Telephone Terrors

I actually wrote this in November for the newspaper. I've got a visitor here right now and haven't the time to write something fresh. However,  this terror remains fresh...so it will work!

Ten minutes ago, my phone rang. My phone doesn’t ring all that often, and when it does, the name of the caller pops up because, of course, I know them. When a strange number comes through, I generally ignore it. Okay, first I go into in insta-freeze because I know that this means if I answer, I will have to speak French...on the phone... with somebody I probably don’t know and who is unaware that my telephone abilities are the merde! (It also brings on some bad memories of a time last year when I was threatened on the phone by a stranger) Telephone conversations  are the most difficult. It’s even harder than listening to the news on the radio because people speak rapidly and generally more street language. 

So this was the conversation…translated of course.

“Hi Delana…this is _______”.

“Who?”

“______.”

“I’m so sorry, I have a difficult time on the telephone. This is who?”

________. The friend of ________. Do you remember me?

“No, because I still didn’t catch your name. I’m so sorry. Can you repeat it, please?”

“_________”

Then follows a minute of completely incomprehensible French. It seemed that perhaps his name was Frederik and he might possibly have been a friend of my old friend Simon. It’s possible... except I didn’t remember anybody named Frederik…at all. And, in fact, I’m condensing this conversation. This ball was tossed back and forth many more times!

“OH! OKAY. I’ve got it now!”

Probably a dumb move, pretending to know who this mysterious caller was. But I was just too embarrassed to admit that I simply COULD NOT understand.

“So I’m just calling to see what’s new?”

So what do you tell a person that you’re pretending to know, what is new? When do you suppose the last time was that I had a conversation with this person? What might we have talked about? Do we know each other well? If we do, I’d better act like it. If we don’t, I should probably not be talking to him.

“Well, I’m a student at the University now”.

That remark just revealed to possible stranger danger that I believe I haven’t seen him since at least September. I crossed my fingers and waited to offend.

“Really? What are you taking?” (whew! Good stab in the dark!)

“French of course. And you, what are you doing these days?” (I’m bound to get some sort of clue from this question)

One more Bad Idea. Another minute or two of gibberish and I understood one word. Internship. Okay, probably somebody young. Maybe an old classmate from last year’s course.  And I’m hearing a few speech patterns that seem remotely familiar.

“Oh yes? Tell me more.” (Eventually, this has got to come to me. Please give me some clue, some name, some event, something! Of course he probably already has… at least 10 times… but I’m too inadequate to understand)

Another several paragraphs follow and you guessed it, nothing!

“Listen, we don’t learn how to talk on the phone at the University. I’m horrible at it. Perhaps it would be better if we text. I can understand written words much better.”

“Ah, okay…blah, blah , blah....Skype blah, blah, blah, MSN blah blah blah blah”

I understood Skype. Yes, Skype!  We can chat online on Skype!

So I proceed to text a perfect stranger my Skype address, just so I can figure out who the hell this person is. His name comes through requesting permission to talk. Ah…it’s Cedric! Of course, Cedric, the friend of Simon, who I ran into and spoke with briefly this summer, who made me oysters 2 years ago before he moved to Argentina for a year. Who is all of 33 years old and obviously still… interested? My body relaxes, I get comfortable in my chair, and I begin typing in French.

Delana:  Cedric! How are you these days? Now repeat everything you said to me on the phone…just so I’m sure that I got it right. Tell me everything that’s new.

Et pourquoi pas? (And why not?) I don’t even know the word for cougar in French!

It's ALL Chinese to me!

When I wrote last week's cockroach story, I had no intention of it being a whine fest. I really thought I was being funny. But at the same time, the way I had been feeling was very real. Bless everyone's heart...I received all sorts of words of encouragement through comments and email and I thank you all. The following arrived by email from my "cousin" Cory who lives here in Aix and has himself gone through these transitions. It's one of those forwarded emails and I have no idea where it originated. Don't worry, you won't have 7 years of bad luck if you don't send it to 12 friends within 9 minutes of reading it! But I think it's perfect as a follow-up to my troubles. Anybody learning any language has the cockroach now and then.

