you know it, the day is over and your list isn’t. Well there’s always tomorrow to surely, but slowly, start it all over again.

May 13, 2010

Mille-pattes

n. – centipede
Chenille
n. - caterpillar or soft thick fabric
Chenil
n. – dog pound
The French have a flair for the dramatic, which can be demonstrated in their language. Take centipede as an example, centipede literally meaning 100 feet, in French translates to a thousand feet. I’m not sure exactly how many feet centipedes actually have, though because 100 already seems like a lot.

I discovered this because I happened across an article on a film titled The Human Centipede. I will leave it to you to discover what it’s all about at your own risk. In an email exchange with friends in Milan, fellow transplanted New Yorkers like us, I told them about it and suggested they google it to find out more. One did and emailed the other with me in copy saying WHATEVER YOU DO, DON’T GOOGLE THE HUMAN CENTIPEDE!!!! It made me LOL as the kids say. In French that would be MDR for mort de rire or dying of laughter.

Well, I’m sure by now I’ve piqued your interest. My husband and I both indulge in the guilty pleasure of watching horror movies. I discovered in the review of the above mentioned film that what sets it apart from other “horror porn” films as they’re called such as Saw, Hostel, etc. is that more is left to the imagination thereby making it even scarier.

I can’t actually watch films like Chuckie or Halloween because of the sneak-up-on-you scare factor. I had to watch The Ring from the walk-in closet and when I was young I remember leaving the theatre in tears during Dawn of the Dead, which gave me nightmares for months afterwards. The Others and The Orphanage actually freaked me out pretty well, too. I’ve seen one French horror film with Cecile de France, a popular pretty French actress who plays a violent sexual serial killer. It was disturbing.

So I don’t know if I will allow myself to watch The Human Centipede. The premise alone is already shocking enough. And like a car wreck, I wished after the fact that I hadn’t looked at the trailer. The human imagination never ceases to amaze me – just when you think you’ve seen or heard it all, someone comes up with something unthinkable. And just to prove that point, there is already a sequel in the making.

May 9, 2010

Jogging

n. – jogging
Here jogging is a noun and it is made. “Faire un jogging” is the equivalent of going jogging. We live just near the lovely park, Champ-de-Mars where the Eiffel Tower is located. It’s great to go in the summer for picnics and it’s a runner’s haven.

I bought running shoes over a year ago, but today was the first time I put them on for my first run. I don’t have running clothes, but I have a large collection of yoga wear, so I put on a pair of my fancy yoga pants and I was good to go.

My husband and I decided to start slowly, taking one lap around the park, which is roughly 2 kilometres or 1.35 miles. I lasted about 3 minutes I think before I decided to walk. Running is hard. Walking is a lot easier, even fast walking, which while it looks ridiculous, is just as good for you – better even when you think about the pressure running puts on your knees and other joints.

I tried to keep up with my husband by resuming a light jog and then would revert back to walking. In any event, we succeeded in our mission and circled the park once. It took 15 minutes and we were tired. After standing in line to get our sandwiches at the baker, we proceeded to our favorite “primeur” or grocer to pick up a melon. Add to that a box of radishes and a few clementines and the bill came to 20 euros. Embarrassingly we didn’t have enough, but it’s just below our apartment so we ran up to get more money. The melon came to over 12 euros alone! I saw other melons outside that were half the price so we asked the grocer what was the difference. The one we bought was, of course, “top” as he called it.

I bloody well hope so for 12 euros! Seeing my scepticism, he said, “Je ne vous raconte pas de salads,” which is an expression that means, I wouldn’t lie to you, but funny that a grocer would use it since literally translated it means, I wouldn’t tell you salads. Well, the melon was good and after making all that jogging, we earned it.

Apr 28, 2010

Étiquette

n. – étiquette, manners
I made a major faux pas today, which literally translated means false step. I decided to throw caution to the wind on this bright and sunny day and go to my yoga class in my yoga clothes. Mind you, the outfit was subdued. It wasn’t the ultra yogi look with flared pants decorated with dragons or lotus flowers, but rather a pair of simple lightweight black workout pants and a black t-shirt.

“Quand même” or even so, I was convinced at any moment I would be pulled over by the French fashion police as I was in clear violation of the French fashion code. One simply does not wear their workout outfits to and from home and workout place. That’s what “vestiaires” or changing rooms are for.

The problem with the vestiaires, like many Parisian spaces, is that they’re often small. Given that the classes are crowded, I just wasn’t in the mood to cram myself in and try to avoid elbowing anyone while changing clothes. Plus it shaves off time from my commute, instead allowing me to leisurely enjoy the metro musicians and beggars of which today I was treated to two different ones in only five stops.

