I realize it has been a long time since I last posted, but I've been really busy. As many of you know I am working on my dissertation which takes up a lot of my time. Throw into the mix my 20 hours per week in class learning French plus my research positions with professors at the University of North Texas my time is limited. But this is changing. Next weekend Angela and I are going to the Alps, which will be a nice beginning to Spring. We now have trips planned to Rome, Monaco, London, Sicily, Andorra, Barcelona and Dublin, which should be a blast.
My French is coming along, I just finished what would be the equivalent of 2 semesters of college French in the US. I'm still having a lot of trouble understanding when people speak, but I can form sentences, read simple French fairly well and write very simply. I am basically the equivalent of a 3 or 4 year old French child, maybe a stupid 5 year old.
In order to get my visa validated so that I can stay in France for more than 3 months I had to fill out some paperwork, and buy a 55 Euro stamp (un cinquante-cinq Euro timbre). These stamps are the French government's way of imposing taxes. In order to do certain things you have to buy the stamp, if you have the stamp you've paid your tax. It's really quite efficient. This is particularly true since you can usually buy them at a Tabac. The problem is that Tabacs don't seem to carry the 55 Euro stamp, so I had to go to the treasury. I went at around 1pm to avoid crowds. I walked up to the Accueil desk (which is like the welcome desk) and two people were sitting at it. I said to them, "Je voudrais un cinquante-cinq euro tampon, s'il vous plait." The woman sitting at this desk started speaking to me in French, I nodded, and then she gave me a number and pointed to the seats. While she was doing this the other man, who looked like a cross between Ron Jeremy and a mailman (he was wearing a track suit at work) got up and walked away. I went to go sit in a chair when my number was called (I might add at this point I was the only person there). They went through all of the trouble of giving me a number rather than telling me I could go and talk to the person who can help me. My thought on this was, "well maybe the number has something to do with accounting what they do." Like, they have to do it so they can show their boss that they were in fact working, or so they can keep track of how many people come in, etc. I walk over to the worker who called my number, it was the same guy who had been sitting at the Accueil desk and had heard me ask for the 55 euro stamp. He looks right at me and asks me what he can do for me, making me labor through my French again, all the time knowing damn well exactly what it is that I want.
I have one last story, the one that corresponds with the title of this post. Yesterday I was riding the bus from our apartment to the nearest Metro stop. It's about a 12 minute ride from my bus stop to the Metro and there are about a half dozen stops in between. As the bus pulls up to the stop before the Metro and woman with Down Syndrome gets on the bus in nothing but her underwear and a t-shirt. I might add it was below freezing yesterday morning. She was shivering and crying. I was watching her hoping that somebody who speaks French would ask her if she is alright, but nobody did. In fact, people seemed to be moving away from her. Finally, I got up and walked over to her and in English asked her, "Are you okay?" I didn't understand her response except for the word, "non." As we pulled into the Metro stop I signaled for her to come with me. She followed me and I walked her over to some police. I told the police in English the situation and told them that I don't know what her problem is, but she is certainly distressed. A police officer who spoke some English told me that they would help her. I walked away and got on the Metro. I'm not writing this so people know how great I am for helping this woman, but rather to point out how shitty other people are. It really made me question people's humanity.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Sunday, February 13, 2011
You make Ken Jennings look like a chump
It's been a while since I posted, but the last week has been hectic. On Monday I started my French classes; 4 hours a day 5 days a week. When I come home I'm exhausted and I have to work on my dissertation/work that I get paid for, so that doesn't leave too much time for blogging, but it is my duty!
My class has been going fantastically, I'm really enjoying it and learning a lot. After one week I'm stringing together grammatically incorrect rudimentary sentences, almost as if a 2 year old were drunk, but I've heard that's the first stage of learning, drunk 2 year old. My problem arises when someone understands what I'm trying to say/ask. As you can imagine, since drunk adults can barely understand what is happening, a drunk 2 year old has no idea. It makes me think of a story that I heard years ago about a family I knew who went to Spain. This family is 4 people, mother, father, and 2 children (an older son and a younger daughter). The son had taken a number of years of Spanish in high school and they were looking for something (I think it was the train station). His whole family said, "you took spanish, go and ask where the train station is." So he walks up to a man and yells, "WHERE IS THE TRAIN STATION?" His thought process behind this was that if he asks in Spanish the answer will be in Spanish and thus useless. I kind of feel this way in France, but I figure if I continue speaking in bad French it will eventually get better and I'll begin to understand.
