...And Don't You Come Back No More

As I was saying...it's so great to have a car this week. Yesterday, still running off the high produced by my freedom adventure this weekend,  I made my plan for the day. There are a couple of calanques south of Marseille that I've heard are beautiful and I thought I'd head down there and do a little hiking and photography. The Plan de Compagne, a centre commercial or shopping/commerical area, is right on the way and I had several little errands I needed to do there as well. Perfect! Gather map, camera, hiking boots, shopping bag, water bottle...and out the door. Let me TREAT you to another day on the road.

Marseille is only about 25 minutes south of me so this is an easy trip. I pulled into Plan de Compagne, which is just about the ugliest commercial district I have ever seen in my life. In fact, I'm always amazed with how incredibly ugly ALL commercial districts are here in France, considering how beautiful so much of it is. It's a god-awful mishmash of signs and metal box buildings, with no attempt at an sort of continuity or design. Just going there makes me all hinky. However....first stop, the little electrical appliance parts shop. My microwave is missing the glass turnplate...the part that would assure that my coffee is heated evenly! I brought along the actual part that turns the plate for size reference.

I explained what I needed and the young monsieur dug around in the back until he found one that fit.

"Oh, that looks a little big for my microwave."

"Don't worry, Madame, if you get this home and it doesn't fit, call me with the actual numbers off the microwave and I'll get you the proper part. You can exchange it."

Not good. I may not EVER get another car for said exchange.

"Okay, how much."

"34 Euros."(this translates to roughly $45)

After I picked my jaw up off the counter, I reacted in completely french fashion without a thought. (I'm getting there)

"C'est pas vrai! C'est pas possible! Non....c'est pas possible!!!!" (I also threw in some classic French facial expressions for good measure)

"Yes, madame, that is the price."

"That's more than the price of an entire microwave in the states! And I found the damned thing in the garbage can! I can't pay that price to repair something I found in the garbage can. It's just not possible"

At least this got a laugh. It did not get me a glass turnplate for my microwave.

Off to the giant-sized used furniture store. I'm looking for some old frames. I arrived at 12:10. The pull-down, metal security door was a quarter of the way down for some reason but I ventured in, hoping to find some good stuff, cheap.

"I'm sorry madame but we're closed. We open again at 2:30."

I checked the hours on the door. They close at 12:30 for a two hour lunch.

"But it's only 12:10."

"I'm sorry, but we're preparing to close. Come back at 2:30."

 Merde!

Off to BUT, a store that sells home items. I need a wall shelf.

Metal doors all the way down...locked up tighter than a bank on Sunday. Hours on the door? Closed for lunch from 12:30 to 2:30. It's now.... 12:15. Please keep in mind that Plan de Compagne is one of the largest commercial districts in the country. These are REALLY BIG stores. And this 2-hour PLUS lunch thing is all fine and dandy until...it affects me!

I did find another store open and did a little tour, but I needed to get a move-on in order to get to the calanque, have my fun, and get out of Marseille before rush hour. I do not like driving in Marseille. I've been lost here before. This is the second largest city in France, with a population of almost 1 1/2 million people....a super-sized city built centuries ago. And with the construction that is going on, it's a big mess, especially for the unfamiliar.

So with my mapquest directions in hand, I headed in. As I arrived at my first, and most important turn, I realized it was blocked...for construction. I kept going hoping to find another way, as traffic got heavier, streets got narrower, and all order of any kind did a time warp back to the 17th century. After a harrowing trip through the city, trying to read, drive, and fend off the honks and gestures that seemed to be coming at me from all directions, I saw a sign directing me to Aix en Provence. And I took it. I chickened out! I bailed! I'm ashamed! But this is not a job for a person alone. It's just not. My hiking boots began to silently weep on the floor next to me. This is where I was going to go... the calanque Sourmiou. I imagine it's very beautiful.

Okay, I'll save the trip by going to Ikea. I still need a shelf.  Just follow the signs to Vitrolle. Except there are no signs to Vitrolle. I tried to take a short cut, which after driving down two streets the wrong way (more gestures and horn honking) and spilling my water all over my lap because there are no cup holders, I arrived in...Aix en Provence. Where we do not have an Ikea. Double Merde! Not to have the entire trip go completely down the drain, I headed back south to Ikea. And I did find the shelf that they've been out of for 9 months. I did! And I did have my parking place when I returned. I did not have a bottle of wine at the house when I got home! C'est pas vrai! C'est pas possible! 