We wonder why people have trouble learning the English language -- even those of us have it as our first language!!!

Read all the way to the end..............  This took a lot of work to put together!!!

You think English is easy???

1) The bandage was wound around the wound.

2) The farm was used to produce produce .

3) The dump was so full that it had to refuse more refuse.

4) We must polish the Polish furniture.

5) He could  lead if he would get the lead out.

6) The soldier decided to desert his dessert in the desert.

7) Since there is no time like the present, he thought it was time to present the present .

8) A bass was painted on the head of the bass drum.

9) When shot at, the dove dove into the bushes.

10) I did not object to the object.

11) The insurance was invalid for the invalid.

12) There was a row among the oarsmen about how to row

13) They were too close to the door to close it.

14) The buck does funny things when the does are present.

15) A seamstress and a sewer fell down into a sewer line.

16) To help with planting, the farmer taught his sow to sow.

17) The wind was too strong to wind the sail.

18) Upon seeing the tear in the painting I shed a tear..

19) I had to subject the subject to a series of tests.

20) How can I intimate this to my most intimate friend?

Let's face it - English is a crazy language. There is no egg in eggplant, nor ham in hamburger; neither apple nor pine in pineapple. English muffins weren't invented in England or French fries in France .. Sweetmeats are candies while sweetbreads, which aren't sweet, are meat. We take English for granted. But if we explore its paradoxes, we find that quicksand can work slowly, boxing rings are square and a guinea pig is neither from Guinea nor is it a pig.

And why is it that writers write but fingers don't fing, grocers don't groce and hammers don't ham? If the plural of tooth is teeth, why isn't the plural of booth, beeth? One goose, 2 geese. So one moose, 2 meese? One index, 2 indices? Doesn't it seem crazy that you can make amends but not one amend? If you have a bunch of odds and ends and get rid of all but one of them, what do you call it?

If teachers taught, why didn't preachers praught? If a vegetarian eats vegetables, what does a humanitarian eat? Sometimes I think all the English speakers should be committed to an asylum for the verbally insane. In what language do people recite at a play and play at a recital? Ship by truck and send cargo by ship? Have noses that run and feet that smell?

How can a slim chance and a fat chance be the same, while a wise man and a wise guy are opposites? You have to marvel at the unique lunacy of a language in which your house

can burn up as it burns down, in which you fill in a form by filling it out and in which, an alarm goes off by going on.

English was invented by people, not computers, and it reflects the creativity of the human race, which, of course, is not a race at all. That is why, when the stars are out, they are visible, but when the lights are out, they are invisible.

PS. - Why doesn't 'Buick' rhyme with 'quick' ?

You lovers of the English language might enjoy this .

There is a two-letter word that perhaps has more meanings than any other

two-letter word, and that is 'UP..'

It's easy to understand

UP, meaning toward the sky or at the top of the list, but when we awaken in the morning, why do we wake UP ? At a meeting, why does a topic come UP ? Why do we speak UP and why are the officers UP for election and why is it UP to the secretary to write UP a report?

We call UP our friends. And we use it to brighten UP a room, polish UP the silver; we warm UP the leftovers and clean UP the kitchen. We lock UP the house and some guys fix UP the old car. At other times the little word has real special meaning. People stir UP  trouble, line UP for tickets, work UP! an appetite, and think UP excuses.. To be dressed is one thing, but to be dressed UP is special.

And this UP is confusing: A drain must be opened UP because it is stopped UP. We open UP a store in the morning but we close it UP at night.

We seem to be pretty mixed

UP about UP! To be knowledgeable about the proper uses of UP, look the word UP in the dictionary. In a desk-sized dictionary, it takes UP  almost 1/4th of the page and can add UP to about thirty definitions. If you are UP to it, you might try building UP a list of the many ways UP is used. It will take UP a lot of your time, but if you don't give UP, you may wind UP with a hundred or more. When it threatens to rain, we say it is clouding UP . When the sun comes out we say it is clearing UP...