So in my class I have three teachers, a nice woman named Luce on Monday and Friday, a slightly birdlike woman named Julie on Tuesday and Thursday and a man named Wassim on Wednesday. My classes with Luce and Julie went pretty smoothly the first week, my class with Wassim, however, was the scariest class of my life. There were 9 students sitting in the classroom when a middle aged man of Arab decent walked in. Now maybe this is simply some sort of socialization, but I found him incredibly intimidating, not frightening like I was going to die, but intimidating like I don't know what will happen if I don't speak French by the end of the day. Without saying a word he walked over to the board and wrote the letter "A." He turns toward the class and points at me, not knowing what to do I simply say, "Ah?" Wassim let out a little "oui," and pointed to the next student who also said "Ah," and the third student who said, "Ah," and so on. This continued for an hour and a half as he went through every vowel combination and consonant he could think of making us saying them with only the response of "oui," "non," some clicking sound that meant "non," or the occasional correction. I sat in this classroom with this man for an hour and a half was still not sure what his voice sounded like. I left the class during the break and immediately called Angela. I think my words were, "My teacher is the scariest man I have ever met, he could be a Bond villain." After the break we went back into class and he turned out to be one of the nicest teachers I've ever had, in fact, I think he liked me too because on Thursday I saw him in the hallways and he winked at me, is that strange?
These classes have also taken their toll on me in terms of sleep and fatigue. This fatigue caused me to do something I wouldn't normally do. I was sitting on the Metro on Thursday morning riding to school when on the same train car, about 15 to 20 feet away was Mickey Rourke. At first I didn't believe it, but then I started thinking, well he's a big star, maybe he's filming some movie in Lyon. The more I thought about this, the more it made sense. I even created a scenario in my head in which he was staring as some sort of Jason Bourne type character, which is probably a terrible casting decision.
Well, a little known fact about me is that I think meeting celebrities is AWESOME, and I have a strange desire to meet as many as possible. I don't know why I want to do this, maybe I think that meeting celebrities will one day pay off. I'll be on "Jeopardy!" and it will be my interesting story.
Alex Trebeck: Christopher, you once met John Travolta, tell us about that.
Me: Well Alex, I met John, that's what I like to call him, in the produce aisle at Waldbaum's. He was squeezing honeydews and I was picking out Ruby Red grapefruits. I said to him, "Any good melons," and he said, "Not yet."
Alex: Did he eventually find any good melons?
Me: No but I found 4 delicious grapefruits.
Well, I decided that this was my "Jeopardy!" moment. I would become friends with Mickey Rourke and I could tell the story on "Jeopardy!"
Alex: So Christopher, you're good friends with Mickey Rourke, tell us about that.
Me: Well Alex, we met in the Lyon metro back in 2011.
Alex: Wow, Christopher you are the most interesting contestant we have ever had. You make Ken Jennings look like a chump.
Now, I realize there are two major glaring problems with this scenario that was playing in my head. First and least importantly, being friends with Mickey Rourke would not make me the most interesting contestant to ever be on "Jeopardy!" Second, and most glaring, my plan had two steps, 1) meet Mickey Rourke, 2) go on "Jeopardy!" It never even occurred to me that Mickey Rourke and I wouldn't become friends and/or I might not be able to get on "Jeopardy!"
This being said, I decided it was time to meet Mickey Rourke. The train stopped at Bellecour and Mickey got off the train, which was fortuitous because Bellecour was also my stop. I walked quickly to catch Mickey. As I gained on him I began thinking about how to introduce myself, should I say, "Hey I loved the Wrestler," maybe I could say, "How's it hanging Mick!" I even contemplated the ol' shoulder punch for a second, but quickly dismissed it, Mickey used to be a professional boxer, he might not be expecting to be punched. As I sidled up next him I said, "Hey Mickey" to which he turned to me and said, "Excusez moi!"
My class has been going fantastically, I'm really enjoying it and learning a lot. After one week I'm stringing together grammatically incorrect rudimentary sentences, almost as if a 2 year old were drunk, but I've heard that's the first stage of learning, drunk 2 year old. My problem arises when someone understands what I'm trying to say/ask. As you can imagine, since drunk adults can barely understand what is happening, a drunk 2 year old has no idea. It makes me think of a story that I heard years ago about a family I knew who went to Spain. This family is 4 people, mother, father, and 2 children (an older son and a younger daughter). The son had taken a number of years of Spanish in high school and they were looking for something (I think it was the train station). His whole family said, "you took spanish, go and ask where the train station is." So he walks up to a man and yells, "WHERE IS THE TRAIN STATION?" His thought process behind this was that if he asks in Spanish the answer will be in Spanish and thus useless. I kind of feel this way in France, but I figure if I continue speaking in bad French it will eventually get better and I'll begin to understand.
