Yesterday Roomie's parents came to town. I was at the apartment waiting to let them in because Roomie had to work and they didn't have a key. Roomie had given me a list of things that her parents were not to know about (i.e. she doesn't smoke, she eats very healthy, and her sister was not in Paris last week). I was feeling a little sick and wondering if I was going to have to talk and remember to lie to them for two hours in French. I had met Roomie's dad when I first got to Paris in January but had never met Roomie's mom (who is insanely stylish and French and made me feel really uncool in my flared jeans and socks).
But they were sooo friendly and talked to me in French really slowly and I totally understood them and then they must have gotten bored with my stalled French and decided to talk to me in English. Roomie's mom was really embarrassed about her English which was of course really good English. Roomie's dad told me all about how much he loves e-mailing with my dad (I think they were destined to be friends) and then he began a campaign to get me to move to France.
He started by telling me my French was good, that I had lost 5-7 lbs since last he had seen me (I imagined him converting kilos to lbs in his head before saying this and found it amusing) and the French life must suit me, and then suggesting different ways for me to sneak around the visa system and get a job. This morning I woke up to a newspaper article taped to my door that discussed how France "is the winner in the longest vacations in the world" and a note suggesting this might help me decide what country to live in.
We also had a small discussion about American and French politics that always makes me a little nervous because while the French feel free to bash on America, I just don't feel as comfortable bashing on France. But Roomie's parents seem capable of separating their dislike for George Bush with their fondness for America. He even said in two years they might buy a house in America since the dollar is so terrible. I asked if I could live in it.
And that's pretty much it. I just found them so highly entertaining. They will be back on Tuesday and I'm looking forward to the continued "move to France" campaign...I think it might be working.
I'm leaving for Italy tonight on an overnight train (ugh) with Little Texas and then will be back on Monday and then Sister dearest and my parents come and we frolic around Spain! I'm sure it will provide lots of good stories.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Ha! A Rooster Would Never Say That...Or, Sometimes in France I Want to Crawl Under a Rock and Die
My phonetics teacher's favorite activity is asking Americans how to say something in English, and then pronouncing them with a fairly awful accent for someone who teaches people how to speak correctly. I'm just saying, I wouldn't be harping on people for saying imperfect U's if I couldn't say an H. But that's just me.
Today, dressed as normal in something blue with blue eyeshadow I thought went out of style sometime circa 1989, she asked how to say "mairie" in English. "City hall," we said. "Ha," she laughed, "You have a whole city in a hall?!" The Mexican girl, the Japanese girl, and the Saudi Arabian girl laughed along with her. The rest of us hung our heads in shame. Who were we to build cities in halls!?
This was similar to an experience in phonetics a few weeks ago where we were learning to but rrrrs with oooos. In French a rooster says "Cookiroocoo." Or something like that. Then she went to the Mexican, and it was similar, with more rolling of the rrs. In Japanese it says something like "Kookeekoo". In Arabic it's "Kocooko". Then, with a superior smirk on her face, she turned to the rest of us. "En anglais?" "Cockadoodledoo," we said, knowing this would be wrong. "Ha! What rooster says cockadoodledoo?!" I offered that, perhaps, and American one did.
Sometimes I hate the French people. Other times, though, I remember that I am dependent upon their kindness for every aspect of my current life.
Tomorrow I am doing a presentation in French class about the great state of Michigan. I had Roomie and her boyfriend correct all my notes so that grammatically it will be correct. In an effort to upstage my fellow students and make my French teacher forgive me for missing two days last week while I tracked down my eurail pass, I decided to make a traditional Michigan dish -fudge! Translated, loosely, in my French book as "chocolate and sugar" and my Roomie's boyfriend who lived in Canada for awhile as "bonbons americain" said with a dismissive air as he tried to explain it to Roomie.
In order to make said delicious treat, I had to go to the grocery store. I found a new grocery store called Champion which is big and beautiful like Meijer and felt, for a moment, like my day was going to be successful. Then I walked in the store. I managed to find evaporated milk on my own, and marshmallows, and asked someone for chocolate chips, which they do not carry, and instead bought chocolate bars to smash into little pieces, pretending they were my phonetics teacher.
