the soiree of terror

The day I’ve been dreading has finally arrived.    I received the above invitation a few weeks ago.

Every year at this time, French people try to get to know/reconnect with their neighbors in what is called “Fete de Voisins.”   The idea is to form bonds that will counteract the isolation of city living and build stronger communities.  So this little fete will include everyone in my small apartment building.   I’m pretty sure all the tenants here are French, except one family.   I’m also pretty sure their English is no better than my French.  In most cases worse (gasp!).   Naturally, I’m terrified.

I walk s-l-o-w-l-y down the three flights to the party.   On the way I bump into my only English-as-a-first-language speaking neighbor (Denise) and her four year old son (William).   Denise is very thoughtfully locking her door, and staring at it as if trying to remember something.  Turns out, she’s trying to remember a reason she can’t go to the party.   She’s as nervous as I am.  But she’s lived here for seven years, so she clearly has an advantage.   William, who is fairly fluent in both French and English and fearless because he’s 4 and there promises to be cake, he’s ready to partay.   At least now, I have a suitable escort.

We enter the apartment together, doing the whole introduction and kissing both cheeks thing.   Damn, these people talk fast!   I still don’t know what anyone’s name is because I can’t distinguish the words from the names.

The table overflows with food like some decadent still life.   I wish I brought my camera. There are about 11 guests ages ranging from 4-75.  The host and hostess are a 70-ish couple and live on the ground floor with an amazing garden with a small koi pond.   The husband speaks a petite peux of English (not as much as he thinks).

Representing the 1st floor a 60-ish couple ( think the man was a bit older).   They both only speak french, although the husband’s rapid-fire french is punctuated with seemingly random “OH MY GODs” (in English—maybe he’s trying to make me feel at home).

From the second floor we have Denise and William.   I’m the third floor.

From the top floor brings two female college students who are renting the apartment.   Also in attendance, the attractive 40-ish man who owns the apartment.  There’s also a woman I can’t place, but for some reason I think she has something to do with the top floor.

As much as Denise and I would prefer to sit in a corner and talk to each other in English, we know it would be cowardly and we must mingle.  I watch her dive bravely into the fray.   I’m intimidated by her ability to understand questions and answer them. I feel better when she tells one of the neighbors that her son, William is 40.

In the following three hours, I learn as much as I can about my neighbors and bond with them given my limited French skills.   Here’s what I managed to pick up:

The hostess quit smoking after 52 years and she said something about cocaine and morphine in the same sentence.   I’m assuming she said it was harder to quit cigarettes than cocaine or morphine.   Either that, or she used cocaine and morphine to kick nicotine.   Will have to delve deeper into that when my French improves.   In response, I tell her that she must have started smoking when she was two.   Well, I hope that’s what I told her.   She kind of clutched her hand to her heart, in what I hope was a gesture of gratitude or pleasure.

The man on the second floor feels very strongly (OH MY GOD!) that The painter Nicolas Stahl was very something.   So was Picasso.   He also said something about Collioures, which is a small fishermens village near the Spanish border where a lot of famous painters spent time.   I’ve always wanted to go there, so I nod enthusiastically.

First floor’s son got married in Santa Barbara.   He may also live there.   It’s very beautiful there.

The students on the fourth floor are studying at some school on Jules Grec Blvd .  I know where it is, so I nod enthusiastically.   They’re majoring in either agriculture, horticulture or quantum physics.  They are originally from somewhere in the north of France.  I know where the north of France is so I nod in knowingly.

The recipe for Gateau du thon (tuna cake, think meatloaf made with tuna instead of meat):   Tuna, lemon juice, capers, egg, salt pepper and a touch of mayo with Dijon mustard.   Bake at 350 for 30 minutes.

The proprietor of “Le sex shop” (a few doors up the street) is very charming.

David and his wife, Nikki  (the couple who own the apartment I live in) are lovely, and Nikki is both smart, beautiful and a bunch of other stuff that is said in a very positive manner.   Great.   I will always be compared to her.   I bet her French is perfect, too.   Bitch.

The crowing I hear from the building next door at about 10AM every morning is actually a chicken (I figured it was a lazy rooster)   They used to have three but two of them died.   Not sure if they ate them.

