Close Just Ain't Good Enough

"Oh my god, I think I called the mayor at prostitute this morning!"

These were the first words out of my friend Tenley's mouth when she came to visit the other day. Tenley used to be my neighbor here in Aix but last fall she moved up to a tiny village in the Luberon. And I'm not kidding when I say tiny. Four hundred people and not even a bakery. How does one live without a bakery, I ask?

Sorry, I digress. And in the first paragraph, no less. It's just that I get so upset about that bakery business!

Anyway, as she drove down here to Aix, she was ruminating over the conversation she'd had with Madame mayor that morning and it dawned on her what she may have said. But she isn't sure. And neither am I.

I'm just NEVER sure. I'm not afraid to talk and not afraid to try.  Generally. But language screw-ups are part of daily life when you aren't a native speaker and are often just too funny. Certainly there are those times when you get the word completely wrong but usually it's words that are just...so...close.  Like the time I was on a date and the monsieur pointed out to me, kindly I thought, that there was a little fleck of something just under my nose. I had a little scab there and I said brightly, "Oh don't worrry, it's just a booger". I used the word crotte (crotte de nez is a booger; crotte de chien is dog poop) instead of croute (scab). I didn't realized my mistake until I saw the look on his face which was something between dismay and disgust. Crotte….croute…close, but not close enough.

This past weekend, a team of masseuses and I volunteered our services at a charity regatta in Marseille. Beforehand, I was trying to describe our project to a friend. I explained that we would be massaging teams of…well, this is where it got tricky because I wanted to say 'teams of sailors' and the word for sail is voile. Instead, I said  'teams of voleurs'. WRONG! We were not going to massage teams of thieves. I corrected myself and said "teams of violeurs". WRONG again! Nor did we have any plans to massage teams of rapists. I never did arrive at the word I needed because it apparently doesn't exist. The word sailor does not even have the word "sail" in it! We eventually got to the point but not without a lot of both confusion and hilarity. Close but no cigar.


My friend Doreen and I were laughing about this story and she recounted her latest horror. She is German and is but is also considered fluent in both French and English.  But fluency doesn't make her immune to these faux pas. She works for a distributor of grains, seeds and other health-foody sorts of things. She was speaking to a customer last week to tell him that his shipment would be late because they didn't have enough of the algae he needed in order to fill his order. She kindly assured him that it would only be a few days before the manufacturer could produce his full half-ton of fetuses and she would send them to him directly.  Fucus...fetus....I mean they're almost the same, aren't they?

But often, it's not a question of getting the words wrong, it's simply a question of pronunciation. There are some words that sound so similar that I can't hear the difference much less pronounce it. Like the words dessous (underneath) and dessus (on top of). Opposite meanings but they sound exactly the same to me. It has something to do with the horrible "u" sound that we don't have in English. I've been tutored on this. I'm supposed to make the long e sound at the same time I'm forming my mouth into a tight "o" while sticking out my lips. Hey, you try that! Then pat your head and rub your stomach at the same time.

Last year after going to see a movie, I announced to my friend that I had spent a half-an-hour in line just to get in. He looked at me with astonishment and asked me to repeat what I'd said. I said it again with authority. And then he began to laugh…and laugh….and I knew I'd done it again, whatever it was this time. My sentence was "j'ai passé un demi heure dans une queue". It seems to me this sentence is correct.  But apparently what I really said was the word cul, which in common language means ass, and not the donkey kind. Yes, I know, they look completely different when written but they sound exactly the same to me.  The second, however, involves the aforementioned convoluted mouth/lip formation. Which I obviously haven't yet mastered. This explains why the 3 elderly ladies at the end of the line that day did not respond well when I asked if they were the end of the ass.

The word queue can also mean tail, or dick. Cul can also mean porn or screwing, among other things. Both words, with all their meanings, are truly useful in conversation. But not in MY conversation. You will never, ever hear me mention my cat's tail and I now wait in a file d'attente.

We still don't know what Tenley actually said to the mayor but they're still talking so apparently either there was no insult, or people in her village are still talking to her just to see what she'll say next. My bets are on the latter.

