The Bold Soul

Immersion

My brain is exhausted. The backs of my eyes actually hurt. I never thought being immersed almost entirely in French for three days could take it out of me like this. We went to bed early last night and I even slept late this morning to try and get some energy back, but I'm still wiped out.

We had some invités for three days, French (of course) friends of Georges who used to live in Paris but who headed south to Marseilles a few years ago for a warmer climate (given the bizarre weather in Paris, one can hardly blame them for wanting to retire in the South, although Marseilles will never be Paris). Every so often they have business that brings them back north, and they stay here when they do.

They are absolutely delightful, this couple. He speaks fairly good English (he says he speaks "Frenglish" and I say I speak "Franglais" so we're both pretty much in the same bateau) and she has been trying to speak more. I actually met her some months back when she was visiting, but before I lived here, and at that time she was very shy about speaking any English, so she has made some fair progress since then.

As have I, apparently. Even though I still mainly speak English with Georges and the older kids, it seems that speaking my spotty French to the Little Guy, the nanny and the cleaning lady on a daily basis has paid off a bit. I am picking up more vocabulary and I am more comfortable at least attempting to express myself in French, although I frequently get stuck for a word or expression and have to call in someone else to interpret.

I knew I'd really made progress, though, when I was actually able to engage in several real conversations with the wife, some genuine girl talk -- and even if the words weren't always exactly perfect, we understood each other. And when the couple very graciously invited me to come with them to see the Goya "Graveur" exhibit at the Petit Palais yesterday (while pauvre Georges had to work), I didn't hesitate because I knew I would be OK even without him there in case of Franglais emergency.

But as much fun as I was having with them (and I will concede that maybe some of my fatigue was a result of the nightly apéro and a lot of wine with dinner, and we are normally very light drinkers in this house), by the time I came home yesterday afternoon, I was completely done in. Fatigué. Beyond fatigué, although I don't know the French for "so freaking tired I could barely see straight at 3 o'clock in the afternoon".

Clearly I can only take two straight days of immersion French right now. Once I cross into the third day, my American brain just goes into overload, and starts to crave massive doses of my mother tongue. I even found myself momentarily missing American reality TV until I got myself under control again, realizing The Bachelor and American Idol are not the solution.

So today, it's mostly back to my usual balance of French (with the Little Guy, the nanny, and local store employees) and English (with Georges, my clients and anyone else who will let me speak English to them). I need to recharge my batteries, because tomorrow we leave for a week in the South for a visit to Georges' sister. She does speak and understand some English -- in fact she reads this blog (waving at her!) -- but let's face it: once again it's going to be French and more French, and plenty of it. FAST French, too. I will be outnumbered again, three to one. And this time for an entire week.

Oh well, that's one of the reasons I moved here in the first place: to become more fluent in French, finally, after 30 years of trying it without immersion. It's just that no one warned me how tired you get when you've been treading in the French eau for a while, without an English life jacket.

Enfin

I am FINALLY taking some formal French lessons, starting tomorrow morning. It's not that I've been resisting the lessons since I really enjoyed those I was taking in the U.S. before I came over. I just always seem to have too many other things to do, and I could "get by" pretty well on what I already knew.

But that was when I was a single gal. Now it's really important that I get more comfortable using French and that I work harder to extend my existing knowledge of the language, or I am going to continue feeling like the proverbial wall flower every time I'm with a group of les francais. Although I continue to do OK talking to the nanny, at least half the time I get it wrong, what she's trying to tell me, and when it comes to details about the Little Guy, this is not a good thing. So I now have incentive to make more of an effort. (P.S. the nanny has decided that I am to give the Little Guy some English tutoring for 15-20 minutes every day! I'm all for it of course but it's clear who is running the household, hee hee.)

Anyway, the tale of how I got into these French lessons is a story in itself. A friend of mine from Finland, here in Paris, is engaged to a Frenchman and although she has lived and worked in Paris for over two years, she has made very little progress in the language. Like me, she has incentive to work at it now. We talked about our options, and a mutual friend of ours has had a good experience with the lessons offered by the Croix Rouge (the Red Cross). The lessons are for non-Francophones who have emigrated and need to integrate better into the culture. And get this -- once you pay your 10 Euro annual fee, the lessons themselves are FREE, and twice a week for two hours. This is a sweet deal and we decided to start there. If the instructor is no good and we don't feel we're progressing, we can stop the classes and go elsewhere, no harm done.

So last week, we went to sign up. You have to go in person to the Croix Rouge in the 5th arrondissement, and the only time you can register is from 2:30 - 4:30 pm on Fridays. (Note: I believe other arrondissements may have other Croix Rouge office that might also offer French classes. I only had information on the ones offered in the 5th.) We arrived late (as usual -- we always seem to be late -- and this time it was really my fault as I had totally forgotten about it) and discovered a long line of people waiting outside a cramped little room. There were people of all nationalities there, and many of them are referred by the state unemployment offices or other organizations because they are having difficulty finding work or doing their jobs well if they can't speak French adequately enough.

We weren't there long when a sharp-voiced woman came out and started saying, in French, that all the classes were full, and she chased most of the people waiting ahead of us out of there. I was determined to stick around, if only to ask her when we should try to come back again in the future, if the classes were really full now.

So in a combination of French and English (which of course, she secretly spoke) I explained that my friend and I were there to take the French classes and were the classes really full? She asked me who referred us and I said we were referred by a student, and gave our friend's name. Once she realized we weren't coming from unemployment or some other organization, but were there independently, she let us through into the bigger office.

There, we found utter chaos as four women, including the one we spoke to, were trying to interview about 20-25 individuals to assess their current level of French knowledge. All the while, the woman we'd spoken to was coming in and out of the first room, looking for some cahier vert she needed, that no one ever seemed to find. She also periodically shouted out that the classes were all full... but the other women kept on interviewing people and trying to place them in classes. Madame didn't give us any forms to fill out, like the other people were all holding, or any other instructions for several minutes, then finally she waved us at a couple of stacked chairs and told us we could sit down. Whew! Up until then we weren't even sure we were going to be allowed to stay.

After a few more minutes, when one of the other ladies was between interviews, I got her to give us the application form, figuring at least we could get those filled out to avoid any nasty delays (or anything else that could piss Madame off further, and hence disqualify us from the possibility of getting into a class). At last, Madame came back and invited us into the other room, where we both sat with her at a table.

She looked at our forms -- oh, la la, we hadn't filled out the "texte" area at the back. Which had no instructions as to WHAT kind of "texte", but I said to my friend just to write whatever she could in French because that was clearly the written part of the placement test, such as it was. So we quickly wrote what we could -- about 2-3 sentences each -- and then handed back the forms.

She mulled them over for a minute, and then looking at my form where I had listed my profession, her face suddenly lit up with a huge smile and she said, "Ah, vous êtes écrivain!" And suddenly it was like a storm had blown over! Honestly, we couldn't get over the transformation in the woman. She was like a completely different person. I don't credit myself with performing a miracle just by happening to be a writer, but maybe it had something to do with her reading our applications and realizing we were just two women in love with two French men and we need English to make our personal lives a lot easier.

Because it was moments later that the miracle occurred... when she stopped herself in the midst of explaining that all the classes were full -- and said she would accept BOTH of us in HER class, meeting Mondays and Thursdays for 2 hours at 10:30. Despite the fact we are at completely different levels of the language (she also urged me to seek additional conversational classes via the local mairie because I need more -- she says -- than just the 4 hours a week she can provide).

