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.

a quick language lesson

The other day a group of kids from the neighborhood came running up to me and said “coucou!”

My first reaction was ‘oh my god, how do they know?   Who told them?”

But after a bit of research I discovered that “coucou” is the colloquial phrase for “hello.”

I’m glad I didn’t beat the merde out of them.

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!

***

Check out my latest on the Huffington Post.

 

the rock stars of auvers

Where I come from, people stand in line for celebrities and iPhones.

Here in Auvers, it appears the most wanted men are the butchers.   On Sunday mornings before they close for their weekend, the line stretches down the main drag.

J.Y. Gicquel Boucherie  comes highly recommended by the Ladoux family.   I’ve been a little hesitant to venture in there because it will require speaking French and I shudder to think what adorable forest creature I might wind up taking home for dinner.   I’m also not sure whether those numbers before the decimal point in their prices, are ones or sevens and whether we’re talking francs or euros and I’m afraid I can’t afford it if I have to ask.

I’m feeling a little lazy tonight and have decided that my lack of energy is due to a protein deficiency and I need a good piece of red meat.   Preferably something someone who’s lived on takeout for the past 20 years can cook.

I’m a little nervous entering, the vibe here is a lot friendlier than the boulanger down the street, where I feel I must apologize when I enter, again when I order and one more time when I pay.   Sometimes I apologize when I leave for good measure.

It’s not like I’m a total stranger here.  I wave to them every time I walk by and they wave back.  There are usually two butchers; a younger one with a roundish face and receeding hairline and an older guy with salt and pepper hair and a nice northern european face.  They may be wearing bloody aprons, but here, they’re captains of industry.   A woman mans the prepared foods counter (quiche, Frenchy salads, things en croute and terrines with hardboiled eggs in them) and cash register.

A couple of people are ahead of me which gives me time to get my bearings and look at all the meats behind the counter and try to figure out what they are so I can point knowledgably.   There are about 7 different kinds of chicken shaped items in various sizes.  Lots of fillets of chicken colored objects of various sizes,  slabs of red unrecognizable red meats.   Lots of unrecognizable parts.   Sausage galore.   Chops.   Ribs.   Rabbits.   Geese.   I’m getting a little sad and consider fleeing or at least turning to the deli counter, but it’s my turn.

Here are the french words for meats I know I’ll eat:   poulet (chicken), agneau (lamb), boeuf (beef), dinde (turkey), porc.   But then we get into cuts and I’m lost.   Is an onglet a steak or some organ I don’t want to know about?   And is it an onglet de boeuf, ou cheval?   And what the heck is french for goat?   Je ne voudrais pas goat.   Or lapin (rabbit).   I’m now in a cold sweat and probably look guilty.

The younger guy greets me in French.    I try to say something in French, but all I can do is look behind the the glass and point desperately at a kebab and ask ‘qu’est ce que c’est.’   He doesn’t understand me.   Shit (merde).   He’s one of those French people who doesn’t understand English OR really bad French.   This could be a problem.

I point again at the kebab and ask “c’est l’agneau?”

He looks at me blankly.   I repeat myself slowly.   Nothing.   By now everyone in the store has stopped and watches curiously.   I really want to flee now, but I might want to come back here sometime, so I blunder on.

I point at the kebab and “baaaaah” loudly like a lamb.   His face brightens and he nods vigorously.   I point to my leg.   He nods again.

I shout excitedly, ca!   Un de ca s’il vous plait.  He doesn’t understand what I’m saying, but we’re on the same wavelength.

He wraps it up and I hold my hand out to take it.   He gives me a slip of paper and points to the cash register while babbling something in French.  And I totally get it.   They give me the meat after I pay.   I say merci beaucoup, he says something and the transaction is completed.    We’re both very pleased with ourselves.

Next stop, cash register.   Grand total about E4.92 which is about 9 dollars, so, pretty pricey.   It also presents the problem of whether I pay with the pocketful of coins in my pocket or just hand her the E10 bill I have and get even more coins.   If I pay in coins it could take hours for me to figure out the right amount.   But if I get my change in coins, I’ll just have to face the problem down the road.   I do the only logical thing and dump the contents of my pocket on the counter and let the very nice cashier pick out the coins she needs.

I leave the store with my package, calling out “merci, bon soir!” feeling very French.

I broil the kebab, which is all seasoned lamb cubes with a chunk of some sort of sausage at each end and make a salad.

All I can say is that kebab brought me more pleasure than Springstein, Jagger or an iPhone ever could.   Hours later, I’m still fantasizing the subtle seasoning and the tender juicy lamb cubes.   And the sausage!   OMG!  A veritable medley of spices in perfect pork harmony that I can’t get out of my head.