When it rains, it wets the earth and often messes things UP.

When it doesn't rain for awhile, things dry UP.

One could go on and on, but I'll wrap it UP, for now my time is UP, so......it is time to shut UP!

Bon courage!

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).

                                                            

Attention Deficit

Visitor season is not quite over yet. My mom and my aunt are arriving Saturday and will stay for two weeks. In December, my niece will be staying with me for a week as part of her after-college-European-adventure (feels kind of good to be included in a  22-year-old's adventure!) Anyway, all this is well and good and I am excited about their visits. 


However, I'm a college student now. And just as when I was a student 25  30 years ago, diversions are...just so diverting!  I have absolutely no innate attention span. I can't even get dressed in the morning without finding something else that interests me more... in between my dress, my boots, my hair, etc....Geez!  I thought I'd grow out of this eventually! And I'm trying so hard to be a good student. You know....tow the line...get home immediately after class and start my studies. But let me just say, it's not easy getting home from school each day without being redirected from all my good intentions.

First there's the Parc Jourdan. On a beautiful, sunny day...which is most days...I just want to "park it".

It's a great place to study but I really want to do this...

Then there's the flower shop. When my favorite vendor at the market stops selling her garden sunflowers for 5 euros a bunch, this will be more difficult to pass up. Because a house SHOULD have flowers in it at all times!

And then I have to pass this scene...at least 4 or 5 times depending upon which route I take. Yesterday, I was not strong.

When I arrive at Cours Mirabeau I have to walk past about 5 cafes that call my name...my favorite is Le Grillon.

 And of course, there are the shoe stores. My little problem is boots. OMG! I WANT them all! This is a lifelong weakness that has only been exacerbated by living in France.

Why the hell do they leave their doors open? It's an evil trap, that's all I'm sayin'!

Then of course, there are at least 5 lingerie stores on the way. This has never been a weakness before...but France has changed that!

If I were to fall to my need (okay...want) to own this little set, it would put me out to the tune of 150 euros.

 Then, just when I think I'm out of the woods, there is Place Richelme.  A coffee and a little people watching can't hurt, can it? But no...I must keep moving.

then there's the wine store... the ice cream shop...more boots, more bakeries, the roasted chestnut vendor...

and when the finish line is finally in sight... there is one more shoe store. And this pair of red boots. I'm hoping they will eventually just go away so I can wipe the drool off my mouth and think about more important things. Like world peace.

But I have not succumbed. And just as the smell of victory begins to waft beneath my nostrils, I need to walk through the Place de Marie. And between the sunshine, the jazz musicians playing under the Plane tree, and the cafe crême that I must have...as a reward for walking past those red boots, I cannot stop myself from sitting down to delay...for just a few moments...writing my paper that's due tomorrow morning.

I guess I won't have to worry about visitors diverting me from my studies. I have (almost) proven how strong I can really be! However, it would be nice if they brought a little Ritalin with them in their carry-ons.

 

Le Grève…or How to Get A Day Off School

I don’t have to go to school today…na na ne boo boo! I didn’t have to get up early and trek the two miles to the University because today we’re in the throes…again…of the French national sport…Le Grève or The Strike.

The French are known for their passion for striking. Government workers are the most frenetic. This includes postal workers, public school employees and utility workers. Transportation workers are equally enthusiastic and even students get into the act.

There has been unrest for months now and things started winding up Friday.  I had an appointment at 9 am. Sharp. I could not be late. I arrived at the bus stop at 8:15 in order to catch the bus at 8:20 and get to my appointment 20 minutes early. I waited for bus number 3. It didn’t show. Bus 4 passed; followed by bus 1, then number 23…then another number 4…and another number 1!  There should be a number 3 in between each of these! No number 3. I’m checking my watch as I pace and others are just leaving. Finally when the third number 4 stopped, I jumped on and asked the driver why I’d been waiting 40 minutes for number 3. He said he wasn’t sure but perhaps it was because of the manifestation.