So, 20 Euros and two signed entry passes later, we realized we were IN! We have no idea what to expect; we were given no instructions on what to bring and barely managed to find out the address of the classes themselves before dashing out to make space for the next applicants. I thought these classes might be a bit in demand but I had no idea it was that tough to get a spot, so I think we're quite fortunate. Hopefully we'll like the classes and both get what we need out of them.

I have packed a small notebook and my French-English dictionary to bring, for starters. Perhaps there is a text we will need to purchase or some other supplemental materials. I have a huge box here of French language study books I've brought with me... and now access to Georges' enormous library of books to reach for practice, any time I want, so I won't lack for material with which to practice.

Meanwhile, I am also planning, in addition to these classes, to get some private tutoring and conversation practice from my second-favorite Frog starting probably in April (so don't think I've forgotten, Froggie dahling!) Then depending on how much time I have left in life to pursue French studies, I will consider my new teacher's suggestion about classes offered by the local mairie as well.

So if you will excusez-moi, I need to get to bed early, as Georges has an early train to catch for a meeting out of town, and I am on duty to get the Little Guy up and off to school, before getting myself up and off to school! Let the jeux begin!

Chateau Weekend: The Reader's Digest Version

We returned home last night from our WONDERFUL getaway to the Loire valley to discover that for some inexplicable reason, our Internet service has been cut over the weekend and is still not restored. I am only able to blog this by the grace of our next-door neighbors who allowed us to patch into their home network.

So here is the "short version" of our weekend. Longer details and wonderful pix to follow as soon as I can spare the bandwidth.

Weekend was supposed to be rainy and snowy all the time. It wasn't. Miraculously blessed with sunshine and blue skies at precise moments where needed to tour chateau gardens. At EVERY chateau we visited.

I DROVE A CAR. In Europe. For the first time. And didn't damage the car, any pedestrians, stray cats or the many cyclists who were clearly in training for the next Tour de France.

Favorite discovery at a chateau: the amazing frothy architecture at Chambord. When you're standing on the top floor terraces getting a close-up view of all the spires, staircases and chimneys, it's like looking at a fancy French pastry.

Franco-American trivia point that Georges did not know: that the Chambord liqueur that many Americans love and think is SOOOO French is something most French people have never heard of, and I'm not even sure you can buy it in liquor stores in France. The target market is outside of France. Their web site claims it was "inspired by" a recipe that dates back to the 17th century and Louis Quatorze, and that it's made "on the premises of a traditional Loire Valley chateau south of Paris" (implying that it's made AT Chambord, when it's really not). Yet you can buy a bottle in the gift shop at the famous chateau. I bought one just so Georges could try some, and to have some around for visitors from home. Or to drizzle on some cheesecake because it's seriously good that way. But isn't it interesting how marketers can completely bamboozle the buying public? The Chambord name has been licensed to many products over the years, including cars and coffee pots. I guess the idea is: Voila! Let's make it sound elegant and French, and then people will buy it. And so we do. (If you have seen Chambord sold elsewhere in France, leave a comment... I'd be curious about that.)

The region is home to many troglodyte caves, some of which you can tour. There is also an aquarium and a tourist attraction where they have recreated all the most famous Loire chateaux in miniature. We ran out of time for those, but maybe on the next trip.

The local Chinon wine is quite excellent. As was our Easter night dinner at L'Epicerie in Amboise, located at the foot of the town's chateau. You will probably need a reservation especially during weekends and holidays (we did), but we got a gourmand 4-course meal and great service with wine (and tip included) for 36 euros each. Can't beat that!

Leonardo daVinci totally rocks. Second time I visited his last home, and I enjoyed it as much as the first time. The man was just plain freaking brilliant.

And sometimes you have to skip the tourist stuff, the great architecture and the history lessons, and just snuggle up alone together in your cozy hotel room with the sound of the rain on the roof, and tune out the world. There's nothing better.

Not even finding out that French kings have chosen salamanders and porcupines as their official royal logos.

Bell Free

The other day I asked Georges what the family tradition is concerning Easter and buying special chocolates for the kids. OK, I admit it: I was really inspired to ask this question after passing a local chocolaterie that had a sinfully delicious display of holiday chocolates, and I wanted an excuse to go in and buy something for myself the kids. But it was still a valid question: does the Easter Bunny make a visit here?

Well, yes and no. Turns out that egg hunts and chocolates are a part of the tradition here, but it's not the Easter Bunny that gets all the credit. It's the Easter Bells.

The French tradition is that in the week before Paques (Easter), all the church bells leave their steeples, and fly off to Rome (presumably to visit His Holiness?) and then on Easter Sunday, the bells return and bring Easter eggs and treats for the children.

So this week, the bells in our neighboring church have been silent because they are apparently taking a Roman holiday.

Adjustments

So, it's been three weeks since I've been at Georges' house full-time and just one week from the date we actually moved all my things in. It has gone incredibly well in every respect, much more smoothly than we could have hoped, really. And there is nothing better than being next to the one you love, every morning and every night.

[contented sigh]

Still, Daylight Savings Time isn't the only adjustment I'm having to make lately. (In the U.S. you've all flipped your clocks ahead but we aren't doing ours in France for two more weekends yet. Consequently with every meeting I have with clients in North America, I am having to figure out all over again what the time difference is THIS week.) I'm much more comfortable being in the house, and now having a few of my things scattered about here and there really helps me feel more at home. I know how to work the washing machine, and I know where things are located in the kitchen, pantry and bathroom. I finally figured out the trick to locking the front door. But there are still things I am learning about and adjusting to.

Last week, with the February holidays over and the usual school routine reinstated, I was able to observe the daily routine of the nanny and the boys. I now know when the femme de ménage comes on her two half-days each week. They both do a wonderful job, these women, and my only job with them is to pretty much stay out of the way and let them do what they already know how to do. Yet my ability to converse with either of them is sorely limited, since neither speaks English and my French is still at a rather basic conversational level. We're more or less making ourselves understood, but I find myself wishing I could say more, be a bit friendlier, really talk with them. I find myself hiding out in my office a lot, even when I'm not actually working, because I don't want to be in the way, and I don't have much I can really say to them when they're here.

Still, I do get some alone time. The nanny has stretches during the day where she is either picking up the boys from school/after school activities, or dropping them off, or on nicer days (not that we've had many of late) they might go to the park when school is out. When the two older boys are at school, there is just the baby here, and he's really a happy, good baby and very little trouble. And even when the kids are all here at lunch times, she manages to keep them occupied so that there isn't too much noise (I think she's afraid the boys are bothering me, although they aren't). I was a little worried, before I moved in, about how I might manage to get any work done with little children in the house most of the day, but now that I've seen the routine in action, I don't think it's going to be much of an issue at all, save for perhaps the odd interruption. Like the one just 5 minutes ago where the Little Guy tapped quietly on my door because he couldn't find the paper MacBook "computer" Georges had drawn for him yesterday (very creative!); the cleaning lady had moved it, of course, but I was able to locate it and received a huge smile as my reward. And that was well worth the interruption.