So in my class I have three teachers, a nice woman named Luce on Monday and Friday, a slightly birdlike woman named Julie on Tuesday and Thursday and a man named Wassim on Wednesday. My classes with Luce and Julie went pretty smoothly the first week, my class with Wassim, however, was the scariest class of my life. There were 9 students sitting in the classroom when a middle aged man of Arab decent walked in. Now maybe this is simply some sort of socialization, but I found him incredibly intimidating, not frightening like I was going to die, but intimidating like I don't know what will happen if I don't speak French by the end of the day. Without saying a word he walked over to the board and wrote the letter "A." He turns toward the class and points at me, not knowing what to do I simply say, "Ah?" Wassim let out a little "oui," and pointed to the next student who also said "Ah," and the third student who said, "Ah," and so on. This continued for an hour and a half as he went through every vowel combination and consonant he could think of making us saying them with only the response of "oui," "non," some clicking sound that meant "non," or the occasional correction. I sat in this classroom with this man for an hour and a half was still not sure what his voice sounded like. I left the class during the break and immediately called Angela. I think my words were, "My teacher is the scariest man I have ever met, he could be a Bond villain." After the break we went back into class and he turned out to be one of the nicest teachers I've ever had, in fact, I think he liked me too because on Thursday I saw him in the hallways and he winked at me, is that strange?
These classes have also taken their toll on me in terms of sleep and fatigue. This fatigue caused me to do something I wouldn't normally do. I was sitting on the Metro on Thursday morning riding to school when on the same train car, about 15 to 20 feet away was Mickey Rourke. At first I didn't believe it, but then I started thinking, well he's a big star, maybe he's filming some movie in Lyon. The more I thought about this, the more it made sense. I even created a scenario in my head in which he was staring as some sort of Jason Bourne type character, which is probably a terrible casting decision.
Well, a little known fact about me is that I think meeting celebrities is AWESOME, and I have a strange desire to meet as many as possible. I don't know why I want to do this, maybe I think that meeting celebrities will one day pay off. I'll be on "Jeopardy!" and it will be my interesting story.
Alex Trebeck: Christopher, you once met John Travolta, tell us about that.
Me: Well Alex, I met John, that's what I like to call him, in the produce aisle at Waldbaum's. He was squeezing honeydews and I was picking out Ruby Red grapefruits. I said to him, "Any good melons," and he said, "Not yet."
Alex: Did he eventually find any good melons?
Me: No but I found 4 delicious grapefruits.
Well, I decided that this was my "Jeopardy!" moment. I would become friends with Mickey Rourke and I could tell the story on "Jeopardy!"
Alex: So Christopher, you're good friends with Mickey Rourke, tell us about that.
Me: Well Alex, we met in the Lyon metro back in 2011.
Alex: Wow, Christopher you are the most interesting contestant we have ever had. You make Ken Jennings look like a chump.
Now, I realize there are two major glaring problems with this scenario that was playing in my head. First and least importantly, being friends with Mickey Rourke would not make me the most interesting contestant to ever be on "Jeopardy!" Second, and most glaring, my plan had two steps, 1) meet Mickey Rourke, 2) go on "Jeopardy!" It never even occurred to me that Mickey Rourke and I wouldn't become friends and/or I might not be able to get on "Jeopardy!"
This being said, I decided it was time to meet Mickey Rourke. The train stopped at Bellecour and Mickey got off the train, which was fortuitous because Bellecour was also my stop. I walked quickly to catch Mickey. As I gained on him I began thinking about how to introduce myself, should I say, "Hey I loved the Wrestler," maybe I could say, "How's it hanging Mick!" I even contemplated the ol' shoulder punch for a second, but quickly dismissed it, Mickey used to be a professional boxer, he might not be expecting to be punched. As I sidled up next him I said, "Hey Mickey" to which he turned to me and said, "Excusez moi!"
Monday, January 31, 2011
Test Tomorrow
Well, tomorrow is February 1. This means two things, 1) I am taking my French placement exam tomorrow, and 2) Two days until Groundhog Day. Although I am usually quite a flutter with the prospect of Groundhog Day (I say 6 more weeks of winter weather, at least for Punxsatawney, PA; Staten Island Chuck and Malverne Mel might have different things to say, and don't get me started on Sun Prairie Jimmy, that rodent is ridiculous), I am nervous with anticipation for my exam. I don't exactly know the format of this exam, but I'm taking guesses on my overall score. My guess is that I will get somewhere below 4% of all questions correct.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
No, Americans don't eat cats
Susan and Patrick had to leave town for the weekend, they had a conference in Lille. Susan left on Thursday morning and Patrick left very early Saturday. This meant that Angela and I would have to go to the supermarket by ourselves. As Angela is infirm due to her surgery, she is unable to drive or walk for a long period of time. This meant that I had to drive, and yes, do most of the shopping. Now I must point out that driving in France is a lot like driving in a video game, speed limits are not always observed, the roads meander, the likelihood of hitting another car is pretty great. The only exception to this video game analogy is that if you do hit something, there is no re-start button.
