Lost in Translation

Last night, while reading my book (yes, wearing all my warm finery), I came to a paragraph where Julia Childs describes her sister getting rear-ended by a Parisian driver. In total indignation she whips the car into park, sticks her head up through the sunroof and angrily screams at him, “ Ce merde-monsieur a justement craché dans ma derrière!”.  I get what she was trying to say but what she actually said was “ this shit-man just spat out into my butt!”

And so it goes. Trying to learn a language and being only partway there causes all sorts of these continual language mishaps.  At first you’re mortified by your mistakes, but eventually you learn to take them in stride and laugh them off. You have to. They happen every day.

Yesterday I was telling a friend a little story, in French, about John Travolta flying a jet to Haiti to deliver food and medical supplies…. and a few quack doctors. I never got to the quack doctors part because we got stuck on the first few sentences.

My story was interrupted as my friend cocked his head quizzically, and said “Vraiement? (Truly?)

Yes, really!

Mais, je ne comprend pas pourquoi! (I don’t understand why.)

Because he was trying to help, I suppose.

Non! C’est vrai?

Yes it’s true…why would I lie to you? He’s a pilot. He flew his jet. Nice, yes, but not that unbelievable.

This ping-pong game continued for several minutes until I finally realized what I had said and why all the skepticism. I had actually told my friend that John Travolta had stolen a jetliner in Florida and flew it to Haiti. And my friend was a little stunned by this news, particularly since he had heard nothing about it.

Last week I was happily bouncing around because I had gone all-out and purchased a new, heavy-duty frying pan. I excitedly told a friend, again in French, that I had bought myself a present…a new, big, strong…. chicken.

Cold...Inside and Out

GEY84MF792BM (just ignore this..dumb blog stuff)

I'm just so cold. How can a woman born in Minnesota, who lived in Wisconsin for 30 plus years, be cold in the south of France? Geez!

When I returned to Minnesota for my Christmas holiday it was -14 F (-25 C) degrees and I don't even want to know what the wind chill was! Here in Aix, it's between 38 and 45 degrees.  Yet, I feel like a mountain climber in a storm who feels no other option than to bury herself in a snow cave and wait to die. Okay, I'm being just a little dramatic but my bones are cold...really. If some freakishly weird scientist were to plunge a thermometer into my metatarsal right now, I'm sure he or she would exclaim "mon Dieu! C'est n'est pas possible! Cette femme est vraiment morte! (or something like that...my French is horrible). Which basically means...this woman is too cold to be alive.

I know my readers in the north have no sympathy for my situation and I completely understand. But there is something different here.

It could be the fact that I don't turn my heat on. Heating systems here are unlike anything I’m used to, particularly in an old apartment like mine. The heat is simply a box on the wall that you turn on, pay for and receive no benefits...unless you are sitting directly (as in touching) in front of it. I really don't see the point. It could be because the floors are all stone and wall to wall carpeting does not exist...at least in my experience. It could be because my building is 400-plus years old. It could be the mistral wind that blows down from the Alps and gives us the most beautiful blue skies but makes us suffer for the beauty.