Tomorrow is Sunday, so I’m going to get in line first thing in the morning.   Maybe I should camp out front over night.   I’ll just die if they’re sold out when I get there.

Consult this meat translation guide before venturing into a boucherie.

the road to butry

I wake up to blue skies. At least in the literal sense. Like the birds, I’m atwitter.

I said I was going to walk to Pontoise on the first sunny day, but something pulls me in the opposite direction.

This is actually a test to see how far a city girl like me can walk without the stimuli of millions of things to covet in store windows.

I can barely make it a store-free block without extreme boredom in Manhattan, so I fear that the all the natural beauty (not available for purchase) will be less than I can bear.

I prepare with a good, hearty breakfast, which for me is coffee and yogurt. I get dressed, making sure to wear something mildly becoming in case some handsome, age appropriate vintner happens to be strolling as well. By 10:30AM, I’m off.

I practice French as I walk…mostly the r rolling thing, as I’ve decided that’s the key. I mutter to myself “ Merchkkkci…merchkkkci. Bonjourchkk….Bonjourchkkk. S’il vous plait, ou se trouve un slurpee?”

Once I exit the outskirts of Auvers, I start to panic. How will I get back? What if I can’t get back and collapse of dehydration? It’s very sunny. I better go back to the house to prevent skin cancer. I will die if I don’t turn back now. I have had similar sensations leaving the island of Manhattan for Queens. But that was Queens, for godsake. This is somewhere between Auvers and Butry Sur Oise.

Bravely I continue into unfamiliar territory. It looks sort of like Auvers, but it’s not. I see nothing familiar. Sure, there are trees, flowers, cute old shuttered houses, hills, but they aren’t the same trees or flowers or houses or hills. I didn’t even bring any ID if I get hit by a truck. But as I keep walking I get lulled by the ever chirping birds. And the smell of flowers in the air. Everyone’s garden is blooming and every house has its own perfume. I’m starting to feel pretty good. But isn’t that how lost hikers feel right before they die?

A church bell chimes 11 times. Jeez, it feels like lunchtime, at least.

I continue practicing French as I continue onward.

Bonjourchkkk. Aidez moi s’il vous plait, monsieurchkkk. J’habille en Auvers. Prennez moi ca s’il vous plait. Je suis…lost. J’ai soif. Merchkkkci.

I keep telling myself to turn back, but I trudge onward as I’m sure there’s some lovely boutique just around the next bend.

No boutiques, just more stone houses, beautiful gardens, greenery and a million perfumes. Man, they should bottle these scents. And sell them at the boutique that’s got to be around the next corner.

I’ll tell you why the French are slimmer than Americans—they have to be. Their roads and sidewalks are so narrow, a mere 10 pounds overweight could render one immobile. I’m thin and still find myself walking sideways a lot, my back hunched up against a hedge or fence.

I smile at each passing bike rider in case they’re cute, while chanting my mantra to myself: Bonjourchkkk. Aidez moi s’il vous plait, monsieurchkkk. J’habille en Auvers. Prennez moi ca s’il vous plait. Je suis…lost. J’ai soif. Merchkkkci.

I’m now in the center of town. It’s so cute I can’t stand it. Tiny old stone buildings with brightly colored shutters on a narrow stone road that winds through. But there’s not one little store or restaurant open. And I am weak and faint from thirst and famine. The church bell strikes noon. I must flee back to Auvers. I must buy a quiche…or something.

I think next time I go wandering, I’ll check out L’Isle Adam, a town or two further. It’s supposed to be a lovely old town with a great beach…on a river. And little stores. This I have to see.

But maybe next time, I’ll take the train.

Il pleut

It’s raining again and I decide the wisest course of action is to turn on the TV to the French news and take a nap..

I haven’t been so quick to pick up French. Every time someone speaks to me and I understand I become too excited and flustered to answer. Almost every question or statement I respond to by blushing, stammering and then retorting “oui, merci.”  Even if I meant to say “ca va bien, merci, et tous?” Soon I will be known as the town retard. My new plan for learning French is to fall asleep with the TV on and just let it sink it by osmosis. So my nap is really in the interest of educating myself, not laziness.

But during my nap something happened that reminded me of the good old days in New York. No, it wasn’t my recurring  nightmare of not being able to find matching shoes for the outfit I’m wearing to a life-altering event.

I was awakened by a call from the French phone company offering me a better plan. I said “non, merci, au revoir” and she yelled, “pourquoi?”. I said “par ce que” she yelled “pourquoi again, I yelled “par ce que” again and hung up. Just like home. The only difference was the language. And the fact that I didn’t detect an Indian accent from the caller.