As you might glean, I'm a little petrified to drive in France, but to make matters worse, Susan has left the keys to her Mercedes, expecting me not only to drive in France but to drive her company Mercedes. At first I thought Angela wouldn't be coming along, but she decided that she was going to come; this calmed my nerves a little. There was still a little problem with Susan's car, it is a Mercedes A-series. If you are unfamiliar with the A-series the important things to know is that it is a well made, cute car, however, it is only one step up from the Smart Car in size. Anyone who knows me knows that I am not an enormous person (about 6 feet and 195 pounds), but this car made me feel like a giant. I lowered the seat as far as possible and my head only cleared the ceiling by about an inch and a half. This wasn't the biggest problem however, the biggest problem was that I was so high in the seat that the rearview mirror blocked my entire view out of the right-side of the windshield. This would present a problem to most people, it became even more frightening when I was blowing through round-a-bouts at 60 km/h. Oh, and to make matters worse, in France the car to the right has the right of way, all of most of the time. If that doesn't make sense to you, don't worry, it doesn't really make sense to me either. I've been told the car on the right always has the right of way, except in the this case, and this case, and this case. Frankly, I understand it to mean, there really is no rule and people do as they please. Well, despite the other drivers best efforts, we got to the supermarket in one piece.
We walked into the supermarket. Before going any further this store must be explained in greater detail. It is a large market that borders upon a Wal-Mart (except it has more food, and less cheap plastic crap from China). On our list we had a number of different goods, from food for the weekend to non-food items such as an alarm clock (I will get back to the alarm clock later). Angela collected some things that we needed and her foot was starting to bother her, so I went and took everything she had, put it into the big cart, and she went and sat down. It had been rather uneventful until this point, but there were a few items left on the list that I hadn't been able to find. At this point I want to ask everyone out there if they know what the French word for sweet potato is? As far as I can tell it is not "pomme de terre sucre." I still haven't found the sweet potatoes, but I digress.
Angela was sitting on a couch outside of the store (it's in a mall), and I'm looking for the last items on the list. Susan and Patrick have a cat and they needed some food for the cat. I wandered this store for about 20 minutes without finding the cat food, when I finally found an employee and asked, "Ou est le chat . . ." and then it occurred to me that I don't know the french word for food. I decided the best course of action was to pantomime the international symbol for "eat." The look upon this man's face was one of complete confusion/horror. He either had no idea what I was looking for, or he thought I wanted to buy one of those delicious roasting cats. I can only imagine that this Frenchman now believes that Americans love to eat cat, in fact we love it so much that we travel to other countries and look for it in the supermarkets, and we cannot fathom the idea that a supermarket wouldn't sell cat. Realizing how big of a fool I must have looked like, I just walked away, eventually finding the cat food.
After finding all food items on the list (with the exception of "pomme de terre sucre"), I went to go find some other items, we needed batteries, pens, and an alarm clock. I found the batteries and pens with no problem. Now it was time to get that alarm clock. I walked over to the homewares section of the store, thinking it'll probably be near the bed linens, maybe near some of the other small appliances. I didn't find an alarm clock, but I kept walking through pockets of horrible stench. Apparently, there was a Frenchman with awful gas wandering around the home section of Carrefour. As if the stench weren't bad enough, however, I was walking all over this section of the store and I kept running into the same people, who no doubt smelled this odor as well, and who I swear were looking at me with disgust. I wanted to clarify that I was not the one leaving the aroma behind, but remembering my cat food experience and realizing I don't know what the French word for crop-dusting is, I simply proceeded to checkout and left.
As you might glean, I'm a little petrified to drive in France, but to make matters worse, Susan has left the keys to her Mercedes, expecting me not only to drive in France but to drive her company Mercedes. At first I thought Angela wouldn't be coming along, but she decided that she was going to come; this calmed my nerves a little. There was still a little problem with Susan's car, it is a Mercedes A-series. If you are unfamiliar with the A-series the important things to know is that it is a well made, cute car, however, it is only one step up from the Smart Car in size. Anyone who knows me knows that I am not an enormous person (about 6 feet and 195 pounds), but this car made me feel like a giant. I lowered the seat as far as possible and my head only cleared the ceiling by about an inch and a half. This wasn't the biggest problem however, the biggest problem was that I was so high in the seat that the rearview mirror blocked my entire view out of the right-side of the windshield. This would present a problem to most people, it became even more frightening when I was blowing through round-a-bouts at 60 km/h. Oh, and to make matters worse, in France the car to the right has the right of way, all of most of the time. If that doesn't make sense to you, don't worry, it doesn't really make sense to me either. I've been told the car on the right always has the right of way, except in the this case, and this case, and this case. Frankly, I understand it to mean, there really is no rule and people do as they please. Well, despite the other drivers best efforts, we got to the supermarket in one piece.
We walked into the supermarket. Before going any further this store must be explained in greater detail. It is a large market that borders upon a Wal-Mart (except it has more food, and less cheap plastic crap from China). On our list we had a number of different goods, from food for the weekend to non-food items such as an alarm clock (I will get back to the alarm clock later). Angela collected some things that we needed and her foot was starting to bother her, so I went and took everything she had, put it into the big cart, and she went and sat down. It had been rather uneventful until this point, but there were a few items left on the list that I hadn't been able to find. At this point I want to ask everyone out there if they know what the French word for sweet potato is? As far as I can tell it is not "pomme de terre sucre." I still haven't found the sweet potatoes, but I digress.