Yesterday, we crossed another milestone in our relationship: meeting the family. We were invited to visit one of Georges' sisters, along with her son, daughter and granddaughter, and to spend the day. First of all, going anywhere outside of Paris proper excites me because it gives me a chance to see a bit more of whatever else is out there. I still marvel at how beautiful the classic architecture can be here, so elegant and, well, French! They live in a very nice suburb roughly south-west of the city, in a lovely neighborhood adjacent to some woods with walking trails. Already the spring flowers have been making an appearance and I saw irises, flowering tulip trees and daffodils galore!

The family members all speak and understand at least some English -- probably better than I do with French -- but for the most part they all spoke in French together (of course, and why not?) and with me, and I had the fun of seeing how much I could understand and communicate (surprise, surprise, I did better than I expected so maybe that means my listening comprehension is improving). I'm sure, however, that they think I'm a very quiet woman -- but wait until they get to know me better and I can communicate better in French! They were all warm, friendly and welcoming to me, and I enjoyed being with them, watching Georges and his kids interacting with their family, and seeing some family photos -- my favorite being one of Georges taken circa 1972 where he had very long hair and totally looked like a HIPPY (still incredibly handsome, of course, even with the long hair, but a hippy nonetheless!)

Up until now, the only way either Georges or I have been able to meet any of one another's relatives was via web cam at Christmastime. So now the ice has really been broken, at least on the French side, and we both thought it went really well. I was very moved and a little emotional at the end of the day when Georges' sister told me how happy she was to see her brother so happy. She couldn't have said anything better to make me feel comfortable coming into this family.

So, as I said... it's been a period of many adjustments. New family to meet and get to know. Finding my way around the neighborhood looking for interesting shops. Learning the new bus lines. Learning the household routine and figuring out how to get over my fear of making mistakes in French (like for one thing, I apparently need to speak louder -- I tend to speak very softly in French, probably out of insecurity, and people aren't understanding me because they can't HEAR me.) There are obviously a lot more adjustments to be made and who knows what they will be or how it will go. And I didn't get as much unpacking done this past week as I might have wanted.

But I think we're off to a wonderful beginning together. Now, if I could only figure out where to put all the shoes...

Confused by the Centimeter

Today, I simply couldn't stand it a moment longer. I had to do it, I just had to. Ditching what was supposed to be a working afternoon, I threw on my coat, wound a giant orange scarf around my neck comme une vrai parisienne, and headed for the metro.

Destination? BHV, otherwise known as Bazar de l'Hotel de Ville. I was on a pilgrimage, in search of attractive yet reasonably affordable new bedding. I hated spending the extra money but I just felt compelled to create a fresh new look to go with the new bed we got on the weekend. I knew it would not be easy, shopping for this bedding solo... there would be decisions to make and obstacles to overcome (especially the high prices; quality bedding and towels are notoriously très cher here).

And then, there are the measurements.

Woe to any unsuspecting Américaine who lives here and wishes to redecorate her boudoir, but is naive enough to believe she can walk into a store and pick out the correct size of bedding based on the good ol' standards of Twin, Full/Double, Queen or King. Here in France, it's all about the centimeters.

The first thing to know is, French mattresses and pillows are measured by centimeters, and there are no handy labels like "Full" or "Queen" to help you out, so you actually need to measure your French bed and pillows before you shop. Remember that stores really hate it when you try to return things, so you need to get it right the first time around if at all possible. And it's no use thinking you can get away with bringing your American sheets and pillowcases (unless you're shipping your American bed and mattresses), because they usually won't fit properly.

We had purchased a 140x200cm mattress, the rough equivalent of a Full or Double bed. There are also 90x200cm (Twin), and 160x200cm (Queen). There is even (at Ikea, at least) an 80x200cm mattress which I'm guessing is for toddler beds perhaps? But as if this wasn't confusing enough, I have seen the web sites for some other mattress dealers where they offer some brands with many more widths (ranging in 10 cm increments from 70cm to 200cm) and even with a length of 190cm. Why do they make it so difficult? It's France, where making simple things complicated seems to be a way of life.

Then (God help us) there are the pillow dimensions. In America, you don't need to know the measurements of your pillows, you just need to know if you want a Standard length or perhaps Queen or King-sized lengths for wider beds. For years in France, the "European style" square pillows and those round bolster-type pillows were the standard, but of course you could get the square ones in several sizes, the largest being 65x65cm, but I've also seen 63x63, 60x60 and perhaps even smaller.

But now, the French are doing rectangular pillows as well, both the usual filled ones as well as the ergonomic types. Here again, you have decisions to make about dimensions. Do you want 50x70? Or 45x70 (oh REALLY? Do those 5 frigging centimeters make ANY kind of a difference or are these manufacturers just screwing with our heads? Because last time I looked, 5 centimeters was NOTHING.)

So I'm at the BHV in the bedding department, and for starters I am totally freaked out by the prices. I mean, you could actually pay more than 100 Euros for a single PILLOW, and some of the comforter covers (called housse de couette here, NOT "duvet covers" as I had always thought) are upwards of 200 Euros for the better quality (and we're not even talking Egyptian cotton here). I was attempting to find something for under 65 Euros in a color scheme that would more or less coordinate with the sheets we already have and that I didn't absolutely hate. But when I realized that some of the brands only had pillow cases in certain sizes but not others, I realized I would have to first make a commitment to the size of the pillows and the comforter.

This is not as easy as it might seem on the surface. For a 140x200cm mattress, you don't get a comforter the same size -- it needs to be wider and possibly longer, depending upon how high your bed frame is and on whether you want the comforter to dangle or if you plan to tuck it in. (I know, it's enough to make you want to start drinking, isn't it?) I agonized for a good half-hour over whether to get a 200x200 or 220x240 size. Georges had told me he thought the 220x240 was going to be too big for our low bed frame but I just wasn't sure the 200x200 would be quite right, either. Eventually I settled on the smaller one and decided to take my chances. (It later proved to be the right move -- WHEW!)

The pillows nearly put me over the edge, though... seriously. I was leaning toward the rectangular ones, because that's what I'm used to. Yet I want Georges to be comfortable too, and I thought maybe he'd really prefer the square ones. But here, I had another dilemma: the comforter cover I finally decided upon only had square pillow cases in 63x63... but the store doesn't seem to SELL any square pillows smaller than 65x65! And they just looked HUGE to me. Finally I broke down and sent Georges a texto, hoping he wasn't in a meeting or something, so he could cast his vote. His response: that I should pick whatever I wanted. (This is not the main reason I love him -- his tendency to let me have my way in many things -- but it sure made my life easier today!) So... I went with the rectangular ones, 50x70. And before going to the cash register, I broke out my French and asked a salesgirl to confirm that the 50x70 pillow cases would, in fact, fit the 50x70 pillows. Because by this point my head was spinning, the store was overheated as usual, and I was starting to lose my ability to think rationally.

Approximately 250 Euros and THREE HOURS after I entered the store, I left with the new comforter, pillows, pillow cases, housse-de-couette, mattress cover and also three 5-hanger packs for just 99 centimes for each 5-pk (at least I got ONE really good bargain). The comforter and pillows were all marked down as well (pillows @ 21 Euros each, comforter at just 56), and the other bedding was the store brand rather than the pricier designer marques I might have preferred, given a larger budget.

Knowing that there are so many good places in the U.S. to buy decent quality bedding at reasonable prices (did you know Target even carries some 600-thread count sheets now?) made it difficult to spend that kind of cash. Until I got it all home and put it together on the bed. And saw how crisp and bright and fresh the room looks now.