William wants his bubbles (as in to blow bubbles).   Bubbles in French ar “bulles de savon”.   I initially thought they said bulles de savant (bubbles of knowledge).   It took about 15 minutes to clear this up.

The tarte is delicious.   The hostess didn’t make it, she bought it at the bakery on the Rue de Republique

The rest of the evening, I’m pretty sure they were just saying bad things about me.

I used the phrase “lentment s’il vous plait” approximately 14 times.

I guess some would say this is a pretty lame example of my French skills if this is all I got from three hours of continual conversation.

On the other hand, a year ago here’s the sum total of what I would have picked up:

Cocaine.   Morphine.   Cigarettes.  Picasso.  Collioures.   OH MY GOD!   Santa Barbara.  North of France.    Tuna cake.   Salt and pepper.   They like Nikki better than me.   Chicken.   Dead.  The Sex Shoppe.  Knowledge.   The tarte is delicious.

I’m making progress!

word of the day: vetuste

The plumber taught it to me.   Well, he used it in a sentence.   I had to look it up.   I was a little offended when I saw that it means  ”old” and “decrepit.”  Then it occurred to me that he might have been referring to the plumbing, not me.

french pharmacies: a source of drugs, cosmetics, knowledge and something akin to serenity

 You know how men are supposedly drawn to hardware stores?   That’s how I feel about French pharmacies.

I could spend hours tinkering with French skincare creams, nail polishes, cosmetics, haircare products and contemplating the ingredients in a bevy of drugs, herbs and salves.   French drugstores have a lot of the stuff you might find in Barneys or Sephora such as Caudelie, Nuxe, Darphin,  a smattering of Eucerin, Oil of Olay amongst lots of things with exotic sounding names that I’ve never seen before.   I just know there’s a  miracle unguent in there somewhere.

I don’t know if French drugstores are more or less expensive than American ones.   I got 7 Zyrtec,  24 Advil and some cough syrup for 8.50 Euro.  I do know that Tiger Balm is exorbitant at about 12 Euro.   On the other hand, Roger and Gallet is like Dove over here.

In addition to all the homeopathic, aromatheraputic medicines, the over the counter drugs are much more interesting than ours(for starters, their over the counter cough syrup has codeine!)   Once, long ago in Paris, they gave me the most wonderful pain killer that had me floating through the Tuilleries which I have devoted part of my life trying to find again.

In Europe, they’re big on plant based cures.   For example, when I had a cold and asked for something to help, they gave me these capsules of essential oils and Advil.   I don’t know if it worked or whether the cold just ran its course, but I’m feeling better, thank you.

I’ve learned a lot of French words in French pharmacies.   Appaisant means calming.   Minceur means thin as in lose weight.      Grippe means flu.   Toux is cough.   Cellulite means cellulite.

Today’s word:   allaitement.

While taking leisurely browse at the Grande Pharmacie d’Antibes I find an exciting product I’ve never seen: Weleda Tisane Allaitement pour Serenite.  Weleda makes these lovely plant based moisturizers, bath oils and skincare products, which I’ve always liked.   I figure the tea must be delicious and will calm my rattled overworked nerves.

I take the box to the cash register along with the Mavala Daring Pink nail polish and hand them to the cashier.   I point to the tea and say boldly “j’ai besoin de serenite”.

She looks at me really funny.   My mind started whirling as I try to figure out what word I’d mangled and how badly I’ve offended her.   I stammer out some words trying to explain…”j’ai beaucoup du stress… beaucoup de travail… donc j’ai besoin d…”   At this point she looks concerned, shakes her head, studies the box and babbles something to the other cashier.

I’m thinking, “oh merde, what have I said?   They’re gonna kick me out of the pharmacy, no, Antibes for this…maybe even France.

The other cashier blurts out with it (in English):   “this tea is for breast feeding!”   Now I know what “allaitement” means.   They must think I’m nuts trying to buy a tea for lactating mothers.   I’m one step away from being known as that crazy old American woman in Antibes.