P.S. I want to take this opportunity to wish my beautiful mother a very Happy Birthday. Je t'aime Maman. xo

I’ll Be Home for Christmas…I Hope

My last Monday memory article. Last year around this time I returned to the United States for the Christmas Holiday and when I returned in January I started my blog. So from here on out it's all in real time!  This article was written one year ago this week as I was preparing to return home. I am now in the process of getting ready for another return trip...for 4 weeks. I'm excited. And there is no doubt we will have a white Christmas. Apparently the worst snowstorm in 20 years blew it's way through my old stomping ground leaving up to 20 inches of snow in it's wake. And tonight the temperatures are supposed to bottom out at around -15 F (-26 C) with a windchill of -25F (-31C). The snow I love, the temperatures I detest! And I'm leaving France just when my rosemary is blooming so nicely! I had to check the headlines from my old hometown newspaper. Click here  if you want to cool off!

Five days and counting. On Sunday I’m on my way back to the U.S. for Christmas and I’m running around like a madwoman trying to get everything done. What clothes will I need?... do I even have clothes for a Minnesota winter?...is there room for Christmas gifts?... what Christmas gifts?... damn, I need to take care of that!... is there enough money in my bank account for rent while I’m gone?...find someone to take any perishable food and beg same person to water my plants…. check to see that tickets are in order…… make hair, dental and other such appointments in the U.S….  take care of rental insurance problem…and finally, make sure once I leave the country, that I’ll be allowed back in. Right now, that is the biggest problem on my list.

Last week I trekked back to the local prefecture to finally pick up my permanent Carte de Sejour (residency card). I began the process last January and I’ve written several times about the problems involved in obtaining this little treasure.

In May I finally got my hands on it…well, it was actually a temporary card but I was told my real one would be processed and send to the local prefecture in Aix. My temporary card was good for 3 months and after checking at the prefecture several times for my “real card” I was finally told there was a back up in Marseille and they would reissue me another temporary. That second card expired the end of November so off I went again.

The gentleman at the window, who truly resembles a gray rat and whom I have come to detest, looked at me in mild disbelief and said,  “You can’t have your card because your address has changed”. Oui, monsieur, in fact it’s changed 6 times since we first met but I’ve always informed you of the changes.

“I need proof of your new address”, he told me and gave me their hours of business so I could return with my rental papers another day.

I high-tailed it out of there and returned within 10 minutes with said document. I produced this paper for the combative little rodent and he looked at me again with dismay and said “ you can’t have the card without your medical certificate”.

“What medical certificate? In all the times that I’ve come here to make inquiries, no one has mentioned a medical certificate! This is the first time! It wasn’t on the list you gave me and nobody mentioned it to me in Marseille or here!” All of this in broken French, mind you.

He gruffly told me that was not his problem, teased me by waving my actual card in front of my face (if there wasn’t glass between us I would have grabbed it out of his greedy little paws and run like hell) and repeated that he could not give it to me without that certificate. He also informed me, to my dismay, that if I left France without that card, I would not be allowed back in because my regular Visa has now expired. C’est tout! He gave me several numbers to call in Marseille and I was dismissed.

C’est un grand probleme! Because I’m going back to the United States for Christmas and I’ll be damned if Monsieur I-Hate-My-Job-And-I-Hate-You-Too is going to stop me.

I tried the numbers I was given for days and it was impossible to get through. After another visit to the local prefecture with a French friend to help me make sure I had my information right, I decided that I needed to just get my body to this mysterious office in Marseille and beg for an appointment to obtain the certificate.

I hopped a bus early in the morning, landed in Marseille, finally found the proper metro station to get me where I needed to go and actually arrived at the Office of Strangers by 9:30 am. I marched past all the people waiting, went to the desk and told them in French what my problem was. They were actually very nice and called somebody on the phone that spoke English to help me (my French is obviously still lacking!). I regurgitated the details (finally in English), told the voice on the other end when I was leaving and that I must get this medical certificate before I go.

Of course she told me this was impossible…there just wasn’t enough time. I wasn’t going to give up and told her I had followed all the rules to the letter, done everything they’d asked me to do, and because of their ineptitude (I was nicer that that) I was now in a huge pickle.  She interrupted several times with more “not possibles” and several tsking noises. I told her this is an EMERGENCY! I also told her that if she could actually see me at that moment, she would know that I was on my knees, begging for her help.

I got an appointment for the next week, which is tomorrow!

That leaves me one day to get back to the prefecture here in Aix with a satisfied smirk on my face, medical certificate in hand,  and politely ask Monsieur “Willard” for my card. At least I hope that’s how it will go.

So my open bag is on the floor and I’m beginning to faire mes valises. All I really care about is wrapping my arms around my boys, one of whom I haven’t seen in a year, scratching my dog in that soft place just under his chin, laughing with my sister, helping my mother finish redecorating her house (an endless process), sharing a meal and good stories with my friends back home and celebrating my favorite season with snow, Christmas carols and the people I love surrounding me.