It was so worth it all... the headache-inducing strip to the store, the OUCH when I saw the total at the cash register, and the sore arms and shoulders from lugging it all home on the metro. And I can't wait for Georges to come home and see it.

Just call me Mrs. Fields

My bronchitis is down to a repetitive and annoying runny nose, sniffle, and occasional cough, and I'm feeling more human again. Several days of doing very little may sound good on paper, but in practice it really gets boring.

Yesterday, finally, I was feeling well enough to venture out for the afternoon with Georges' daughter. We had a mission: she asked me to teach her to bake cookies! Apparently, cookies are not something the French "do". My first thought was: "Toll House chocolate chip cookies!" because the recipe is always on the bag, and they're a cookie everyone loves. And the French love anything with chocolate in it. Which of course meant I had to buy the ingredients. Where to find the chocolate chips, baking soda and dark brown sugar in Paris? Only one place I knew: the Thanksgiving Store.

I had been seeking a reason to go shopping at this store for a while. Looking at their web site to see which American products they carried, I got very enthusiastic and made a long list of treats I wanted to buy... little things to remind me of home. Like Vlasic Bread-n-Butter Pickles. Aunt Jemima Pancake mix. And Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, of course.

Our first stop, though, was "lunch" at Breakfast in America in the Marais, to treat her to an American-style breakfast. (We ate WAY too much. Hint: if you're not really REALLY hungry, don't order the 3 Pancakes. They're HUGE, the size of the plate, and very filling. I only ate half, and half my side order of bacon, so it was kind of a waste. But very delicious.)

After "breakfast" (which we ate at 1pm) we wandered around the Marais for a while, walking off the meal, doing a little shopping. Then we went to the Thanksgiving store where I dropped about 83 Euros buying 12 products (WOW, their import markup is HUGE! I don't expect to be stocking up regularly at this place, that's for sure.) Then, we headed down to the 15th to my apartment, where all my things are stacked in boxes and bags in the middle of the room, awaiting the moving van on Saturday. I located my cookie sheet, and measuring cups and spoons (the measuring spoons were also a curiosity to her... apparently these don't exist in French cooking either? Even in metric?) and we headed home to start baking.

I haven't baked in years, although I used to do it regularly when I worked in the corporate world because I could bring whatever I'd baked to share with my colleagues. (When you live alone and work at home, baking is NOT a good habit to get into, so I just sort of stopped baking when I went freelance.) I had to look up the temperature conversion for the Celsius oven on-line, and we got part-way into the operation before realizing there was no electric mixer in the house (we made do with the Cuisinart). I had to actually measure a cup of butter in a measuring cup because their "sticks" of butter aren't the same size as ours in America. I wasn't at all sure how they would turn out, quite honestly, as this was my first attempt at baking anything in France and I could only find salted pecans to use in the recipe. But in the end, we had 2 dozen perfectly baked, totally delicious American cookies for her to show off to her friends... and her father, of course!

So we had a nice afternoon together, where she learned how to make cookies, and I learned that I don't need to look far for ways to bond with the kids. The bonding seems to be taking care of itself; all I have to do is be prepared when the opportunities arise, and show up with a willing spirit and an open heart.

And I have plenty of both.

Phonophobia

Oh wow. I have just realized that I seem to have developed an unnatural fear of the telephone.

Well, not ALL telephones. I'm fine with the telephone in my apartment, my cell phone and my Skype phone. Totally fine, business as usual.

It's the phone in Georges' house. I'm here in the house on my own, working, while Georges and his Little Guy are out in the nearby park kicking around the football. And the phone just rang. The house phone. Which I do not answer. Because I know the person on the other line will probably want to speak only French, and then I'm totally screwed.

As I listen to it ring and ring, I debate with myself: to answer, or not to answer? What if it's D, Georges' older son, calling to say he (a) or (b) is not coming to dinner tonight? I nearly take the risk to pick it up because D speaks English, but my fear of it being anyone else stops me.

Which I know is completely ridiculous, but there it is. I am afraid of the person on the other end of the line speaking in rapid-fire français to me while my mind goes spontaneously blank and I am forced to stutter haltingly, "Monsieur M, Il. N'est. Pas. à la. Maison. Maintenant. Uh... [listening to more fast French] Je. Ne. Comprends. Pas. Désolé. Merci. Au revoir."

Sigh. I used to dream of being fluent in French. Now I sincerely have my doubts I will ever get there. Other people do it though; they learn to speak French, and speak it quite well, even if they never quite managed to erase their foreign accent. Why is this so freaking hard for my brain to process and retain this language? I don't like thinking it's because I'm over 45 and the brain cells just don't operate the way they used to. But if it's not that, then maybe I am just stupid when it comes to this language. I don't like that, either... my teachers used to tell me I had a good ear for languages and music. Where did that good ear go?

I am frustrated beyond belief. I know I need to take some lessons again but I'm a little strapped for cash at the moment, and I know that lessons alone are not going to do the job because I've been taking them for years and fluency still eludes me. I keep waiting for that light bulb in the French part of my brain to flip on, but it seems stubbornly and perpetually set to "Out of Order".

I never thought I would see the day I'd be afraid to answer a telephone. And I feel like a total idiot for crying about it.

Worm Wars

There was a definite "war theme" going on with me and Georges this weekend. First, we saw two movies that had bloody war scenes in them -- A Very Long Engagement (First World War) and then Atonement (Second World War). And then, we had our own little battle going on in the house: the Great Paris Worm War.

You know it's real love when you both, as a couple, spend a good portion of the weekend emptying and cleaning the insides and outsides of his kitchen cabinets after discovering an infestation of moth larvae. And when you are still smiling and kissing by the end of it all. Because somehow, doing a disgusting job like that is a lot better when you do it as a team. It was us against the bugs in this war, and even though we were greatly outnumbered, I think we're winning.

Seriously, these little worms were totally disgusting. I saw one a few days ago, but thought maybe it was something that the cat dragged in. You know: Bugs Happen and the world will never be insect-free. But then we found two more INSIDE the door of a kitchen cabinet, and a small live moth. Then I looked up and counted about a half-dozen worms all over the kitchen ceiling. Georges killed them all, but then 10 minutes later (I kid you not, it was no more than 10 minutes) three or four more appeared out of nowhere. It was bizarre and more than a little creepy.

We cleaned out one big kitchen cabinet on Saturday, the one where the cereals, pastas, tea, flour and sugar are stored, because we weren't sure what these worms were, exactly, and whether or not they might be in the food. We were hoping they WERE moth larvae and not (shudder) maggots. Poor Georges was on the floor wiping down all the insides of the cabinet, and covered in flour by the end of it. We didn't find any bugs in the food, thank goodness, and we thought maybe we'd gotten rid of the problem, and congratulated ourselves on getting a jump start on the spring cleaning. But not long after we did all that work, we saw more of them. They just kept APPEARING, and way out in the middle of the ceiling a few feet away from any cabinets. We couldn't figure out what was going on.

I couldn't sleep half the night, wondering if more of those worms were on the kitchen ceiling. Fortunately we didn't find them anywhere else in the house, so we knew they weren't from the type of moths that would go into the clothes closets. But those worms just creeped me out, big time. And sure enough, when we woke up Sunday morning, there were more of them on the ceiling again.