I turn the color of Malava Daring Pink nail polish, slap myself upside the head and say…”Okay. Merci.  Le vernis de ongles seulment.   Ces tisanes ont tres, tres, tres pas pour moi”    Then we all have a good laugh.

I make a conscious decision not to spin myself into an uproar wondering how she knew I’m NOT breastfeeding (clearly I’m old and flat chested).   And despite the lack of serenity inducing tea, I swear to God, every time I look at my newly painted toenails, I feel pretty damn good.

a sure sign of assimalation. or something.

Today,  I spent 15 minutes trying to remember the English word for “courgette.”

To me, this can only mean one of two things:   Either I’m finally starting to think in French or I have alzheimer’s.

the most frightening thing i’ve ever done in a foreign country

I’ve done a lot of things abroad that probably should have scared the crap out of me.   I walked through the old city of Jerusalem on the first day of Ramadan after somebody threw a pig’s head over the wall to the Al Aska mosque.   I smoked something probably illegal with a rug dealer and one of his 89 cousins in Selcuk, Turkey.   I crossed the street in Rome.   Now that I think about it, it’s a wonder I’m still alive.

But up until now, I’ve never done anything like this.    I’m going to try to open a bank account in France.   I hear it’s difficult, but it must be done in order to gain any kind of legitimacy here (like rent an apartment long term, get a phone or buy a house).

After practicing the phrase “Bonjour,  je voudrais faire un rendez-vous avec un persone qui parle anglais, s’il vous plait.” for a week, I finally have the nerve to walk into Credit Agricole and ask the lady behind the desk the question I’ve rehearsed.

The woman  responds politely in French and consults a calendar.   She understands me.   Yaaaaaay!!!!   Triumph!

Then she asks:   A quelle raison?

Uh oh.   I was not expecting this.   “Ummmmm….je voudrais….umm… ouvrir un ou une (I wave my hands around) account.”

She shouts triumphantly “un compte!”

I shout triumphantly “Oui!” and we practically high five each other.

She makes the appointment and writes it down on a little card.

So I get there at the prearranged time.   Today,  a very young man is at the desk helping people in French (of course).  When it’s my turn,  I say bonjour and  show him the card.  He says “c’est moi” and asks me if I speak a petite peu de Francais because he knows very little English.   About three words more than the woman who made the appointment, I reckon.

The good news is, he makes as much sense to me as an any English speaking banking professional I’ve dealt with.    He asks for my passport, my justifacat de address en France et des Etats Unis.

Surprisingly, my brain doesn’t go dead when he asks a question.   I don’t  turn red, stammer or sweat, which is probably soothing to a banker.   I have answers, paperwork.

After about an hour he releases me onto the street with a packet of information and my new account number, online code and tells me my account will be open and working on Vendredi (the day after tomorrow).

I feel like someone should be throwing me a parade for such a major accomplishment.   I’m now legit in France!!!

Either that or I just gave some kid a chunk of my hard earned money and he’s off spending it on wine, prostitutes and  loud motorbikes.  Or worse,  maybe I just gave my money to a bank.

diner avec les voisins (fete de moi part deux)

Ooooo, I’m going to French peoples’ house for dinner. People I didn’t know four months ago. People who speak French. And it’s Fete de moi. But I’m pretty sure they don’t know that. I may have mentioned my birthday weeks ago to Carole in one our French/English sessions when we were doing dates and birthdays and times. I have friends who don’t remember my birthday even if I tell them the day before (which I choose to interpret as an act of kindness rather than that they don’t give a damn). No way will she remember. That’s cool. I come from the ignore it and it will go away school of thinking.

I really like Carole. We have a great time during our French/English sessions. I don’t know Jerome as well, but he seems fun too. But that doesn’t mean I’m not afraid of having dinner with them. What if it’s three courses of uncomfortable silence? What if I make a faux pas and start an international incident? Or worse, make a faux pas and get kicked out of Auvers?

It’s not the fact that the conversation flows easily, even with the language barrier that relaxes me. Or even that Carole remembers it’s my birthday –there’s champagne, and they sing happy birthday to me in French and English when they bring out a home made birthday tart with candles (another interesting fact: the French often sing “happy birthday” in English, but they’re not sure why). What clinches it for me is Jerome announcing that the best thing about America besides rock and roll is “The Simpsons” and that he feels a great bond with Homer. This is when I know for sure we’ll be great friends.

