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.
Jun 25, 2009
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.
May 17, 2009
Haricots verts
n. – green string beans
Haricots blancs
n. – white beans
Haricots beurre
n. – yellow string beans or butter beans
There is nothing like fresh produce and in Paris it is abundant. We are lucky enough to live right next door to a little green grocer called Harry Cover (if you think of pronouncing it with a heavy French accent, it sounds like “haricots verts” or string beans – clever).
Harry (well if that’s really his name) can often be seen standing outside meticulously arranging the various fruits and vegetables. Giant white asparagus stand up in their little basket along side fresh white peaches – their fragrance reminding you of the summer that’s just around the corner. Large plump, red cherries rest beside equally plump and colourful tomatoes and the aroma of fresh basil is hard to resist. A simple meal of mozzarella, tomato and basil, whether served on a plate with fresh olive oil, salt and pepper drizzled over it or sandwiched within a fresh still warm baguette, is probably our favourite weekend at-home lunch.
While you can’t find fresh mozzarella at Harry Cover’s, he has all sorts of other cheeses from soft bries to hard goats to spicy roqueforts, the latter we sometimes pair with crisp endives, tart granny smith apples or delicious juicy pears. Another great pairing of salty and sweet is marrying a nice ripe goat cheese with fig preserves. Other fruit favourites are kiwis and clementines.
When visiting the grocers, it’s their responsibility to pick out the choicest fruit or vegetable or cheese. They will ask what you plan on doing with it, when you want to eat it, etc. so they can determine the best possible selection. There’s always the option of something ripe and ready to eat so you can make guacamole on the spur of the moment rather than having to keep the avocado in a paper bag in the drawer until it’s ready. It’s easy to get carried away at Harry Cover’s, which is unfortunate if we’ve picked more ripe fruit than we have time to eat. So we just have to remind ourselves that he’s just downstairs and with each day, a new delivery of freshness is there for the asking.
Haricots blancs
n. – white beans
Haricots beurre
n. – yellow string beans or butter beans
There is nothing like fresh produce and in Paris it is abundant. We are lucky enough to live right next door to a little green grocer called Harry Cover (if you think of pronouncing it with a heavy French accent, it sounds like “haricots verts” or string beans – clever).
Harry (well if that’s really his name) can often be seen standing outside meticulously arranging the various fruits and vegetables. Giant white asparagus stand up in their little basket along side fresh white peaches – their fragrance reminding you of the summer that’s just around the corner. Large plump, red cherries rest beside equally plump and colourful tomatoes and the aroma of fresh basil is hard to resist. A simple meal of mozzarella, tomato and basil, whether served on a plate with fresh olive oil, salt and pepper drizzled over it or sandwiched within a fresh still warm baguette, is probably our favourite weekend at-home lunch.
While you can’t find fresh mozzarella at Harry Cover’s, he has all sorts of other cheeses from soft bries to hard goats to spicy roqueforts, the latter we sometimes pair with crisp endives, tart granny smith apples or delicious juicy pears. Another great pairing of salty and sweet is marrying a nice ripe goat cheese with fig preserves. Other fruit favourites are kiwis and clementines.
When visiting the grocers, it’s their responsibility to pick out the choicest fruit or vegetable or cheese. They will ask what you plan on doing with it, when you want to eat it, etc. so they can determine the best possible selection. There’s always the option of something ripe and ready to eat so you can make guacamole on the spur of the moment rather than having to keep the avocado in a paper bag in the drawer until it’s ready. It’s easy to get carried away at Harry Cover’s, which is unfortunate if we’ve picked more ripe fruit than we have time to eat. So we just have to remind ourselves that he’s just downstairs and with each day, a new delivery of freshness is there for the asking.
Pick-pocket
n. the same
I have a lovely new friend that I met since moving to Paris. She’s a fellow American here to study French. She and I have bonded over the many cultural differences and challenges of adjusting to Parisian life. And we both have now found ourselves enraptured with the city. At first we joked about how I envied her since she was only here for six months and would be free to return back home. Now we’re both sad that she’s leaving and wish we could find a way to keep her here longer.
She’s been under the weather recently and only just yesterday emerged from her bed to resume her French classes and life in the city. While getting off the metro, she felt someone bump into her and something about it just didn’t feel right. Sure enough when she reached into her purse, her phone was gone.
Paris, like many European cities, is more prone to pick-pocketing and petty crime than mugging and more serious acts of violence. Still, it’s not nice when someone takes your things and this is exactly how my friend felt when she realized her phone had been pinched. She saw the two young perpetrators and proceeded to follow them. She was less fearful than exasperated and when confronting them there must have been something in her eyes, since there were no words spoken that let them know she meant business. Taking her phone was simply not an option. Without any objection, they handed it back to her, including the little worthless charm that was hanging from the holder and walked away.