So went to the bricolage to buy some kind of appropriate insecticide that could be used around food, and sure enough there are products that are for these types of moths (called "mites" en français, in case you need to know this -- in English, mites are another type of insect entirely) that gravitate to the food supply. Now that I think back on it, I had been noticing these tiny moths (about the size of small housefly) at his place the past couple of weeks since I've been back, but thought they were just coming in from outside whenever someone opened the door (and the cat is quite good at figuring out how to get the door open when she wants to sneak outside and play in the courtyard). I realize now that the moths had already invaded and set up housekeeping.

Because we cleaned out all the other cabinets where food was kept, and sure enough, we found them. We also found evidence that someone had left sticky moth traps in one of those cabinets in the past, so this might be a recurring problem. Ugh. Georges (my hero) did the work of disposing of them, of climbing up into the cabinets and taking everything out and then wiping down the insides well, and he scoured the poubelles as well, with bleach, just for good measure. I got to be the "assistant"; he passed me items out of the cabinets to go into the trash, and I kept him well supplied with spray cleaner and paper towels, and later washed out various containers and things. And while we were at it, we cleaned and degreased the range hood and cleaned under and behind the microwave, and wiped down the countertops. Then Georges set up the little moth traps in a few places, including inside one of the cabinets. We found a few renegade worms trying to make a break for it after that, but they didn't get far, and this morning we found ZERO. And I slept a lot better last night.

So, we REALLY got a jump on spring cleaning... not something we'd expected to be doing this weekend but it needed to be done just the same. And it was afterward that we both looked at each other and said, "Even this awful job was (almost) fun for us, because at least we did it together." Another step in our evolution as a couple and in my transformation from someone who is, for now, a regular house guest, but who will have a different role in the household before too long.

And you really have to love a man who refuses to let YOU be the one to clean out the cabinets and garbage bins, and who will willingly kill bugs for you... and not make fun of you even once, for asking him to do it.

Just a little bit more French

La Gastro (i.e. the stomach bug that comes out of nowhere and knocks you flat for a couple of days) is making the rounds of Paris again, and according to reports it is reaching near-epidemic proportions. It is unpleasant and inconvenient, but fortunately not life-threatening. Georges' little guy has had it the past few days (better now but didn't go to school again today so he can rest up for his half-day of school tomorrow), along with the neighbor and her two kids who share a nanny with Georges' son. Suffice to say, Georges had his hands full and very little sleep on Wednesday and into Thursday. I was safely here across town when it struck Wednesday evening at Chez Georges, but having had lunch with Georges on Wednesday I couldn't help wondering if he and I would both come down with it, too.

As a preventative measure, Georges and I have been taking "Smecta" which is the preferred remedy here for things like this. He had given me a few packets of Smecta (you dissolve it in a glass of water and drink it) weeks ago for me to take on my trip to NJ "just in case". But I thought it was time I kept a better supply on hand, despite having also brought back American remedies like Pepto-Bismol tablets and Immodium.

It was on my way walking home from the pharmacy and local supermarket, my groceries in a tote bag and a box of Smecta in hand, that I had one of those "I feel a bit more French today" moments. When I start taking French over-the-counter meds and am willing to bypass my more familiar things from home, it's one tiny step toward better integrating into the culture. And I can't help wondering if France is going to turn me into a hypochondriac? (I will draw the line at suppositories though, which French doctors seem to prescribe -- so I hear, anyway -- with frightening regularity for any and every ailment.)

Who know the Gastro could make me feel French?

I'm just happy I didn't get it... this time. And neither did Georges.

One odd thing about this Smecta powder though... I noticed that on the (happily) bi-lingual packet instructions it said the mixture could be taken orally -- or rectally. Ummm... does anyone else find that a bit peculiar? Or scary? I'm not sure I'm comfortable drinking something I could also administer into another orifice. Just what the hell is IN that stuff, anyway?

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FOLLOW-UP, January 13, 2008: This being open-minded to trying foreign OTC products goes both ways you know. Georges was begrudgingly willing to take some of my American Advil for a small headache on Sunday after he discovered he was out of what he says is the stronger French Advil. (They sell a 1,000mg Advil here without a prescription, which is the equivalent of FIVE American Advils).

And IT WAS A MIRACLE OF HEALING, because his headache went away despite thanks to the "inferior" Yankee product.

Phet bast-ard!

While running into the liquor store to pick up some Yellowtail Australian Shiraz for our Christmas dinner, I wandered by accident down the French wine aisle and started browsing to see if anything looked familiar. Nothing did... and then I spotted THIS chubby bugger, "Fat Bastard" Shiraz, by Thierry & Guy. YES, this is an actual FRENCH wine, with a simple yet charming label of a hippo on it. This is a 2006 vintage.

Back label reads:

The Origin of the Fat bastard.

Good friends Thierry (renowned French winemaker) & Guy (British wine industry rebel) created Fat Bastard almost by accident.

It started out as an experiment Thierry had been doing in the back of his cellar, leaving a barrel "on the lees" (yeast cells). He didn't know what to expect but when the friends tried the wine, Thierry exclaimed...

"Now zat iz what you call eh Phet bast-ard!"  (read with a strong French accent)

This very British expression perfectly describes the wine's wonderful color and ROUND, rich palate, so that's what they called it.

No one remembers exactly where the hippo came from.

We'll be sampling this over the next few days and if it's any good I may have to bring a bottle BACK to France to share with Georges, but really, would this not be the PERFECT gift for that snobby wine connoisseur in your life? I mean, it IS French, after all.

Bottom's up and à votre santé, people. And please... don't drink and drive.

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The Bold Soul Morning-After Wine Review: Ma soeur et moi, we killed the entire bottle of Fat Bastard last night, between dinner and some time relaxing our sore muscles in her outdoor hot tub -- I'm sore from chopping more icy-driveway yesterday, and she finished her holiday shopping and food shopping yesterday as well, so we were both exhausted. We liked the wine very much. I'm no wine expert but this hit MY palate just right: it IS full-bodied (as advertised on the label, remarkably so), not too dry and not too sweet. I would definitely drink this again. I should mention, the store near me had it priced at only $7.99/bottle, too. So very good French wine at a VERY afforable price.

You are missed by me

One of the (many) conundrums of the French language is the way one would say "I miss you", as in "I long for you" (not as in "I tried to shoot you but I missed! Now stand still so I don't waste another bullet!")

The verb "to miss/long for" is manquer. And that's easy enough, right? Well, you'd think so, but you'd be wrong. For some bizarre reason, in French you do NOT say "Je te manque" as in "I miss you", the way you would construct a normal sentence in French to describe something YOU are doing, saying or feeling for another person, where you would usually start the sentence with "I" as the subject pronoun. So I would not say, par example, "Je manque Georges" (I miss Georges). Even though DAMMIT!!! I DO miss Georges! More than I can even think about without crying. Again. Like I have done a little every single day since I got here.

No, instead, this twisted but beautiful language asks me to phrase my longing for Georges in another way. I must say "Tu me manques". The pronoun order is completely reversed, which changes the meaning of the verb entirely. So when I say "Tu me manques" to Georges every day, multiples times per day, I am not vainly informing him that HE is missing ME... it's the other way around, and as a rough translation it comes out to "You are missed by me". Even though DAMMIT!!! HE IS missing me, as much as I am missing him. Maybe even more, if that is even humanly possible.