But I’m not here to get smooshy about the neighbors. I’m here as an ambassador and to gather intelligence.

Jerome and Carole are both divorced (from other people) and have been seeing each other for five years. (interesting statistic: the divorce rate in the Ile de France area is 75% which I find oddly comforting) They’re in their mid-forties. They both have two kids from the previous marriages. He lives in St Ouen, just outside of Paris and she lives here. He works in software and she works in sales.

For the most part, they’re together on the weekends and live their lives sort of separately during the week. It seems to suit both of them. Carole seems quite independent and likes having her alone time.

Carole is from Auvers originally. Her mother still lives here. Her daughter just moved out and is living in an apartment here in Auvers. Her 11 year old son is spending August in Normany with his father. Jerome is also from the Il de France area. People here seem to stay closer to their roots than we do in America. Of course, we have more room to spread out.

Jerome has been to Dallas, San Francisco, Baltimore and Atlanta on business. Carole hasn’t been to the US and doesn’t deal with Americans in her work, which is why she needs help improving her English. Jerome has obviously spent time with Americans. His English is quite good and even uses expressions like “you guys.” He’s especially keen to pick up our more colloquial phrases like: “that’s crap!” which he can’t wait to use on his Dallas associates.

Their favorite phrase is “shit-faced”. They think it’s hilariously ugly. At first, it’s a totally foreign concept to them. They say French people don’t get “shit-faced”. Which may sound elitist, but I really have noticed that you don’t see as many drunken people stumbling (and driving) about here as one does in the US. Carole and Jerome think it’s because Europeans have been drinking since they were children, so they don’t get falling down drunk (don’t we call that having a “hollow leg” or something?). At any rate, every time Carole refills her glass, she says “I wish to experience this shit-faced”. I feel proud to have contributed to their knowledge of American culture.

We theorize about why so many Japanese tourists come to Auvers. Whenever I see a Japanse person or group at a train station, I know they’re on their way to Auvers and I’m always right. It’s almost like a pilgrimage site. Maybe the Japanese have some mysterious affinity to Van Gogh. He did do those fabulous copies of Japanese prints, did that have something to do with it? There was the Japanese industrialist who bought a portrait of Dr. Gachet and wanted to be buried with it. Everyone protested, the guy died and the painting is missing. Maybe the Japanese have some strange Van Gogh cult…Or maybe the Japanese industrialist and the painting are buried here and it’s some sort of secret Japanese treasure hunt. If we find a Japanese tourist who speaks either French or English (not good odds on that), we resolve to ask.

After a few drinks, I blurt out that I think that the French are more like Americans than any other nationality. Then I hold my breathe and prepare to run. I hasten to add that I mean it in a good way, explaining they are like “le quarante neuf pour cent qui n’ont vote pas pour Palin” (which is essentially French for “the people in the blue states”). Considering that they didn’t poison my food, I assume no grave offense was taken.

But while there are similarities, the French seem to be more in touch with…life, humanity. history, a world beyond theirs. They seem less caught in the machinery. They don’t have a lot of fast food because they don’t eat fast. They stroll.

We mostly converse in French (and pantomime, at which I’m becoming fluent). Carole corrects my grammar where necessary, kind of like my mother does in English and about as often. It’s surprising how many words I find hard to explain in English, let alone French.

Every now and then I astonish all of us by remembering a difficult word and using it correctly in a sentence. “ Enfante gate” (spoiled child), shocked the heck out Jerome. As did “grouiller” (swarming crowd). They cheer me, probably the same way they cheered their kids when they first said “maman” or “chat”. I obligingly puff up with childish pride.

On my way home (all four meters) I savor the moment. I made it! It was fun. I don’t think they hate me! I hit the French neighbor jackpot! I can’t believe how sweet it was for those rude, anti-American French people to do that for me. They sure aren’t doing much to further the French snob stereotype. I also note that this is the first time I’ve seen a drunk person staggering around Auvers. Sure, it’s me, but a statistic is a statistic.