Charm School

In a post this past fall, I mentioned that I was learning to charm and be charmed here in France. I suppose that seems like an odd thing to say, but the fact is, charm is a revered art form in French culture. I’m not sure if they look at is an art, but I have come to think of it that way.

The French have a certain something, I don’t know what it is, that is completely different from what I’m accustomed to. They are not afraid to turn on the charm. Not afraid to be laughed at by their peers because they said something slightly flowery and over the top. Not afraid to offend women by complimenting them or looking at them with admiration. Mostly because the women seem to expect it and practice the same captivating techniques on men. It’s normal and happens everywhere, including the workplace.

Being charming is not the same thing as being a drageur or womanizer/skirt chaser/player. France has its share of schmucks as much as the next country. But this je ne sais quoi seems to be just a part of this world that I’m living in.  I’m not even sure how to explain it so I’ll give you some examples.

Last year a friend had a small party for me on my birthday. I wore a dress and my red high heels because I had NO crown to wear on this momentous occasion. I was sitting on a stool having a conversation with my friend Pierre when he began to shake his head and finally said, “C’est dommage”.

I asked him, "What is too bad?"

He said, “tu es éduqué à mort”. You are educated to death.

Of course, I didn’t know what the he was talking about and he explained that each time I laughed, I unconsciously pulled my skirt down over my knees.  And he thought that was just such an awful shame.

He wasn’t chatting me up.... or beginning one of THOSE uncomfortable conversations. He was just doing what Frenchmen do. No harm intended and certainly none taken.

Last fall I was at the market in Marseille with my sister. We hadn’t had sugar in at least an hour and we stopped by the table of a bisquit  (a sort of French cookie) vendor. I asked him a few questions about a certain treat that caught our eye and after his explanation we bought a couple.

As he was putting our caloric indulgence in a little bag, he said to me (all the following conversations were in French which is, of course, part of the charm), “You speak French very well and your accent is charming.”  Well we all know this isn’t true and I told him so, but he was not to be deterred.

He said,  “If you will permit me, I must tell you that you have the most beautiful eyes. Absolutely beautiful”.

I smiled (most likely batted my eyelashes) and thanked him for saying such a nice thing.

He said, “it may be nice but it’s also true”.

He then picked up two bisquits and put them in our bag. He said, “a gift from me. Bisquits made from the flower of the oranges, especially for the flowers (meaning us). Wow! I can’t say that I’ve ever been likened to a flower!

This past summer I got on the bus one day to be greeted by a smiling driver. I tried to run my ticket through the machine, but it wouldn’t take it. I smoothed it out and tried again. Finally the bus driver said, “slowly. Go very slowly. The machine is very romantic”. And then he beamed at me again.

I was walking home from the University recently and reading a brochure about a belly dancing class I wanted to take. I passed a table full of men gathered around an outdoor table and one of them said something to me. I looked up, apologized for not understanding (after all, I was walking, reading and most likely chewing gum…ALL at the same time!), told him I speak only a little French and if he talked VERY slowly, I MIGHT be able to understand. He repeated himself, slowly, and said, “if you continue to walk while you read you might just fall…. into my arms …and I would like that very much. When I laughed and smiled and told him that was a nice compliment, he asked if I might join him and his friends for champagne.  And when I (charmingly) turned him down, he smiled broadly and told me it was his loss and I was très charmant.

This must be something French, like understanding wine. Whatever it is, each time it happens, it just makes me feel good. Charm for charm’s sake is a good thing. And I’m practicing with all my might.

In October I was at the office of Securité Sociale, trying to figure out how I might be able to get health insurance now that I’m a student (after all, doesn’t college life involve at least one or two beer drinking accidents? I need to be prepared!).  When I was finished and trying to put my 17 different documents that I had needed back in some sort of order, I was chatting with an older gentleman who was also waiting. At the end of the conversation, he told me I was ravissante. I smiled broadly and said thank you and then came home and looked up what he had said because I had no idea (someday this problem is going to get me in a heap of trouble).  Now, he could have possibly said I’m a kidnapper…but he’s French…and I’m betting that he was telling me I was charming/ delightful or maybe even possibly ravishing…. or something like that. And that sure as hell made the trip to a French government office a little easier to take.

I wish everyone a Joyeuse St. Valentin. Did anything charming happen to you today?

The silhouette and more cool clip art from The Graphics Fairy

I Have the Cockroach

Each day I’m becoming a little bit more French, I think. This became clear this last week when somebody asked me how I was. Instead of the usual, “fine thank you”, I actually told them how I was. I couldn’t believe I did it! Particularly since things weren’t all that great.