Angela was sitting on a couch outside of the store (it's in a mall), and I'm looking for the last items on the list. Susan and Patrick have a cat and they needed some food for the cat. I wandered this store for about 20 minutes without finding the cat food, when I finally found an employee and asked, "Ou est le chat . . ." and then it occurred to me that I don't know the french word for food. I decided the best course of action was to pantomime the international symbol for "eat." The look upon this man's face was one of complete confusion/horror. He either had no idea what I was looking for, or he thought I wanted to buy one of those delicious roasting cats. I can only imagine that this Frenchman now believes that Americans love to eat cat, in fact we love it so much that we travel to other countries and look for it in the supermarkets, and we cannot fathom the idea that a supermarket wouldn't sell cat. Realizing how big of a fool I must have looked like, I just walked away, eventually finding the cat food.
After finding all food items on the list (with the exception of "pomme de terre sucre"), I went to go find some other items, we needed batteries, pens, and an alarm clock. I found the batteries and pens with no problem. Now it was time to get that alarm clock. I walked over to the homewares section of the store, thinking it'll probably be near the bed linens, maybe near some of the other small appliances. I didn't find an alarm clock, but I kept walking through pockets of horrible stench. Apparently, there was a Frenchman with awful gas wandering around the home section of Carrefour. As if the stench weren't bad enough, however, I was walking all over this section of the store and I kept running into the same people, who no doubt smelled this odor as well, and who I swear were looking at me with disgust. I wanted to clarify that I was not the one leaving the aroma behind, but remembering my cat food experience and realizing I don't know what the French word for crop-dusting is, I simply proceeded to checkout and left.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Orange orange
Angela and I are having internet woes in the new apartment. We can't piggyback off of Susan and Patrick's internet because the router is too far away. So Susan had a good idea; we can just use 3G USB modems. I figured, it'll work and its already included with Patrick's cell phone. So Patrick plugged in the USB modem and it didn't work in his computer. I plugged it into my computer and it didn't work their either. Long story short, we brought it to the Orange store (the cellular company), and they decided that the USB modem was broken and Patrick needed a new one (we also found out that it wouldn't work for Angela and I because it would cost a ton after the first 2 hours of usage).
Patrick filled out the requisite paperwork to get a new USB modem and they told him it would be available in a few days. Well last night we went to go pick it up. I figured we would have to go to the Orange store again, I was mistaken. We drove to a town nearby St. Didier called Champagne Au Mt. D'Or. In this town there was a long street with a lot of stores from boucheries to fromageries to boulangeries. We found a parking space that and began walking down the street. We did walk into another orange store, but notice how the word orange was not capitalized here. It was quite literally a market that sells fruit. We walked in and a swarthy looking man comes walking out from the back. Patrick talks to him for a minute and then the man walks into the back again, comes out with a box, opens it and gives Patrick a brand new USB modem. It seemed like some sort of back alley deal from the Sopranos. I know this isn't standard French operating procedure though, because as we walked out of the fruit store I said to Patrick, "That was bizarre." His response was simply, "Yes, it was."
Patrick filled out the requisite paperwork to get a new USB modem and they told him it would be available in a few days. Well last night we went to go pick it up. I figured we would have to go to the Orange store again, I was mistaken. We drove to a town nearby St. Didier called Champagne Au Mt. D'Or. In this town there was a long street with a lot of stores from boucheries to fromageries to boulangeries. We found a parking space that and began walking down the street. We did walk into another orange store, but notice how the word orange was not capitalized here. It was quite literally a market that sells fruit. We walked in and a swarthy looking man comes walking out from the back. Patrick talks to him for a minute and then the man walks into the back again, comes out with a box, opens it and gives Patrick a brand new USB modem. It seemed like some sort of back alley deal from the Sopranos. I know this isn't standard French operating procedure though, because as we walked out of the fruit store I said to Patrick, "That was bizarre." His response was simply, "Yes, it was."
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Lost in Lyon
Angela had her foot surgery on Friday and it went well. She doesn't appear to have any complications and it looks like it worked. She just got out of the hospital today so I've been keeping her company at the hospital the last couple of days. Well, yesterday she was tired and said she was going to take a nap. I said that's fine, I could get Emma her french tag at the store down the street and then I could get some lunch. This seemed like a good idea about, but about halfway down the street I said to myself, "Oh crap, you're probably going to have to ask somebody to make the tag for Emma." Just so everyone is clear, I speak virtually no French (I know basic phrases, and can maybe pick out a word here or there when a person responds). I decided I was going to try this anyway. Well, I walked around a little and deciphered that dog tags in France are known as "nom d'l chien" or something like that. So I went up to an employee and asked "Ou est le nom d'l chien, sil vous plais?" I was quite proud of myself, he brought me over to where they are and in bit of French and English I figured out that it would take 1 week for them to make. This store is kind of far from our house, so I decided it didn't make sense to drive across the city to come and pick up the dog tag in a week, so I politely tried to thanks him by saying "Merci beaucoup." However, I didn't know how to say, I don't want to buy it. So the scene played out something like this:
Me: "Merci beaucoup,"
Homme: Awkward silence as the man starred at me (4 or 5 seconds goes by)
Me: "um...I don't think I need it."