 

More on my international relations:

bridging cultural chasms

international political summit

a short respite from tyranny

by Claude Monet

 

Today is Bastille day. But if you call it Bastille day (or jour de bastille) in France, they’ll blink at you blankly for a few moments until a flash of recognition comes over their faces and they say “ahhhhhh, La Fete Nationale! Or “ahhh, Juillet 14th!

The French do that a lot…blink blankly when you attempt to speak to them in their native tongue. Personally, I think it’s is a passive aggressive thing (come on, Frenchy, you couldn’t make the mental leap from Bastille day to Fete Nationale? Donnez moi un break. –Or is that une break?) but I’ll let that slide for the moment.

La Fete Nationale commemorates the anniversary of the French taking a stand against the monarchy (Louis, Louis and Louis) and storming the Bastille to free the political prisoners put there by the King. There were only seven prisoners in the Bastille when they stormed it (sounds more like a drizzle than a storm). But I guess it’s the thought that counts.

Afterwards, some guy named Bernard Raspail (I believe he was named after a good shopping street on the Rive Gauche) got together with some other guys, Thomas Jefferson among them, and wrote a lovely document about the rights of man which is very similar to our Declaration of Independence. This lead to the French revolution. Which lead to Napoleon who was worse than what they revolted against. Now that I think about it, what the hell are they celebrating?

Like our Fourth of July, Juillet 14 has parades, fireworks (feu d’artifice), flag waving and general nationalist fervor…everything I hate.

My deep and abiding terror of fireworks (with the possible exception of sparklers is the result of reading a book about a kid who went blind from a firecracker when I was five. I think it was supposed to be some uplifting tale about rising above difficulties, but all I got out of it was a 40 year plus fear of fireworks. I usually need to be sedated on firework related holidays. Especially after 9/11.

But even if I LIKED fireworks, it seems a little excessive for freeing seven prisoners.  I kind of get the fireworks for our Independence day– we had a war and there really were the rockets red glare and bombs bursting in air.

Wouldn’t a more appropriate celebration be locking some people in a closet or small room and then freeing them? Maybe followed by a drunken fistfight? Think of the money they’d save on fireworks.

I’m hoping here in Auvers, at least the festivities will be on a smaller scale than what I’m used to in New York. I’m also hoping that every time I hear a firecracker pop I won’t react the same way I did in New York, which was to shield my eyes, cower in a corner and contemplate how best to flee the city.

by Eduoard Manet

Here, the fireworks actually begin on the 13th. I discover this on the 13th, when at twilight a series of explosions rouse me from my pot au creme induced stupor. I rouse myself long enough to figure out the sounds are Fete Nationale related and return to my stupor.

Then I smell smoke. Once I’ve determined I haven’t set the house on fire I figure that someone is burning leaves again. Until the sirens sound. Yes, the first sirens I’ve heard in Auvers in almost three months.

I take it as a sign of emotional health that the thought of terrorism doesn’t cross my mind. The possibility that the sirens are a dragnet is coming to take me back and try me for crimes I’ve forgotten or for saying something bad about the US government flickers, but doesn’t take hold. Nor does the “Diary of Anne Frank” movie flashback that makes me want to hide in the attic at the sound of European sirens.

Nonetheless, I rush to the window to see what’s going on. To my relief, firetrucks race past Rue du Pois and line up in front of the empty building used for the Thursday/Sunday market. The roof is burning. And I just know it’s some stray spark from one of those nationalist firecrackers that has caused the damage. When will these people learn?

A fire I can deal with. And looking out the window, it seems the people of Auvers take it as opportunity to socialize. I go outside and join the crowd watching the fire as if it were on wide screen tv. It’s almost as though the fire is part of the festivities. I look for a keg. I check out the firemem (Like every woman in the world, I have fireman fantasies). Maybe I should find myself a nice French Fireman. Wouldn’t that be the ultimate? I guess this probably isn’t a good time to flirt with them, though. But they are doing a mighty fine job. The fire is almost out. And that guy on the ladder sure seems to know what to do with his hose.