Merry Christmas to all. 

Crazy snow photo compliments of Sonja Gilbertson                                                                                          

                    

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).

                                                            

Bruit

I am going to keep doing these Monday Memories posts, even though some think they're confusing. Come on...this is simple! I wrote this a year ago at this very same time. This year, I'm in my own apartment and my biggest noise problem is the bruyant girlfriend of my neighbor. But that is today, this article was then.

French Word of the Day

Bruit: noise 

Bruyant: noisy 

I decided long ago that I would always live in a University town. There’s just something about the energy that a college brings to a city; the exuberance and the life that the students contribute as well as all the cool stuff that University offers the community. You know...theater, educational forums, musical programs....beer parties!

I bought my first house in a college neighborhood and really loved it there. Of course, there were people my age and elderly people as well as the students but I loved how we all lived together. It wasn't white bread. It was a club sandwich with dark bread, light bread, aged cheese, spicy sausage, sweet tomatoes and some some piquant mustard that often would make my eyes water. And really tasty.

Sure, there are always problems.  For instance the night the students cut down my elderly neighbor’s’ evergreen to use for a Christmas tree.  It was a rotten thing to do but certainly not the norm and when we moved from Chippewa Street to “suburbia” I was sure I would die of boredom.  Luckily the new baby that arrived just after the move did a thorough job of preventing that little problem but I always wanted to move back down into “college land.”

When it was time to make a decision about what city in France I was actually going to move to, I had no problem selecting the region. I had been to Provence before and knew it was where I wanted to return.  But after that, it was just a crapshoot. I chose 3 towns that began with the letter A (it seemed a good place to start) and then did a little research.   After learning that Aix en Provence was not only beautiful and cultured but also had a large University presence (1/3 of the population is students), I decided this was the place for me. Finally!

But let me digress just a little.  When I lived in “college land” in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, I had 4 insulated walls and insulated windows, a yard and a fence, and a wide street that distanced me from my neighbors. Not enough to prevent a morning chat but enough for privacy and peace.  The students would often have parties and I spent many a morning picking up beer cups that seemed to procreate in my yard (for that matter, so did the students...well maybe they didn't procreate but they did copulate... under my pine tree) but it was never enough to get too worked up about.

However, because my apartment won't be ready until October 1st, I am now I am staying with French boyfriend in the central part of the city, 2 blocks from 2 Universities, in a building that is at least 400 years old and all that separates us from the neighbors is a floor, a ceiling, a wall, a street the width of a European car, and a couple of very old and very large windows.

The students have returned for the fall and I don’t think they have much to do right now because the parties begin on Wednesday night.  And believe me, when you live this close together, the party might as well be happening in your own living room. If two apartments across the street from each other are partying simultaneously, the revelers can chat (or shriek...this form of communication is saved for after 2 in the morning when the music has become so loud they can’t hear each other) out the windows, pass each other beverages and pretend the rest of us don’t exist. And of course, they only choose to do this when I have to be up at 6 am.   Actually, I will be up at 6 am no matter what because the street cleaners live elsewhere and have obviously gotten plenty of sleep. They are hell bent on getting that street done by 6:30 and they have to shout at each other as well to be heard above the gushing water. 

And if we’re really, really lucky, by Saturday night the students are either exhausted or in some other poor sucker’s neighborhood. However, we are also above a restaurant run by Sicilians. They don’t talk.... they yell. In fact, at first I thought they were constantly mad at each other until I heard them talking affectionately to a child in the same manner.  So they yell before dinner as they’re preparing the evening’s menu, they yell at the customers throughout dinner and afterwards, and when it’s 2 am and all the diners have gone home and are sleeping soundly in their homes somewhere outside the city, they sit down for a little vino and a yell fest.

I guess I can’t blame my bad humor and baggy eyes on just college students so I will continue to believe in their good qualities. But something has to be done about this before I collapse in my croissant!

So I went to the pharmacy to purchase earplugs yesterday.  I didn’t know what they were called so I asked for some bouchons des l’oreilles, which translates to “cork for your ears” and the woman knew exactly what I needed. I’m obviously not the first to ask because they had stacks of them.  I bought a lovely box with a set in 3 different colors, because if I’m going to be having parties with beautiful, young, French strangers practically in my living room, and dark, handsome Italians just below my window, I want to make sure my earplugs match my shoes. 

Hey! What do you mean, you don't think this is me? Of course its me! I'm wearing my red earplugs, you just can't see them.

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.