Then I began the hunt for corn syrup. Not in the baking section, not in the weird condiment section, not in the foreign section, not in the candy section. I asked somebody for "Syrope de mais? De may? De mye?" (trying out different phonetic pronunciations of a language that is not spoken in the slightest way phonetically). Syrope?" He looked at me strangely, then sent me downstairs. To maple syrup. I tried my luck on someone else. He too, looked at me strangely, and then said in French, "Come with me" and led me to a cashier, who was checking out a long line of unhappy looking customers. He spoke to her in French very quickly and I did not understand, but the entire line looked at me.
"What do you want?" She asked in English. "Um...corn syrup?" She looked at me. "For cooking?" She kept looking at me. "For making cake?" She shook her head.
A woman in the line said "Quoi? For cooking? Are you making corn?" She turned to the man beside her and spoke in French too fast for me to understand. "You need to find some corn?" He asked. "To make a syrup"
I wanted to crawl under a rock and die. Finally, the guy whose groceries were actually being checked out spoke. "We don't have that in France," he answered in an only slightly flawed pronunciation of English. "What are you trying to make?"
"Fudge," I said. "It's like, a candy." He looked at me confused. "A cake sort of..." He shook his head, "I can maybe just use oil?"
"Oui," the line chorused. "Use oil," he said.
I wanted to crawl under a rock and die.
"Merci beaucoup, merci, merci," I said, and joined the end of the line, letting them get back to their buying of French foods in peace.
Then I made the fudge. Sans corn syrup. And it is now in the fridge, and I am hoping it will harden properly so I can woo my teacher tomorrow.
Today, dressed as normal in something blue with blue eyeshadow I thought went out of style sometime circa 1989, she asked how to say "mairie" in English. "City hall," we said. "Ha," she laughed, "You have a whole city in a hall?!" The Mexican girl, the Japanese girl, and the Saudi Arabian girl laughed along with her. The rest of us hung our heads in shame. Who were we to build cities in halls!?
This was similar to an experience in phonetics a few weeks ago where we were learning to but rrrrs with oooos. In French a rooster says "Cookiroocoo." Or something like that. Then she went to the Mexican, and it was similar, with more rolling of the rrs. In Japanese it says something like "Kookeekoo". In Arabic it's "Kocooko". Then, with a superior smirk on her face, she turned to the rest of us. "En anglais?" "Cockadoodledoo," we said, knowing this would be wrong. "Ha! What rooster says cockadoodledoo?!" I offered that, perhaps, and American one did.
Sometimes I hate the French people. Other times, though, I remember that I am dependent upon their kindness for every aspect of my current life.
Tomorrow I am doing a presentation in French class about the great state of Michigan. I had Roomie and her boyfriend correct all my notes so that grammatically it will be correct. In an effort to upstage my fellow students and make my French teacher forgive me for missing two days last week while I tracked down my eurail pass, I decided to make a traditional Michigan dish -fudge! Translated, loosely, in my French book as "chocolate and sugar" and my Roomie's boyfriend who lived in Canada for awhile as "bonbons americain" said with a dismissive air as he tried to explain it to Roomie.
In order to make said delicious treat, I had to go to the grocery store. I found a new grocery store called Champion which is big and beautiful like Meijer and felt, for a moment, like my day was going to be successful. Then I walked in the store. I managed to find evaporated milk on my own, and marshmallows, and asked someone for chocolate chips, which they do not carry, and instead bought chocolate bars to smash into little pieces, pretending they were my phonetics teacher.
Then I began the hunt for corn syrup. Not in the baking section, not in the weird condiment section, not in the foreign section, not in the candy section. I asked somebody for "Syrope de mais? De may? De mye?" (trying out different phonetic pronunciations of a language that is not spoken in the slightest way phonetically). Syrope?" He looked at me strangely, then sent me downstairs. To maple syrup. I tried my luck on someone else. He too, looked at me strangely, and then said in French, "Come with me" and led me to a cashier, who was checking out a long line of unhappy looking customers. He spoke to her in French very quickly and I did not understand, but the entire line looked at me.
"What do you want?" She asked in English. "Um...corn syrup?" She looked at me. "For cooking?" She kept looking at me. "For making cake?" She shook her head.