My neighbors Jerome and Carole interrupt my reveries. They introduce me to some other neighbors. We chat. Well, they chat and I pick out words I understand and nod accordingly.

I also make my first French joke: le jour independence en France est meilleux que notre le jour independence en par ce que Les Francais a les feu d’artifice ET les feu vraiment. It’s not very funny in English and only mildly funny in French, but they seem to appreciate the effort.

Now that it’s dark enough, The fireworks by the river start to go off, and I nervously look back towards the house. I notice the front window is open. Good lord, is history repeating itself? Has the prison been breached?  Have my kitties escaped?

When I get to the house, my worst fears are confirmed: Desdemona is in the center of the lawn chewing some grass. God knows where Denzel is. I pick up Desdemona and carry her back to the house. She serenades me with some of the most horrifying sounds I’ve ever heard from a cute little cat. They could definitely use her for Exorcist 4 (or whatever number they’re on).

Denzel is the real problem. If he’s out there, he might as well be invisible because it’s dark and he’s black. My only hope of finding him is the bell on his collar.

I search the house and he’s nowhere to be found. I go outside and I start to call him frantically. Silence.

I could sure use some of those wartime night vision goggles right now. The light from the fireworks (which I’m sure are lovely) aren’t quite enough to light the yard. I finally hear the tinkle of his bell and see him sitting calmly among the bushes. But as I walk towards him, he dashes off in the other direction. He stops when he gets a good distance and rolls on the grass as the rockets red glare and bombs burst in air overhead. But as soon as I get close, he takes off in another direction and once again, when he gets a good distance, he rolls luxuriantly, taunting me. Dogdamnsonofabitch!

This goes on for a half hour, me chasing him from the bushes, to the lawn to the bushes to the lawn to the bushes… until a neighbor kid yells something to his mom, which freaks Denzel out and he runs to the front door and paws desperately at it until I let him back in the house. I’m sure there are some who would say that his hasty retreat only proves that Denzel has some French in his blood.

The fireworks have stopped now. Denzel and Desdemona are locked safely in their room (being punished) and now I feel ready to celebrate the true meaning of the holiday. I crack open another pot au crème. The cats scratch at the door and make complaining noises. Denzel occasionally yowls in dissent.

Poor kitties, I think to myself as I savor the rich creamy dessert. Let them eat cake.

the true meaning of fete de la cocagne

Today’s the big day. The last day of the Fete de la  Cocagne. Maybe today I’ll figure out what it is.

The main drag is closed and booths are set up for about a quarter of a mile. Booths selling stuff—yes, little make due shops! Joy to the world. I celebrate with a glace (ice cream cone) for breakfast.

There are Savoie cheese vendors, sausage and jambon vendors, vendors selling a variety of juices made in the region, arts and crafts booths, a booth selling beer made in the region, wine booths, a booth selling Auvers posters with Van Gogh paintings he painted while he was here, a bakery booth, and my personal favorite, a booth selling framed bugs and butterflies for a mere 10% of the price I’ve seen them sold elsewhere in the states or Paris.

An ooompapa band plays in the background as the tourists and natives wander the streets. Fortunately, only a few are in period costume so I don’t feel out of place or like a party poop.

I ask a few people qu’est ce que c’est cocagnes and most people shrug their shoulders. A few people answer, but I don’t understand a word they’re saying. Where is the French lesson booth when you need it?

My economic contribution is to buy two Auvers Van Gogh posters which I figure will be a nice memory of my time here and will look lovely on my refrigerator box wall when I return to the states. I also get a bottle of cherry/apple juice, a bottle of award winning Biere du Vexin (which is quite good, I must say), a delicious cheese and a small salami. There goes my grocery money for the week. But when I think about it, I’ve got all four food groups covered: dairy with the cheese, meat with the salami, fruit with the juice and grain with the beer. I’m set.

Everyone is jolly and friendly, although I don’t recognize any of them from Auvers.

All in all, it’s a lovely fete. And I think I’ve figured out what cocagne means: tourist trap.

la “fete de la cocagne” is coming!

The question is, what is it?

I’ve been seeing these posters around town.