Homme: "Que?"
Me: "Un week est too long."
Homme: "Dacour" (man walks away)
I got away with one there, but not without embarrassment.
At this point I was pretty hungry and decided to go and find some lunch. I continued walking down the street I was on, but unfortunately it was all apartments. So I decided to make a right turn, which was also all apartments. I walked a few blocks and made another right turn, more apartment (for a country known for its food and restaurants they sure are hard to come by). After a while I made another right and a left because I started to see some places (a boulangerie, a patisserie, etc.). Before I knew it I was in a big plaza with tons of food. I walked into one patisserie/boulangerie but I they were out of sandwiches, I think, I wasn't exactly sure what the woman said, but I thought that's what it was, so I just turned and left, I hope she didn't ask me what I wanted or something. Well, I walked around the plaza and walked into a brasserie and asked the man, "Manger?" but unfortunately they were not serving food anymore because it was after 2pm, 5 minutes after 2. This is the French way, food only until 2 and then restaurants don't serve anymore. Apparently nobody in France ever has a problem in which they end up missing lunch. Anyway, le garcon told me "Boissons." I left and I finally found a patisserie/boulangerie with sandwiches. I got poulet and an eclair chocolat. I was very proud of myself because the woman asked me, "Vous voulez blanc, le chocolat ou le café." I actually understood what she meant, there were three different types of eclairs, vanilla, chocolate or coffee. I ordered my chocolate eclair, sat down and had a nice little lunch in Cour Lafayette.
I started to walk back to the hospital and decided to pick up some flowers for Angela, and I walked into a store that said "Fleurs." This was in fact a florist and I'm thinking alright, I'm getting the hang of this. No real problems in the florist, and I walked out with a red begonia in a pot. I began walking back to the hospital, or where I thought the hospital was, and this is the point I realized that Lyon is not laid out on a grid, my exact thought was, "Oh shit, where the hell am I?" I walked under some trains tracks, which I should have known not to do, since I hadn't walked under any earlier in the day. After getting turned around I found a map at a bus stop, which I apparently misread, and walked in the exact opposite direction of where I was going. After getting mediocre directions from a nice British couple, I ended up even further from where I was supposed to be. I walked up to a bus stop again to look at the map, but I couldn't find where I was or where I was going. I knew the hospital was on Boulevard de Stalingrad near Parc Tete D'Or. All I needed to do was find Stalingrad and walk towards the park. Standing at this stop were two elderly French men. I turned to them and said, "Excuse moi, ou est le Boulevard de Stalingrad?" To my surprise they understood me, unfortunately that is where the comprehension ended.
They started talking to me in French and quickly realized that I was only understanding about two or three words of what they said. Trying to communicate I finally figured out how to get to where I was going, then they started telling me which bus I need to take. I decided I needed to tell them that I was walking, but unfortunately I didn't know the word for walk was "marche." But I thought, no big D, it must be close to the Latin word (considering I had 8 years of Latin I thought I could do this). Thinking to myself, Latin don't fail me now, I remembered the word "to walk" in Latin was ambulare. I don't know why this seemed like a good idea in my head, but at the time it was the best idea in the world; I decided to make up a word for "walk," and that word was "ambulaire." Now, for those who don't speak French, this is not the word for "walk," it isn't even a word. Trying to inform them that I will be walking, I say "J'ambulaire." The looks on their faces cannot be described. Here, standing in front of them was a person that they thought was an American, making up words while holding I giant freakin' begonia. Finally, they understood when I pantomimed walking with my fingers. Well, I eventually found my way back to the hospital after about a 3 or 4km walk whilst holding a potted begonia. I told this story to Angela and she nearly crapped herself laughing. I, however, am slightly vindicated; the word "ambulatoire" means "ambulatory," which is kind of close to walk.
So, that was my day wondering around Lyon. What felt like the entire day was actually only about 1 hour and 15 minutes. The most annoying part is that the flower shop that I bought the begonia at was probably only 500 meters from the hospital. But a word to the wise, if walking in Lyon, remember the city is not on a grid.
Me: "Merci beaucoup,"
Homme: Awkward silence as the man starred at me (4 or 5 seconds goes by)
Me: "um...I don't think I need it."
Homme: "Que?"
Me: "Un week est too long."
Homme: "Dacour" (man walks away)
I got away with one there, but not without embarrassment.