She regaled us with this story over lunch at a Japanese restaurant. Many of these restaurants are actually run by Chinese since Chinese food is harder to sell here. This one was ok, but I suspect not as authentic as it could have been. For dessert, there was a strange looking apricot shaped fruit the waiter identified as a nef. Upon further googling though, I discovered that it was actually a loquat and a fruit of Southeastern China, but Japan is also a leading producer. The skin, which was shiny, was easy to peel off and the seed looked similar to that of a lychee. The fruit was tart and sweet at the same time and the consistency was something between an apple and a peach. I kept eating it and observed out loud that it was a strange sensation – not liking it at first, but then feeling like it grew on me. My husband then added – sort of like Paris and my friend and I couldn’t have agreed more.
I have a lovely new friend that I met since moving to Paris. She’s a fellow American here to study French. She and I have bonded over the many cultural differences and challenges of adjusting to Parisian life. And we both have now found ourselves enraptured with the city. At first we joked about how I envied her since she was only here for six months and would be free to return back home. Now we’re both sad that she’s leaving and wish we could find a way to keep her here longer.
She’s been under the weather recently and only just yesterday emerged from her bed to resume her French classes and life in the city. While getting off the metro, she felt someone bump into her and something about it just didn’t feel right. Sure enough when she reached into her purse, her phone was gone.
Paris, like many European cities, is more prone to pick-pocketing and petty crime than mugging and more serious acts of violence. Still, it’s not nice when someone takes your things and this is exactly how my friend felt when she realized her phone had been pinched. She saw the two young perpetrators and proceeded to follow them. She was less fearful than exasperated and when confronting them there must have been something in her eyes, since there were no words spoken that let them know she meant business. Taking her phone was simply not an option. Without any objection, they handed it back to her, including the little worthless charm that was hanging from the holder and walked away.
She regaled us with this story over lunch at a Japanese restaurant. Many of these restaurants are actually run by Chinese since Chinese food is harder to sell here. This one was ok, but I suspect not as authentic as it could have been. For dessert, there was a strange looking apricot shaped fruit the waiter identified as a nef. Upon further googling though, I discovered that it was actually a loquat and a fruit of Southeastern China, but Japan is also a leading producer. The skin, which was shiny, was easy to peel off and the seed looked similar to that of a lychee. The fruit was tart and sweet at the same time and the consistency was something between an apple and a peach. I kept eating it and observed out loud that it was a strange sensation – not liking it at first, but then feeling like it grew on me. My husband then added – sort of like Paris and my friend and I couldn’t have agreed more.
May 14, 2009
Foot
n. – soccer
arbitre
n. – referee
Marchand de journaux
n. – newsstand vendor
My husband enjoys watching soccer and I have to admit, I’ve started enjoying watching the occasional game as well. Soccer is faster and leaner than American football. There’s not all that heavy body armor and while the object is to take the ball away from your opponent, it doesn’t require a pile of men jumping on top of each other to do so. Rugby, while looking a lot rougher than soccer, is actually known more as the gentleman’s sport. Each, like any sport, inspires impassioned fans and the passion is easier to maintain since there are no breaks for commercial interruptions. The games begin, are played for 90 minutes and then end (save the occasional overtime or injury penalties).
Watching soccer, like watching football, requires a lot of yelling at the television, the players, and the referees. My husband yells when something bad or good happens – sometimes I’m not sure which has occurred, but if there’s swearing involved it’s most often something bad. Watching sports is stressful which is why I prefer not to pick a favourite team. This way I won’t be disappointed when one team loses. Tennis makes me nervous as does figure skating, but gymnastics is probably the hardest because it’s so dangerous. I don’t usually have to worry about the latter two though unless it’s the Olympics. When we watched the last Soccer World Cup in New York, it was downright depressing. So I try not to get too attached.
The match we watched last week was a nail biter between Barcelona and Chelsea. Barcelona won with some controversy surrounding the referee. Chelsea players were swearing and pointing fingers and frankly it was all a little frightening. The next morning when I stopped by the newsstand to pick up my weekly Paris Match, I picked up a copy of L’Equipe, the daily sports paper, for my husband. The vendor assumed they were both for me and so began to engage me in a dialogue about the game, how Chelsea was robbed and that the calls by the ref were bad. I didn’t know the word for referee so I wasn’t really sure what he was talking about, but decided to sound intelligent by adding my own opinion about the referee which was in fact exactly what he had been saying!