The preparations are massive. Flags all over the streets and Hotel de Ville. A carousel is in the parking lot. Stages are being set up in the Hotel de Ville parking lot as well as the Van Gogh park.

A construction site on the Rue du Pois is now filled with kegs of beer, glasses, tables and chairs. Is it a party for construction workers? Flower boxes are everywhere, brimming with brightly colored flowers.

Cocagnes is not listed in the French to English dictionary, and I’m pretty sure it’s not cocaine, so maybe it has something to do with chickens?

My biggest fear is that it involves wearing a costume.

you say la tomate, I say le tomate

If I’m to believe Carole and the guy I buy fruit and vegetables from at the market, my French is improving. I definitely understand more. And I’ve been able to have deep discussions with the owner of the grocery store about which cookies ont meilleux et pourquoi.

I’m learning that if you put something French sounding at the end of every English word you don’t know the French word for, 75% of the time, you’ll be right. Examples: publicity=publicite (publeeceetay); geriatric=geriatrique (geriatreek); totally=totalement (totalmon). Every now and then there’s an exception to that rule, and instead you put something French sounding in front of it. Examples: weekend=le weekend; internet=le internet.

I’ve also become better at looking like I understand. People can go on for paragraphs before realizing I don’t understand what they’re saying. And by then, I can usually pick out a few words and piece it together. Of course, when I can’t piece it together and am forced,  after someone has rambled on for two paragraphs to say “je ne comprends pas”, they look at me like I’m crazy for not stopping them sooner. Some of them walk away grumbling under their breath, but fortunately, I usually can’t understand them.

I’ve also learned the French stall word. In the US, we have “like” or “uh”. Here, it’s “errrr”, which sounds much smarter than the US versions. Especially if you do it with that subtle roll at the back of your throat and let the rrrrrs roll into your next real word.

The conjugation thing is still a problem. I can only manage the simplest tenses (okay, my repertoire is still pretty much present tense, but that’s  true for me in English too). I’m sure I sound like some stupider version of I Dream of Jeannie to the French. Is it possible to sound stupider than I Dream of Jeannie?

But here’s the thing that really trips me up: every time I think I’ve got all the nouns and adjectives right and the verbs conjugated correctly, I un when I should une or le when I should la. What is with this focus on whether a noun is masculine or feminine? Yes, I’m suffering from acute gender confusion.

Back in the good old U S of A, nouns are just nouns. We don’t care if a pastry, domesticated animal, potato, or an illegal war based on lies is a boy or a girl, to us, it’s just pastry, domesticated animal, potato, or an illegal war based on lies. I firmly believe nouns should not be discriminated against. Well, that’s what I tell Carole when I screw up (“le…la…c’est sexiste!”)

But there’s something really dodgy about labeling all nouns either masculine or feminine.

When I ask how they know whether every word is masculine of feminine, they answer cryptically that they know it en couer (by heart). The implication is that it’s some sort of innate thing. Maybe masculinizing and feminizing things is in the human DNA, a part of the common consciousness.. Maybe the French are just more in touch with it. If I just tap into the part of me that’s plugged into the pulse of mankind maybe the right words will instinctively blurt from my mouth. The problem is I’m not sure if I can still speak when I’m that drunk.

There’s no rhyme or reason to what’s designated masculine or feminine. Baguette and saucisson are both feminine, but I think the French must be mistaken. Look at them—they’re totally masculine. And tampon is masculine. Go figure. I guess I could make a case for that one if I really thought about it, but I’d rather not.

I’m starting suspect that in real life, the French don’t really gender discriminate their words. They only do it when we’re around. It’s just a passive aggressive trick they established to retain a small sense of superiority after we saved their derrieres in WW2. When we say “le baguette”, they correct us and tell us it’s “la”. When we say la baguette, they tell us it’s le. We wind up confused, frustrated and totally helpless. Just the way they want us.

When Carole informs me that chat is masculine, unless le chat est une chatte comme Desdemona, I float my theory past her (in French, of course). She seems impressed that I am able to communicate a fairly complex thought in French. She thinks about it for a moment, smiles and corrects me.

It’s LA deuxieme guerre de LE monde.

Zut! Je ce rende!

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