This aberration in the language -- strange even considering that the language is full of exceptions to the rules -- used to drive me crazy when I was studying French in a classroom. But to have to stop and think about the need for the weird pronoun reversal when I am smack in the middle of MISSING GEORGES is enough for me to want to go postal on the entire Académie Française. (Yeah, are they REALLY "immortels"?)

However, I have now said it so often in the past 8 days, plus the 6 days Georges was in Montreal before that, that I now think the phrase is permanently embossed in the (very tiny) French-speaking part of my American brain. They say repetition is how you best learn a new language. But in this case I could do with less repetition... less MISSING my Georges and more BEING with him.

You ARE missed by me, my love. So very much... tellement. Et je sais que je te manque aussi, amour.

Still a clueless étrangère

The other day, I got a series of strange SMS messages on my French cell phone. In French, bien sûr. Which is kind of where the whole trouble started.

For one thing, the number was a +44 number -- the U.K. While I do have a couple of clients over the Channel, but they don't normally call or text me on my cell phone. The first message said:

"Message VDO perso: Tu as un msg video poste aujourd'hui a 11h55. Pour l'obtenir envoie ABC par SMS au 8nnnn."

Hmmmm... Someone wanted to send me a video message? Can my cheap, bottom-of-the-line Nokia phone even play videos? I didn't think so. Who would be sending me a video message? Just at the same time, I got a texto from Georges, who has this new iPod Touch gadget, and I thought maybe he had figured out some odd way to send me a funny little video or something. I know -- I'm sure you, the wise objective observer, can see how completely STUPID was my logic here, but at that moment I couldn't think of what else it might be. So, I did what I thought I needed to do. As instructed, I sent the code ABC to that number*. And I waited to see my video.

What I received was: "Message cannot be displayed"

OK... then a few seconds later, a new message, this time from 8nnnn:

"Votre message video a bien été envoyé. Pour la suite, envoie OUI ou NON au 8nnnn."

Now, I was already feeling rather stupid and could sense a scam, and this little voice of sanity in my head kept saying: "No! Don't do it! Don't send the OUI!!!!"

But guess what? I sent the OUI. Don't ask me why. A perverse curiosity is all I can offer by way of explanation.

No surprise... I got the same "Message cannot be displayed" thing again. I knew this piece of crap phone couldn't play video.

I went back and looked at that last "send a OUI ou NON" message and scrolled down farther -- AHAH! there was more to the message, which I had not noticed because of how they cleverly spaced the continuation so someone wouldn't (hopefully) notice it at first glance: 

"Age 18+. M365 (3e + 1SMS)"

It was then I realized I had just agreed to be charged 3 euros + the cost of an SMS message, and for what? FOR PORN I DIDN'T EVEN GET TO WATCH.

I never heard of something like this, a random SMS spam. I've had cell phones for years and never gotten phone-spammed before. Is this a common thing in Europe? Has it happened to anyone in America or Canada or elsewhere? Live and learn. 

Just call me the stupid American tourist. Oh, la.

The odd thing is, I'm not sure which pisses me off more: was it that I did something stupid and wasted 3 euros, or... was it that despite the fact that the video was bound to be something REALLY offensive, I did STILL something stupid, wasted the 3 euros AND didn't even get what I paid for?

The only redeeming part of this story is knowing that I gave Georges QUITE a nice laugh when I told him WHY there would probably be a 3 euro "porn charge" on our next cell phone bill and that of course I would pay for it. Now he knows: as smart as I am, I can sometimes do some pretty half-assed things.

The sad part (well, sad for me, anyway) is that it will certainly NOT be the last time I am able to amuse him greatly with my foreigner's naiveté. France is just one big minefield of opportunities for me to look like a complete and utter cul. And clearly, I don't even have to step outside my door to do it.

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*In the interest of NOT wanting to endorse such dreadful phone-spam, I have changed the numbers and codes. So don't try this at home.

Poulet Pox

La varicelle. That's what it's called in French, the chicken pox. I had to look it up after Georges SMS'd me this morning to say "Chicken Pox! LOL. We're staying at the house all weekend." So much for plans to take the Boy to a museum or a movie or fun... the poor little guy has the flippin' pox, as officially diagnosed by a French pédiatre this morning. (This certainly explains some irritable behavior and trouble sleeping that he had on Thursday!) Thus, no school for him today (kids in France go to school on Saturday mornings), or probably most of the next week, either, until the spots go away. The nanny is going to have her hands full this week, I think.

Fortunately Georges says it does not appear to be a bad case, and the Boy's not very sick... just the usual few spots you might expect on a six-year-old. Actually, the next-door neighbor is hoping her two kids will get it too (all three boys share the same nanny), and get it over with now. For young kids, it's not such an awful thing most of the time, and it's more of a childhood rite of passage.

One which, unfortunately, I have never experienced myself. Yes, that's correct: I am quite possibly the only child born in America in the 1960s who NEVER GOT CHICKEN POX. That's right, NEVER. My mother is a nurse, and very observant... she'd have noticed if I had even one spot.

I never got it when my best friend got it in childhood, and I went over to her house and she hung her pox-y arm out of the window so I could rub my arm on hers to catch it on purpose... I wanted time off from school, too.

I never got it in high school when my buddy Angelo got it and we hung out together nearly every day.

I never got it when my younger sister caught it in either high school or college, even though I was living in the house with her.

After that, for some years I never thought much about it... that is, until my sister and some of my friends started getting married and having kids. And the kids started coming down with it, right on schedule. All of a sudden, I worried about chicken pox again because in adults, it can make you damned good and sick, and who needs that? Around that time, the chicken pox vaccine was approved for use in America, and I went right out and started the series of shots, free via my company medical plan and on-site doctors (they were also good enough to get me the Hepatitis A&B vaccines for free after there was an outbreak of Hep-A in our Dallas office -- an infected food handler in the cafeteria -- and I traveled there a lot but fortunately squeaked by without exposure that time).

The vaccine for chicken pox requires two doses, a few weeks apart. The problem is... I can't quite recall whether I actually bothered getting the second shot! I think I did, but I can't be positive. And if even if I did, I am wondering just how effective is this vaccine? I read that sometimes even vaccinated people can get The Pox, too.

So... I am crossing my fingers. I've already been exposed, nothing I can do about that. I'm just hoping for the best, because if I get it, it would be right around the time I'm due to FLY HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS. Oy.

In the meantime, I'm heading over to Georges' to hang out at home with he and the Boy, and to ease the indignity (and itching) of the spots, I will come bearing gifts, because I think a bout of poulet pox merits a new puzzle and a fresh pack of Pokemon cards to cheer up the "invalid".

And you thought it was all romantic lunches, lingering looks, steamy text messages and spicy sex in my new relationship? Welcome to the flip side of my new life.

But you know what? I don't mind. I am taking it in stride. It's amazing how easy it is to do just that -- take things in stride -- when you love someone and when you make up your mind to just ACCEPT what IS. And this is Georges' world, and as long as I get to be with him in it, I'll take the good with the pox.