I don’t know if this is true everywhere in the U.S. but normally “ How are you” is a pleasantry. People don't really expect to get much more than a "great...and you?" Here in France, when you ask, people often actually tell you. Good or bad, but frequently the bad. And I’m assimilating.

So my job this week was to learn the French way to explain just how crummy I felt.

So, you ask, how are you Delana? Go ahead, I dare you to ask!

I’m not going to turn around the pot here (beat around the bush).  I need to call a cat a cat (call a spade a spade) I’m really not on my plate (I’m out of sorts) and I have the cockroach (I have the blues).  I have more than fifty brooms (I’m over 50 years old) and I have borrowed a road (taken a path) that, at least this week, I’m not sure I should have taken.

Just one of those down weeks I guess. A week when the French language seemed indecipherable (this article might help you understand why!)  Though I am perfectly capable of telling the well-coifed woman at the salon that her little dog just dropped a pile in the middle of the floor, I still have not reached the point of being capable of having a deep, meaningful conversation with my French friends. And I so want that. I’m sure that it won’t be long before they feel that I am like a beard (boring). I have fallen on a beak (come up against a snag) and sometimes it’s just not a chest of drawers (it’s not easy).

It’s a little like floating all the time. I have no family here though I do have friends. But my friends really don’t know me nor I them, because we haven’t reached that point of communication. I live in a furnished apartment where I own almost nothing; prepared to leave at a moment's notice. Yet I don’t want to take my clicks and my clacks (clean up and clear out). When I visit the United States, I am just that…a visitor. Yet, I’m really a visitor here.

I have no job because it’s against the law for me to work, so I’m really not a contributing member of society. I’m a mother by telephone, a daughter by skype, and a sister through email. And sometimes, at least this week, it makes me feel like I count for butter (count for nothing).

Yes, I want to have the butter and the money from the butter (have my cake and eat it too). This move to France was my choice and I have no regrets. But some weeks it just gets to be too much.

Today it’s raining ropes (raining cats and dogs). Not so good for the mental health.  Maybe I’m just dreaming that I'll ever understand this language. It might just be when the chickens have teeth (when pigs fly). I just don’t want to make white cabbage (to fail completely).

So I need to continue to put my hand in the dough (put my shoulder to the wheel). Because by the time I reach the point of eating dandelions by the roots (pushing up daisies), I want to be able to have a true conversation in French.

The carrots are cooked (the die is cast) and it’s not all cooked (not in the bag). I have not left the inn (I’m not out of the woods).

There, aren’t you so happy you asked how I am?  In fact, the blues have passed. This happens from time to time and at least now I am aware of it and also aware that it will go. But I thought you should see what I’m up against! I mean geez, it’s enough to learn vocabulary and grammar. But when somebody says something like “you’re running on my bean” in French, how the hell am I supposed to know they actually mean “you’re getting on my nerves”. It kind of puts a girl in nice bed sheets (in a fix).

                                                            

French Expressionists

This past week, 82-year-old Simone Veil was inducted into the Academie Française. This amazing woman is a holocaust survivor, champion of women's rights here in France and across Europe, and only the 6th women to become a member of this prestigious institution. She joins the likes of Alexandre Dumas, Louis Pasteur, Voltaire and Victor Hugo on the list of those who have worn the green robes. This Monday memory is in honor of her induction....even though I'm absolutely sure she'd be mortified if she knew it.

The French language is for me, one of the most beautiful in the world. It is fluid and melodic and these qualities… this euphony…is considered one of its most important characteristics.  The French share my enthusiasm for their mother tongue. They are proud of it…proud enough to actually have an official body, called the Academie Française, whose job it is to stand as sentinel against any perceived pollution of the language. These 40 people, who are appointed for life (thus they hold the title “les immortels”) make decisions on grammar and usage, which words will be permitted into the official language, what English words will not be allowed and what should replace them. They direct the compilation of the official dictionary and have been doing so since 1635. (In recent history, they’ve only allowed regular, or simple, verbs that are all conjugated exactly the same way which is great news for imbeciles like me!)) And luckily for me they are only safeguarding the written language because there is much more to it than that.

One of the funniest things I’ve observed when watching and listening to French speakers is their use of sounds, facial expressions and body movements. Of course, people of all nationalities use them. But here in France, these seem more vigorous and distinct.  Of course writing down what they sound like is impossible and their exact meaning is even more difficult to discern which is probably the reason “les immortels” have avoided the issue entirely! But les gestes français are considered important enough to be taught in French language classes and explained in detail on numerous internet sites.