At this point I was pretty hungry and decided to go and find some lunch. I continued walking down the street I was on, but unfortunately it was all apartments. So I decided to make a right turn, which was also all apartments. I walked a few blocks and made another right turn, more apartment (for a country known for its food and restaurants they sure are hard to come by). After a while I made another right and a left because I started to see some places (a boulangerie, a patisserie, etc.). Before I knew it I was in a big plaza with tons of food. I walked into one patisserie/boulangerie but I they were out of sandwiches, I think, I wasn't exactly sure what the woman said, but I thought that's what it was, so I just turned and left, I hope she didn't ask me what I wanted or something. Well, I walked around the plaza and walked into a brasserie and asked the man, "Manger?" but unfortunately they were not serving food anymore because it was after 2pm, 5 minutes after 2. This is the French way, food only until 2 and then restaurants don't serve anymore. Apparently nobody in France ever has a problem in which they end up missing lunch. Anyway, le garcon told me "Boissons." I left and I finally found a patisserie/boulangerie with sandwiches. I got poulet and an eclair chocolat. I was very proud of myself because the woman asked me, "Vous voulez blanc, le chocolat ou le café." I actually understood what she meant, there were three different types of eclairs, vanilla, chocolate or coffee. I ordered my chocolate eclair, sat down and had a nice little lunch in Cour Lafayette.
I started to walk back to the hospital and decided to pick up some flowers for Angela, and I walked into a store that said "Fleurs." This was in fact a florist and I'm thinking alright, I'm getting the hang of this. No real problems in the florist, and I walked out with a red begonia in a pot. I began walking back to the hospital, or where I thought the hospital was, and this is the point I realized that Lyon is not laid out on a grid, my exact thought was, "Oh shit, where the hell am I?" I walked under some trains tracks, which I should have known not to do, since I hadn't walked under any earlier in the day. After getting turned around I found a map at a bus stop, which I apparently misread, and walked in the exact opposite direction of where I was going. After getting mediocre directions from a nice British couple, I ended up even further from where I was supposed to be. I walked up to a bus stop again to look at the map, but I couldn't find where I was or where I was going. I knew the hospital was on Boulevard de Stalingrad near Parc Tete D'Or. All I needed to do was find Stalingrad and walk towards the park. Standing at this stop were two elderly French men. I turned to them and said, "Excuse moi, ou est le Boulevard de Stalingrad?" To my surprise they understood me, unfortunately that is where the comprehension ended.
They started talking to me in French and quickly realized that I was only understanding about two or three words of what they said. Trying to communicate I finally figured out how to get to where I was going, then they started telling me which bus I need to take. I decided I needed to tell them that I was walking, but unfortunately I didn't know the word for walk was "marche." But I thought, no big D, it must be close to the Latin word (considering I had 8 years of Latin I thought I could do this). Thinking to myself, Latin don't fail me now, I remembered the word "to walk" in Latin was ambulare. I don't know why this seemed like a good idea in my head, but at the time it was the best idea in the world; I decided to make up a word for "walk," and that word was "ambulaire." Now, for those who don't speak French, this is not the word for "walk," it isn't even a word. Trying to inform them that I will be walking, I say "J'ambulaire." The looks on their faces cannot be described. Here, standing in front of them was a person that they thought was an American, making up words while holding I giant freakin' begonia. Finally, they understood when I pantomimed walking with my fingers. Well, I eventually found my way back to the hospital after about a 3 or 4km walk whilst holding a potted begonia. I told this story to Angela and she nearly crapped herself laughing. I, however, am slightly vindicated; the word "ambulatoire" means "ambulatory," which is kind of close to walk.
So, that was my day wondering around Lyon. What felt like the entire day was actually only about 1 hour and 15 minutes. The most annoying part is that the flower shop that I bought the begonia at was probably only 500 meters from the hospital. But a word to the wise, if walking in Lyon, remember the city is not on a grid.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
One Week Down
Boy have we had a busy week, not an exciting one, just a busy one. If I haven't told you already we are living in an apartment on Susan and Patrick's property that has been vacant for sometime. Due to the vacancy Susan and Patrick turned off the furnace. Well, long story short, it did not want to turn back on. This did not stop us, we called the furnace repairman, made an appointment and got to work getting the apartment set. The carpeting in the bedroom in our apartment had been torn up exposing the hardwood floors, which were covered in glue which formerly held down the carpet. This mean, break out the sanders. Angela, Susan and I spent a day sanding the floor until it looked brand new (I'm going to say it's oak, maybe French oak, which could be used to make wine, why should we be standing on it). Angela then varnished the floors and painted the room. We put together some furniture, and began setting up the apartment; it is almost completely ready now.
In addition to the apartment, Angela is having a slight medical procedure done tomorrow that involves a 2 night hospital stay. Well, in order to prepare for this she had to visit a few doctors. We are sitting in the doctor's office (which is in a hospital of sorts) and in walks a guy decked out in New York Mets gear. Anyone who knows me knows that I think of the Mets fans as a bit of a special organization. The Mets are the second baseball team in New York, rarely win and I suspect nobody would really want to be associated with the Mets unless they were actual Mets fans (hell, many of us don't want to be associated with them and we are Mets fans). Looking at the man wearing all of this gear (jacket, hat, etc.) I feel an instant camaraderie with him, like he and I are in on some sort of secret information that other people are not privy to, we know what being a Mets fan is all about and feel for each other. He's my people and I'm his. Well, it turns out, that this mutual understanding was less than mutual. As he walks by I look right at him and say "Let's go Mets." His response was to look at me like I'm insane and walk right past.