There must be something about the nice weather that tempts people, just like me, to want to break the rules. Across from me on my short ride, was a woman who was eating a sandwich. Somehow, the metro is the last place I feel like ingesting food, but I suppose she also was trying to maximize her time. Once finished, she decided to turn over the plastic bag and deposit all of the crumbs – some quite large – on the floor of the train. Really - I thought to myself – are those crumbs weighing you down so much that you can’t wait until you’re off the train and pass by one of the many trashcans in the station?

On the walk from the station to my apartment, I watched another woman simply discard a piece of trash on the street when there was a trashcan only yards from where she was standing. Littering is a problem the world over, but I do find it particularly odd in such a beautiful city where people pride themselves on beautiful things that they just throw the trash in the street.

Dog poop is a problem here, as well. You can get a fine for not picking up after yours, but I’ve never seen anyone get caught. Don’t dog owners have an equal disdain for stepping in poop? And gum chewers who throw their gum on the sidewalk – how do they know that one day they won’t be the ones to step in it?

Well, nobody’s dead, as my mother-in-law likes to say to keep small infractions in perspective. But it would be a nicer place if people would pick up after themselves and I suppose an even more beautiful place if everyone dressed well. So I will do my part the next time I go to class to put on some real clothes with the hopes that the litterers and dog walkers and gum chewers will follow suit in their own way.

Apr 22, 2010

Barbe à papa

n. – cotton candy
Just as I wrote recently that I thought the French word for sour cream, “crème fraiche” was so much more appetizing than our version, I feel the exact opposite about cotton candy. Literally translated in French it means papa’s beard. It’s also grammatically incorrect as it should be “barbe de papa”. I suppose it’s a “clin d’oeil” or wink to the fact that it’s something named by a child. But even as a child I don’t know if I would have found eating my father’s beard, even if he had one, appetizing.

“Clin d’oeil” makes me think of “trompe l’oeil,” which we use in English to mean optical illusion and literally translated means just that – a trick of the eye. It’s funny how sometimes you don’t really think of the translation of a word or expression when you use it in its natural form. Other examples are “déjà vu,” which literally means, already seen, “hors d’oeuvres” which means outside of the work or more simply, the snacks you eat outside of the meal and “RSVP” or “respondez s’il vous plait,” which means please respond or literally, respond if you please.

The plural of “oeil” or eye is “yeux” and the plural of “oeuf” or egg is “oeufs.” A single eye sounds almost like “oy” where the plural sounds more like “yueh.” While the “f” is pronounced in the single version of an egg sort of like “uff,” the “f” disappears in the plural form sounding more like “uh.” I have a hard time pronouncing and spelling these along with the word for sister, “soeur” or heart, “coeur.” There are just one too many vowels stuck together for my liking.

You may have noticed that I’ve become lazy with some of my accents. The one over the “a,” accent “grave,” doesn’t always come up automatically in spell check even if I have the document checked for French. I don’t know how to do it automatically and I’ve gotten tired of trying to find an older one and copying and pasting. There is actually an accent grave in the word grave since it denotes an “ah” sound vs. an “ay” sound. So I’ve gone on an accent grave strike, which actually strikes me funny (no pun intended there) since the word for strike is “greve,” which also has an accent grave over the “e” since it’s an “eh” sound vs. an “ee” sound.

You’re never alone really when striking in France. For the last two days, the newspaper distributors have been on strike forcing our lovely little local newsstand vendor to close up shop early and head home, losing revenue. There’s a gargantuan volcano disrupting worldwide air travel to, from and within Europe and what do a portion of the French railway workers do when travelling by rail has now been one of the only alternatives for travel? Go on strike, “bien sur!” I can’t help but get a little frustrated with strikers especially with so much unemployment. Even the people who work for the unemployment office went on strike recently.

At least my accent grave strike is hurting no one except perhaps a sensitive French person who reads my blog and is offended by the accent sloppiness. There are many more accents I could avoid if I wanted to. There is accent “aigu,” which usually goes over an “e” to make is sound more like an “ay.” There are accent “circumflexes,” which are the little hats that go over some “o’s,” “trénas,” two little dots that go over some “i’s” similar to “umlauts” and “cédilles,” little squiggly lines under some “c’s” to denote a softer “c” vs. a hard one. This word actually comes from Spanish meaning little c.

If my keyboard were French and thank god it isn’t, the accents are built in, albeit with a great deal of shifting and control alt maneuvers. The French keyboard is azerty vs. ours, which is qwerty so even if it’s just those few letters out of place, it wreaks havoc. I can’t tell you how many emails I’ve written from my in-laws “Hqving q greqt time – zish you zere here!”

As far as describing my French skills, I like to say I have “bonnes notions,” good notions or, “bonne connaissance,” a good understanding. I don’t like to use the word “courant,” fluent or “bilinge,” bi-lingual, but rather that I “debrouille bien,” or get by just fine. This way I don’t oversell myself and people will be more impressed than disappointed. I do like to speak well, however and so try to continue learning the rules of the language, which are endless.