So I’m standing there, wondering what this all means and why only bus number 3 is on some sort of strike. Finally I asked a lady standing next to me, who also appeared late…but not nearly as worried about it as I (the French don’t ever seem to worry very much about being late). She said, in fact, the students at the junior high (a college in French) down the road were holding a manifestation (a public demonstration) and they had blocked the main road that travels the periphery of the city; the road bus 3 has to travel on its route.  She said they had completely blocked the road for hours, this was the second day and they would probably do it again tomorrow.

“What are they mad about?” I asked.

She replied that, of course, the manifestation was in response to the government’s plan to raise the minimum retirement age from 60 to 62.

Oh sure, when I was 13, I could think of nothing else but my looming retirement and exactly what age I would be before I got to enjoy it.  It was on my mind night and day. I was such a wreck!

In fact, the pimply-faced little hormones-in-overdrive are strikers in training.  I think this was not a manifestation…it was an internship!  And who doesn’t want a few mornings off of school anyway?

So what’s the fuss? The French government has voted to raise the minimum retirement age from 60 to 62 and move back the age of full-benefit retirement from 65 to 67. If I’ve read things correctly, that’s exactly the policy in the U.S.

A huge deficit and enormous expenses burden the French government because it’s an extraordinarily top-heavy government. Declining birth rates are leaving a very few to pay for the retirement of many. Sound familiar?

And in fact, the French retirement is longer and benefits more expensive because not only can they retire earlier but they also live longer. According to the C.I.A. 2010 estimates, France has the 8^th highest life-expectancy rate in the world. The U.S. is 49th…just above Albania!  In case you’re wondering, Macau is first. Ever heard of it?

So it would follow that something needs to be done. Right? Not if French workers have anything to do with it.

The strangest thing about French strikes is they are the first “words” in the process of negotiations. In France, the opposing sides do not sit down, discuss, attempt to pound out an agreement, sit some more, pound some more, and then if all else fails…call a strike. The workers strike as a way of opening talks. And…they strike for each other. If the teachers are upset that they are expected to do more work for the same pay, the railroad workers/ air traffic controllers/ post office employees (pick one or all of the above) become their buddy-strikers.

Sometimes it’s just really hard to get anywhere or get anything done around here!

Last month, on the way to Marseille, my friend Claire and I nearly got caught up in a 30-mile traffic jam on the autoroute. Apparently, the carnival companies, (the people that travel from village festival to village festival with their tilt-a-whirls, ring toss games, and smelly stuffed animals), were upset that nobody was hiring them. (This is of course because these are tough times… the little villages ain’t got no money) So they took to the freeway, piled their trucks up 3 across and miles deep and stopped all traffic to the country’s second major city.  For hours! Well that should really solve the problem!  I’ll bet the little village boards were just scrambling to see who could be the first hire the carnies for next year. Sort of as an apology.

Today apparently I’m benefiting from this free-for-all form of liberty and equality because a general strike as been called. Nobody is really sure whom this might involve and I’m not all that happy about it. I like school.  My professor was going to have class anyway because, as she told us, we paid for it. But since 

1. Most of the professors will be on strike as well as the students...

2. Any of the students who need to take the bus into town won’t get there...

3. It will take her 2 hours to get to work because the narrow peripheral roads will be jammed with the cars of those who normally use public transportation...

4. The electric workers will most likely shut off the University’s electricity...

...we decided to add 30 minutes each day to our class until we make up the time.

So I’m sitting here wondering what sort of strike I should go on today. I could schedule a sit-down outside of the driver’s license office until they let me have the license they’ve refused me. I could stage a hunger strike in front of the prefecture until they finally give me my second year carte de sejour which I filled out all the paper work for in April. I even could picket the office of Securite Sociale because they denied my student health insurance. They said I lied about my income (in fact they inverted the conversion rates from dollars to euros and thus inflated my income…their mistake not mine). I could do all of that I suppose. But there will probably be no one in those offices anyway. Because of that darned buddy system.