La Résistance... to change

Yes, the rail strikes continue here in France... Day 7, and no end in sight -- the government maintains it will talk, but will not back down on the retirement reforms. Every day is a new adventure in creating a plan to get wherever you need to go. In Paris, this usually involves repeated visits to the RATP web site for the latest updates on which trains and buses are running (or not) and how frequently. It it also involves more walking and certainly more waiting than normal, although at least the temperatures are now more mild even though there is rain. And sometimes, it is just too much and you decide to change or cancel your plans and stay home.

To add to the chaos, civil servants went on strike today as well in a separate action, although for just the ONE day, and for slightly different reasons but still to protest some proposed Sarkozy reforms that will impact them, and this includes teachers, postal workers, some hospital workers and even air traffic controllers (good luck if you've got a flight in or out of France today).

The long and short of it is, most people agree that France needs to make changes in many areas in order to stay economically viable and competitive in a global marketplace, and it can't do that without some major reforms. It is WAY too "top heavy" with civil servants for one thing. But no one wants to be the one to BE "reformed"; no one wants to suffer the changes. The French, by and large, tend to resist change on any level to begin with (it's just a cultural thing), so the changes the new government is planning must be pushing a lot of emotional "hot buttons" with French workers... and of course the students then get into the action and protest, too, just on general principle.

If you are planning to be a tourist here in Paris during the next week or so... brace yourselves. Bring good walking shoes, warm clothes and get a good map of the city. Yes, some trains and buses are running, but they are overcrowded and unpredictable. Count on walking a LOT.

Read about it:

• New York Times
• CNN
• BBC
• Le Monde (in French)
• France 24 (in French but also in English here)

Strike Deux

Every new situation provides me with a chance to pick up a few new words in French. This week, it's the language of the French strike.

We've got our second big transportation strike here in France within the past month, both of them a reaction by the transportation unions to proposed pension reforms by the Sarkozy government (for details, try here or here). The first strike, at least as it was felt here in Paris, was more of an annoyance for most people (OK, for some it was much more than an annoyance, I'm sure) and it only lasted a couple of days, each day getting a bit better. This one promises to be a bit worse -- le trafic est très fortement perturbé -- as the unions have declared it "unlimited". This means it could go on indefinitely but will most certainly last more than a day or two. Many fear a repeat of the huge 1995 strike that lasted weeks and crippled Chirac's government; that strike had more popular public support than this one does, however -- 55% are said to be against this strike.

The RATP website, which normally provides really excellent tools like a point-to-point route planner and a little thing where you can find out when the next two buses are coming on any given bus line, is also shut down now except for regularly updated announcements of the status of the various metro, bus and tram lines running through Paris. And the news is not pretty; service has gotten progressively spottier as the day is heading into the afternoon/evening hours.

In my neighborhood, the 15th, for example, the two metro lines that serve this part of the arrondissement (the 12 and 13) are "service non assuré" which translates into "don't hold your breath or waste your time waiting for a train -- better hoof it". The buses (all of them) are still listed as "15% en moyenne" which is 15% of normal capacity. I hear a 95 bus pass by every so often but it does seem far less than normal.

Also, there is a big manifestation taking place around 2pm near Montparnasse where they are expecting around 12,000 transit workers plus workers from the EDF-GDF to protest the reforms the government is proposing (which is what the hubbub is all about in the first place). 19 bus lines run through that square and will be perturbées as a result.

Basically, this is not a good day to try and get around Paris (or even INTO Paris), and tomorrow promises to be no better. Georges and I are doing a "double date" dinner at his place with some friends of mine, and thank God one of my friends has a car to get us all to Georges' house on the far side of town from where I live; but still, the amount of organization it has taken to plan this cross-town trip so that we can hopefully arrive reasonably à l'heure is astonishing (I am beginning to appreciate public transportation more and more, the longer I'm here, especially when I have to map out a good driving route, with all the one-way streets in Paris!)

Suffice to say, there will be many tired and cranky commuters and tourists around the city. The Vélibs are sure to be in big demand. Bonne chance finding or even calling to reserve a taxi. And I hope all those Parisiennes have traded in their usual high heels for practical walking shoes.

And let's hope it doesn't last long.

How do you say "meltdown" in French?

Well, it's been nearly a year since I came here and in all that time I have not had a single "frustration meltdown" over my ability to communicate in French. Mainly because I haven't really hit a situation where I couldn't at least make myself understood, even if my French wasn't perfect, especially in terms of having to accomplish something important.

Until today. Today, I had to try and make a doctor's appointment. I have been dreading this, truly dreading it -- trying to deal with the medical profession when I don't speak the language.

I started by getting a referral from a friend to a clinic she really likes, newly renovated and very modern, and also got from her the name of her doctor, whom she likes although he does not really speak English (at least to her - she's fluent in French), plus another doctor she knows of at the same clinic who supposedly speaks very good English. She coached me on some of the words I would need to request the appointment and tell the receptionist what it was for. She said, "You can do it!" and I so wanted to believe her.

I phoned the main number listed on the clinic's website, a knot of apprehension in my stomach. I stumbled through my little rehearsed speech, that I would like to make an appointment with a doctor to discuss blah-blah-blah (never mind, no big deal) and that I'm American, and I apologize that my French is not very good (I thought, best let them know what they are dealing with here, and maybe they will take pity on me).

I got transferred. But that person had trouble hearing me at all (there is something wrong with my Vonage service lately where people are not hearing me very well or the sound is cutting out altogether), so I hung up and used my French cell phone instead. Had to go through the entire speech again, got transferred again. Repeated the speech. Got put on hold. Another girl came back, only to tell me I had to call ANOTHER number to make a appointment!

So what is with the main number on their website, then? She rattles off the number, and I had to have her repeat it like five times to be sure I got it right, and even repeated it back to her.

I called the number I had written down... but it was NOT the clinic's "make a rendez-vous" number but just some random guy's voice mail. What the hell? I just could not bear the thought of having to call the clinic back AGAIN to try and book an appointment, knowing that my French vocabulary or ability to comprehend rapid-fire spoken French had not miraculously improved since my earlier attempts. I felt defeated. Picture me waving the white flag in surrender.

And yet, I really need to make this appointment. Shit.

At this point, I was already so keyed up that I just melted down in my frustration, from feeling completely inadequate to do something as simple as make a freaking doctor's appointment for something very routine. I have studied French for HOW LONG? Since the age of 13? And I can't even have such a simple conversation and be understood? Then, I cried even more because I felt like such an ass for crying at all.

Either I misunderstood them, or they misunderstood me, but now I am wondering what to do. I am clearly not able to get through to these people effectively on my own. I am at a total loss. I am afraid to try calling them back again because what's the point? Even if I get an English-speaking doctor, even if I go to another doctor's office, I still have to deal with the French-speaking staff just to make the appointment. And don't even get me started on filling out the forms in French -- I am terrified at the thought of doing that without a translator.

Not knowing what else to do, I called the American Hospital in Paris, knowing that at least there, I could get the appointment set up, and made one for Wednesday evening. But at 130 Euros just for the consult I am hoping I can work something out with this clinic which is bound to be cheaper and quicker. At the Hospital, the secretary told me they might want to do all kinds of blood work and things that I KNOW are completely unnecessary in this instance. So, I've got the appointment but I'm hoping I can cancel it tomorrow after figure out my next move.