A woman in the line said "Quoi? For cooking? Are you making corn?" She turned to the man beside her and spoke in French too fast for me to understand. "You need to find some corn?" He asked. "To make a syrup"
I wanted to crawl under a rock and die. Finally, the guy whose groceries were actually being checked out spoke. "We don't have that in France," he answered in an only slightly flawed pronunciation of English. "What are you trying to make?"
"Fudge," I said. "It's like, a candy." He looked at me confused. "A cake sort of..." He shook his head, "I can maybe just use oil?"
"Oui," the line chorused. "Use oil," he said.
I wanted to crawl under a rock and die.
"Merci beaucoup, merci, merci," I said, and joined the end of the line, letting them get back to their buying of French foods in peace.
Then I made the fudge. Sans corn syrup. And it is now in the fridge, and I am hoping it will harden properly so I can woo my teacher tomorrow.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
I Hear Springtime is Beautiful in Paris....
No really, I do. People tell me all the time.
"There's nothing like Paris in the springtime." "Paris in April is supposed to be beautiful."
And frankly, it's starting to sound a little bit like what people who had never been to Ann Arbor used to tell me. "I hear Ann Arbor is so much fun." Like, yes. I hear that too. But I have yet to experience it.
It has been steadily raining for about two months. On Monday it stopped raining. On Tuesday it started again. On Wednesday and Thursday it was drizzly. On Friday it was 60 degrees and sunny and I wore a dress and felt summery. Then Saturday happened. And it went back to raining all day long. Then, oh then, today happened.
Around 1 pm I left my house to go to the train station to book train tickets for my upcoming travels (more on that later, let's just say for now I made a new friend named Mohamed who works at the international ticket office yet speaks no English and I have to go visit him tomorrow). It was sunny. And 50s ish. Around 3:30 pm, I left the train station to dark cloudy skies and at least a ten degree temperature drop and rain. I went to meet some friends for dinner and discuss the fact that there seemed to be no trains out of Paris the day we planned to leave. By the time we left dinner, around 9 pm (yes we have six hour dinners, it's a hard life), it had turned to the kind of biting cold you expect in late October in Michigan. The kind that comes right after an Indian Summer where the warmth lulls you into a false sense of security. And you are nine and plan to be a princess for Halloween, only to feel, on October 30th, the coldness beginning as you walk home from school, knowing that the sharpness in the air means that by morning it will be snowing and you will be forced to wear a puffy green jacket under your princess costume and turn into a fat green skin colored princess instead of a pretty one. That is the kind of cold that hit me today as I walked out of dinner, dressed in a light, light jacket and a scarf and ran myself the mile home in the misty weird rain that falls here.
And now, at 1 am Paris time as I write this, it is snowing. Literally, snow, heavy snow is falling from the sky, in Paris in April. Part of me wants to run to the Eiffel Tower and take pictures and feel like it is all so magical. The other part of me wants to ask why this global warming thing isn't doing actual warming. And part of me, a very small sad part of me, wants to find a tanning bed.
If you can bring the UV rays to you, bring yourself to the UV rays.
I thought my only consolation would be that it must be snowy and cold in Ann Arbor, but I just looked at the weather and apparently it is 60 and sunny. God sure does play a mean joke sometimes. I guess I'll have to find my solace in the fact that I will never again set foot in Ann Arbor as a student, no matter what the weather. (Knocking on lots of wood)
"There's nothing like Paris in the springtime." "Paris in April is supposed to be beautiful."
And frankly, it's starting to sound a little bit like what people who had never been to Ann Arbor used to tell me. "I hear Ann Arbor is so much fun." Like, yes. I hear that too. But I have yet to experience it.
It has been steadily raining for about two months. On Monday it stopped raining. On Tuesday it started again. On Wednesday and Thursday it was drizzly. On Friday it was 60 degrees and sunny and I wore a dress and felt summery. Then Saturday happened. And it went back to raining all day long. Then, oh then, today happened.