There are some things that even the French can’t explain. For example, what is the difference between “parce que” and “car,” both meaning because, other than one is much longer than the other? Similarly, why are there two expressions for “on the other hand” when only one is supposed to be used or is considered proper? A friend of mine once practically threatened me never to use “par contre,” but always “en revanche.” Now I get nervous if I hear a French person using the former as if something awful will happen to them. I mean why does “par contre” even exist to begin with if it’s wrong?

Every day brings something new to learn and yet leaves some things continually a mystery. And I suppose that’s part of the fun of it all, n’est ce pas?

Apr 20, 2010

Texto

n. - text (message)
We continue to develop more and more sophisticated ways of communicating only so that we can actually communicate less. I am not a cell phone person. I always forget to turn it on, it scares me when it rings and annoys me if I’m somewhere other than home. I don’t like talking on it when I’m walking around and I absolutely loathe texting.

I minded the latter less when I had a blackberry since it was easier to type on the keyboard. The phone I have now, albeit the pinnacle of coolness, is hard for me to type on. It autocorrects to the point where if I’m not paying attention the message I type comes out as something completely different.

The other day, my husband and I were meeting a friend for lunch and we had the addresses mixed up on top of the fact that we changed to another restaurant across the street at the last minute. So there we were were texting back and forth, waiting and worrying and wondering until finally I picked up the phone and dialed my friend's number. That was so much easier. That way I could explain exactly where we were and how to get there.

Texting is a part of life worldwide, but I do believe the Europeans caught on to it first. I remember when another dear friend was going through a painful break-up while living in London and kept explaining the texts that she and her then boyfriend were sending to each other leaving room for confusion and miscommunication. I asked her one day, why don’t you just call him and talk to which she explained that everyone texted there.

I think texting, while at times I suppose is more convenient than a phone call, can also make a recipe for disaster. The other day, my brother-in-law texted me while I was out walking. Immediately flustered by the out of the blue message, I felt the need to respond right away. So while crossing the road and trying not to get hit by a car, I read the message quickly and responded.

As such, I misunderstood his message and my response set off a chain of events that now have to be undone. Basically he was asking if my husband had a certain video game (for our Wii), “est ce qu’il a le jeux…” Because I read it in a panic, I understood, “est ce qu’il jeux…” or is he playing the video game. So trying to be not just prompt, but witty to boot, I wrote back “Pas a ce moment ;)” – yes with the wink as well, meaning he’s not playing at the moment because he wasn’t since he was at work. Well, I finally realized after asking my husband why his brother would send me such a weird text message in the middle of the day that he was writing because he wanted to know what to get my husband for his birthday. I would like to add that to my husband’s birthday was three weeks ago already, so had the message been more timely, maybe I could have figured that out.

I texted back again in the evening to clarify things, since my husband actually has the game in question. Then my brother in law called, but since it was all supposed to be a secret, I couldn’t talk to him not to mention we were in the middle of dinner. I said we could talk later and hung up. But then he texted me again – in this case, texting is just as disruptive as talking. It turns out that he had understood my reply, rightfully so, to mean my husband didn’t have the game and had already ordered it. A simple call in the first place could have avoided this whole mess, saved time and avoided the mini fit against technology that I had as a result so another lesson learned – pick up the phone rather than just peck at it.

A coupé

Adj. – sliced
The neighborhood where we live in the 7th is filled with commerce. On our block alone there are two bouchers (butchers), two boulangeries (bakers), two hair salons and even two pharmacies not to mention a dry cleaner, supermarché, wine shop, tea shop, floriste, several boutiques and jewelry shops and eight restaurants. So you could say we are spoiled for choice.

As such, we can afford to be choosy so we have our favourites. The butcher directly across the street we may have gone to first for that very reason, but he is a delightful man sort of like a slimmer version of Santa without the beard. We buy lovely roasted chickens from him as well as gigots d’agneau (legs of lamb), which he’ll even prepare for us so all we have to do is heat them up. One time I was looking for merguez sausages, which he didn’t have and I actually felt guilty going to the other butcher down the street.

There is a baker directly across the street as well, large enough to eat in with beautiful ceilings. However, the women who run it are almost mean and as such, we will make our way further down the block to the one run by a super friendly woman who greets us with a kiss if she hasn’t seen us for a while. She is closed on Mondays so I was forced recently to go to the meanies. I was excited because I had the exact change for the bread I wanted, a triangle pavot (poppyseed loaf). The grumpy face behind the counter asked if I wanted it sliced, which I did and once finished she asked for 10 cents more than I expected. I was confused and looked again at the price to which she responded by rolling her eyes and pointing to a little sign that said “a coupé – 0.10.” Seriously, 10 cents for slicing? I never noticed at the nice baker, but perhaps that’s because I’m distracted by her kindness or perhaps it’s because she doesn’t charge extra although my husband told me it’s common.

My husband’s boss has a favourite expression, “You live, you learn.” And clearly with each passing day of my life in Paris, I do just that.