Suffice to say, I always knew that sooner or later, I would finally hit a wall with some aspect of living France and becoming frustrated with the less-than-optimal language skills. I am so used to being independent and handling things myself that I don't even much like the idea of asking a more fluent friend to help me set up the appointment. And I know this will not be the last time I melt down over dealing with a new French life. Add to this, it's a rainy, dreary Monday, just the sort of day when things like this can really put you over the edge.

But I'm better now... I've done my deep breathing, and done some work to concentrate on something productive, something I CAN control. And I will see Georges later, I have that to look forward to... I SO need a hug!

The Franglais Connection

My French has been improving rapidly already since meeting Mon Parisian. For one thing, this is the most consistent daily contact I have had with a French-speaking person since moving to Paris, and I'm so relaxed around him that I'm not so embarrassed to make faux pas around him. So that is part of it. The other part is, he's really great about helping me and even correcting me in a way that does NOT cause me to want to hit him over the head with my Larousse Advanced (that's the big HEAVY dictionary, the one that would really leave a mark).

Our conversations, both verbal and online, have taken on a Franglais-ish quality, especially on my part because I have further to travel to the point of fluency, but I'm making more of an effort to speak in more complete sentences or at least phrases, to use the correct accent marks when writing (even though it means extra keystrokes for me with my American keyboard), and even to try and correct myself when I catch my own mistakes. And I find myself thinking more in French, and even talking to myself in French more often. Tonight, we were both watching the football match on TV (from our separate homes, while chatting online) and I was cursing at the stupidity of the players who missed one scoring opportunity after the other (until the last minutes of the game when they finally drove home 2 goals, final score 2-0 France) and YELLING at the TV -- en français. Crude, perhaps, but it's progress.

However, I'm not the only one in this relationship who is improving his second language. Let me state for the record that his English is LIGHT YEARS ahead of my French, and it is nearly flawless most of the time (he does not always agree with me on this, however). Mon Parisian tells me he has surprised himself by thinking in English when he's not with me... and the other day he nearly spoke to a French colleague in English. He works in an organization that is all about French education, so speaking French is, well, the way it is. He is now concentrating more when sending emails at work, worried he might accidentally type something en anglais and hit the send button without realizing it. Quel scandale!

The other thing that completely gets me laughing at myself is that I have noticed that not only do I interject the French words I know smack in the middle of the English I'm using the majority of the time, I have also (albeit unconsciously until now) adapted HOW I speak English to him, to try and make it easier on HIM to understand ME. I speak it more the way a French person would speak it, less colloquially, less naturally the way it would be done with two modern English-speakers. I often drop contractions -- "It is" instead of "It's", or "We will" instead of "We'll" and so on. I don't "do" the French accent (well, only when I am teasing or need to imitate someone else to make a point), but it's more a change in the syntax and rhythm, sometimes even the word choices of the language, and I come off sounding more formal than I would normally do in everyday American-speak. Par example:

AMERICAN ME might say: Sweetie, how 'bout if we head up to the Espace Champerret  Saturday? There's a food and wine expo up there, all kinds of really cool stuff to see and do. We can hang out together there, sample all these really great wines, champagnes, cognacs, food from all over France. Let's hook up at 11am and we'll head out from there. I'll bring the wheelie cart in case we want to buy stuff and bring it home. Sound good?

FRANGLAIS ME might say, instead: Chéri, mon coeur, we go to the Espace Champerret, on Saturday, yes? There is the salon fermiers there that day, really fun. We can be ensemble, try some good wines, champagnes, cognacs, and foods from toute France. We can meet at onze heures, and go from there. I will bring the cart I use for the shopping, juste en cas we see something we want to bring home. It's a bonne idée? You want to do this?

Last but not least, is the part where we are losing words in our native tongues -- the Franglais-ementia is setting in! "I'd like a glass of... wait, uh... whada-u-callit? Oh, WATER" -- because I'm thinking "eau". He's had the same thing start to happen only in reverse, poor man. For his sake, I only hope it doesn't happen in the middle of an important business meeting or something. Or in my case, I often pronounce English words that are spelled the same in both languages, with a French accent -- even when I am NOT talking to a French person. Like when I was back in the States two weeks ago and starting talking to someone about "Wee-fee" access, and they looked at me like I had two heads. I blinked a few times, then remembered:  "Oh, Why-Fy"  Yeah... WiFi.

We are clearly having une grande impression on each other. Sometimes, one that is très amusante. We're having some good laughs at our own expense.

But where it counts most, we speak the same language. Need I spell it out?  L.O.V.E.

Cash withdrawals for dummies

It's the beginning of the month, and of course, that means it's time to pay the rent to my very lovely proprietaires next door. That means I have to deal with the French bank, and there is nothing that can make me feel more like an espèce d'idiot (stupid fool) than an encounter with my friendly French banker, no matter how nice they are (and they usually ARE nice, as it happens).

Until recently, when my American bank doubled the fees for foreign ATM withdrawals, I found it cheaper to use the ATM to get the cash for the rent, rather than pay the wire transfer fees. Because my bank has a daily withdrawal limit, I'd normally have to do three consecutive daily transactions to get all the funds, meaning three times the withdrawal fees (they used to charge 1% for international usage, plus an additional $2.00 flat fee per transaction because I was using an out-of-network ATM. Now it's 2% plus the $2.00. Greedy bastards.) Now, however I think the wire transfer is actually cheaper or at least it's more of a break-even proposition. So on Monday, I wired the funds to my French bank, and emailed my landlords to let them know I was back in Paris and would have a check for them on Tuesday.

For reasons they have never disclosed, but which I can guess, they prefer that I pay them in cash rather than by check every month. Never mind that the main reason I opened a checking account with a French bank was to be able to write the rent check each month, thinking it would just be EASIER. I explained to my landlady that I was planning to write checks from now on to avoid the huge ATM fees. She, in turn, said she understood about me wanting to avoid the fees, but still wanted cash, so would I mind going to the bank and just cashing a check instead?

Ummm... OK. Except for one thing. I had no freaking clue how to "cash a check" in French.

I tried Googling about this and the only thing I found was that "withdrawal" in French banking parlance is "retrait d'espèces". A retrait is a withdrawal, and espèces, in the plural, means "cash". In the singular, it means "sort, kind, type, or species".

Then, I trotted down the block to my bank, hoping that the very helpful account rep who helped me open my account (and the only person in the entire branch who speaks decent English) was working today. She was. We had a couple of minutes of me trying to explain that I did not want to cash a check from someone else (where they make you wait 11 days before you can get the funds anyway -- ELEVEN DAYS!) but I wanted to withdraw funds. I explained that in America, how I would do that was to write "Cash" where the payee's name would go. She said it's not like that here (quel surprise).

She escorted me to the teller area (no big, bullet-proof, glass partitions here, by the way) and explained to the teller, in French, what I wanted and how much I wanted to withdraw. I kept thinking they would hand me some kind of form or slip to fill out by hand, but instead I just showed them my checkbook so the teller could look up my account number. She printed out something from the computer stating how much money was going to be taken out of my account, and asked me to sign it. She handed me the cash. Voila! C'est facile!

Which basically means that, as usual, I was thinking it had to be much harder than it really was. It seems I am always anticipating a problem when I have to deal with anything in French, and 9 times out of 10 it's not such a big deal after all.

Putting all the French together, then, I have now coined a new phrase: retrait d'espèces + espèce d'idiot and what do you get?

Retrait d'espèces d'idiots = "Cash Withdrawals for Dummies"