Around 1 pm I left my house to go to the train station to book train tickets for my upcoming travels (more on that later, let's just say for now I made a new friend named Mohamed who works at the international ticket office yet speaks no English and I have to go visit him tomorrow). It was sunny. And 50s ish. Around 3:30 pm, I left the train station to dark cloudy skies and at least a ten degree temperature drop and rain. I went to meet some friends for dinner and discuss the fact that there seemed to be no trains out of Paris the day we planned to leave. By the time we left dinner, around 9 pm (yes we have six hour dinners, it's a hard life), it had turned to the kind of biting cold you expect in late October in Michigan. The kind that comes right after an Indian Summer where the warmth lulls you into a false sense of security. And you are nine and plan to be a princess for Halloween, only to feel, on October 30th, the coldness beginning as you walk home from school, knowing that the sharpness in the air means that by morning it will be snowing and you will be forced to wear a puffy green jacket under your princess costume and turn into a fat green skin colored princess instead of a pretty one. That is the kind of cold that hit me today as I walked out of dinner, dressed in a light, light jacket and a scarf and ran myself the mile home in the misty weird rain that falls here.
And now, at 1 am Paris time as I write this, it is snowing. Literally, snow, heavy snow is falling from the sky, in Paris in April. Part of me wants to run to the Eiffel Tower and take pictures and feel like it is all so magical. The other part of me wants to ask why this global warming thing isn't doing actual warming. And part of me, a very small sad part of me, wants to find a tanning bed.
If you can bring the UV rays to you, bring yourself to the UV rays.
I thought my only consolation would be that it must be snowy and cold in Ann Arbor, but I just looked at the weather and apparently it is 60 and sunny. God sure does play a mean joke sometimes. I guess I'll have to find my solace in the fact that I will never again set foot in Ann Arbor as a student, no matter what the weather. (Knocking on lots of wood)
Friday, April 4, 2008
Sunny Days and Eurail Passes
On Monday morning I ran into a family I used to babysit for who was bringing me my eurail pass. They were in a jetlagged haze having just arrived in Paris. I gave them my phone number to contact me later about the eurail pass exchange.
Then it was Thursday. And I still hadn't heard from them. And felt sad. And sure that in the jetlagged haze they had lost my number. So, knowing their address but not their apartment number in Paris, I geared myself up for a little stalking. I walked to their building, scotch tape in and left a note with my number. While writing and taping the note, a man at a cafe across the street stared at me funny. Then, a few hours later they called me, and now I have my eurail pass. Success!
Little did I know, the entire day, we had been in almost the same spot. I got to their apartment 10 minutes after they had left. I went to the steps of the Holocaust deportation memorial, they did too! I went and sat in front of the Notre Dame - they were at the top of it! We were so star crossed until finally our stars aligned.
Now I am wallowing in the glory of the things my parents sent, including: calcium pills (gotta keep those nails strong and the milk here makes me want to vomit), carmex, peeps, and blister bandaids. I plan to spend the evening eating peeps and putting soothing items on my feet while moisturizing my lips and popping calcium. Should be fun.
In other news, today it has not rained at all! AT ALL! It has been sunny allllll day. Which is like, the most unusual occurrence in my recent life here in gay Paris. I found an English book exchange store and bought a James Baldwin book which I read today in front of the Notre Dame in the sun. I sat at a cafe for hours drinking rose wine! And soon I am going to eat ice cream fondue! This is the Paris I had in mind.
Then it was Thursday. And I still hadn't heard from them. And felt sad. And sure that in the jetlagged haze they had lost my number. So, knowing their address but not their apartment number in Paris, I geared myself up for a little stalking. I walked to their building, scotch tape in and left a note with my number. While writing and taping the note, a man at a cafe across the street stared at me funny. Then, a few hours later they called me, and now I have my eurail pass. Success!
Little did I know, the entire day, we had been in almost the same spot. I got to their apartment 10 minutes after they had left. I went to the steps of the Holocaust deportation memorial, they did too! I went and sat in front of the Notre Dame - they were at the top of it! We were so star crossed until finally our stars aligned.
Now I am wallowing in the glory of the things my parents sent, including: calcium pills (gotta keep those nails strong and the milk here makes me want to vomit), carmex, peeps, and blister bandaids. I plan to spend the evening eating peeps and putting soothing items on my feet while moisturizing my lips and popping calcium. Should be fun.
In other news, today it has not rained at all! AT ALL! It has been sunny allllll day. Which is like, the most unusual occurrence in my recent life here in gay Paris. I found an English book exchange store and bought a James Baldwin book which I read today in front of the Notre Dame in the sun. I sat at a cafe for hours drinking rose wine! And soon I am going to eat ice cream fondue! This is the Paris I had in mind.
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