That happens a lot with my father-in-law, too. Some people I just have a harder time understanding than others and I can usually pass it off by smiling and nodding until the conversation stops and I realize some sort of response from me is required. My father-in-law (who is “gentil comme tout” or as sweet as anything) loves “jeux de mots” or plays-on-words so it’s not always easy to keep up with him. It can also be tricky in French since there are many “faux amis” or false friends.
To choose a few, “isolation” actually means insulation where “isolement” means isolation. “Sensible” means sensitve (there doesn’t seem to be a word for sensible unless you want to use “pratique”, which does in fact also mean practical). “Traiteur” doesn’t mean someone who betrays you, but rather someone who caters food, sort of like a deli. “Figure” means face where “silhouette” means figure and “ligne” means nice figure as in the expression “je dois garder ma ligne” meaning I have to watch what I eat. “Corps” means body, but a live one even though it rhymes with “mort” which means dead.
There are many English words that the French don’t translate like weekend, chewing gum and fun as a few examples. But what I particularly enjoy is how they keep the English word, but pronounce it as if it were French. My friend Marie couldn’t understand why I didn’t know the famous actor she was talking about until I figured out that Reeshard Zhere was in fact Richard Gere. Last night it took me some time to figure out that Owoelle was actually AOL – I think the Tyme Warnere after it gave it away.
So my French continues to improve and my appreciation for sports continues to increase, but we’re taking a break from soccer this week to watch the festivities at the Cannes Film Festival. Who knows maybe we’ll spot some big stars like Zhouliah Roberes.
arbitre
n. – referee
Marchand de journaux
n. – newsstand vendor
My husband enjoys watching soccer and I have to admit, I’ve started enjoying watching the occasional game as well. Soccer is faster and leaner than American football. There’s not all that heavy body armor and while the object is to take the ball away from your opponent, it doesn’t require a pile of men jumping on top of each other to do so. Rugby, while looking a lot rougher than soccer, is actually known more as the gentleman’s sport. Each, like any sport, inspires impassioned fans and the passion is easier to maintain since there are no breaks for commercial interruptions. The games begin, are played for 90 minutes and then end (save the occasional overtime or injury penalties).
Watching soccer, like watching football, requires a lot of yelling at the television, the players, and the referees. My husband yells when something bad or good happens – sometimes I’m not sure which has occurred, but if there’s swearing involved it’s most often something bad. Watching sports is stressful which is why I prefer not to pick a favourite team. This way I won’t be disappointed when one team loses. Tennis makes me nervous as does figure skating, but gymnastics is probably the hardest because it’s so dangerous. I don’t usually have to worry about the latter two though unless it’s the Olympics. When we watched the last Soccer World Cup in New York, it was downright depressing. So I try not to get too attached.
The match we watched last week was a nail biter between Barcelona and Chelsea. Barcelona won with some controversy surrounding the referee. Chelsea players were swearing and pointing fingers and frankly it was all a little frightening. The next morning when I stopped by the newsstand to pick up my weekly Paris Match, I picked up a copy of L’Equipe, the daily sports paper, for my husband. The vendor assumed they were both for me and so began to engage me in a dialogue about the game, how Chelsea was robbed and that the calls by the ref were bad. I didn’t know the word for referee so I wasn’t really sure what he was talking about, but decided to sound intelligent by adding my own opinion about the referee which was in fact exactly what he had been saying!
That happens a lot with my father-in-law, too. Some people I just have a harder time understanding than others and I can usually pass it off by smiling and nodding until the conversation stops and I realize some sort of response from me is required. My father-in-law (who is “gentil comme tout” or as sweet as anything) loves “jeux de mots” or plays-on-words so it’s not always easy to keep up with him. It can also be tricky in French since there are many “faux amis” or false friends.
To choose a few, “isolation” actually means insulation where “isolement” means isolation. “Sensible” means sensitve (there doesn’t seem to be a word for sensible unless you want to use “pratique”, which does in fact also mean practical). “Traiteur” doesn’t mean someone who betrays you, but rather someone who caters food, sort of like a deli. “Figure” means face where “silhouette” means figure and “ligne” means nice figure as in the expression “je dois garder ma ligne” meaning I have to watch what I eat. “Corps” means body, but a live one even though it rhymes with “mort” which means dead.
There are many English words that the French don’t translate like weekend, chewing gum and fun as a few examples. But what I particularly enjoy is how they keep the English word, but pronounce it as if it were French. My friend Marie couldn’t understand why I didn’t know the famous actor she was talking about until I figured out that Reeshard Zhere was in fact Richard Gere. Last night it took me some time to figure out that Owoelle was actually AOL – I think the Tyme Warnere after it gave it away.
So my French continues to improve and my appreciation for sports continues to increase, but we’re taking a break from soccer this week to watch the festivities at the Cannes Film Festival. Who knows maybe we’ll spot some big stars like Zhouliah Roberes.
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