How am I the insane one in this situation. You're the guy wearing paraphernalia of an organization which you don't know from Adam. Seriously, for all this guy knows, the Mets could be some groups of misfits who can't do anything right and succeed at only crushing the dreams of children and adults alike; oh wait, I guess that is a pretty good synopsis of the Mets, but you get my point.
I recovered from the embarrassment I sustained when I spoke to the pseudo-Mets fan and the next day Angela and I decided we needed to go to the grocery store and buy some food for the house, so we went to the Casino. Now before you start getting ideas, the Casino is a supermarche (supermarket) here in France, it's not like we're degenerate gamblers who are blowing our money on blackjack when we need food. It was a bit of a windy and cold day, so I was wearing a scarf, and we purchased a whole bunch of food, including a baguette. This was my time to really be French, I had my scarf and my baguette. I threw my scarf around my neck, my baguette under my arm, and went home, tres francaise.
Many other things have happened since we've been in France, but most of them are pretty boring, even more boring that what I wrote above. The only thing I have to say is I bought a 5 Euro bottle of wine at the supermarche yesterday and it was one of the more expensive bottles of wine in the entire store. And this wasn't a small wine section, there were 3 aisles of wine. Moreover, I would put this wine as one of the 25 best wines I've ever had. Just fantastic, it was a 2006 Cotes du Rhone (rouge) made by Domain Mireille and Vincent. Just so you know, the French don't tell you what kind of grapes are used in the making of a wine, you're just supposed to know. I just looked this up and the two most popular red grape varietals in Cote du Rhone are grenache and syrah, so my guess is this was probably a blend of those two grapes.
That's all I have for right now. I suspect this blog will become more interesting after I start my classes and I butcher the French language. Who knows I might try to buy a shirt and end up in another country, never underestimate my ability to not speak French.
In addition to the apartment, Angela is having a slight medical procedure done tomorrow that involves a 2 night hospital stay. Well, in order to prepare for this she had to visit a few doctors. We are sitting in the doctor's office (which is in a hospital of sorts) and in walks a guy decked out in New York Mets gear. Anyone who knows me knows that I think of the Mets fans as a bit of a special organization. The Mets are the second baseball team in New York, rarely win and I suspect nobody would really want to be associated with the Mets unless they were actual Mets fans (hell, many of us don't want to be associated with them and we are Mets fans). Looking at the man wearing all of this gear (jacket, hat, etc.) I feel an instant camaraderie with him, like he and I are in on some sort of secret information that other people are not privy to, we know what being a Mets fan is all about and feel for each other. He's my people and I'm his. Well, it turns out, that this mutual understanding was less than mutual. As he walks by I look right at him and say "Let's go Mets." His response was to look at me like I'm insane and walk right past.
How am I the insane one in this situation. You're the guy wearing paraphernalia of an organization which you don't know from Adam. Seriously, for all this guy knows, the Mets could be some groups of misfits who can't do anything right and succeed at only crushing the dreams of children and adults alike; oh wait, I guess that is a pretty good synopsis of the Mets, but you get my point.
I recovered from the embarrassment I sustained when I spoke to the pseudo-Mets fan and the next day Angela and I decided we needed to go to the grocery store and buy some food for the house, so we went to the Casino. Now before you start getting ideas, the Casino is a supermarche (supermarket) here in France, it's not like we're degenerate gamblers who are blowing our money on blackjack when we need food. It was a bit of a windy and cold day, so I was wearing a scarf, and we purchased a whole bunch of food, including a baguette. This was my time to really be French, I had my scarf and my baguette. I threw my scarf around my neck, my baguette under my arm, and went home, tres francaise.
Many other things have happened since we've been in France, but most of them are pretty boring, even more boring that what I wrote above. The only thing I have to say is I bought a 5 Euro bottle of wine at the supermarche yesterday and it was one of the more expensive bottles of wine in the entire store. And this wasn't a small wine section, there were 3 aisles of wine. Moreover, I would put this wine as one of the 25 best wines I've ever had. Just fantastic, it was a 2006 Cotes du Rhone (rouge) made by Domain Mireille and Vincent. Just so you know, the French don't tell you what kind of grapes are used in the making of a wine, you're just supposed to know. I just looked this up and the two most popular red grape varietals in Cote du Rhone are grenache and syrah, so my guess is this was probably a blend of those two grapes.
That's all I have for right now. I suspect this blog will become more interesting after I start my classes and I butcher the French language. Who knows I might try to buy a shirt and end up in another country, never underestimate my ability to not speak French.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)