I like to think of myself as charmingly awkward. This is so that I don't have to realize that I'm just awkward. I'm like a bird bent at odd angles, stuffed into a body that doesn't quite fit it, and blessed with a mouth that speaks only the words that will prove most detrimental in any given circumstance. And that's when I'm trying with every fiber of my being to be other than what I am. You should see what happens when I let down my guard. Or I can tell you. This is the story of me courting my host mother.
It started well, truly it did. We got along, she laughed at my jokes, and we took a bus together. A good first date, all things considered. I met her husband and we seemed to get along. Look, I thought to myself, her friends like me! Surely this will be utterly perfect and in no way make me want to shrivel up and die. It's cute when I pretend I'm not living my life.
Gradually, however, I started realizing that things were amiss. She came home one day and we were talking in the hall. She said she was going to the living room. Sensing an opening I asked if I could join her. I was met with what I will call her owl stare (eyes wide, a sense of expectation on her part. There's a gravity to this gaze that inevitably draws more words out of my mouth to fill its orbit. It's a black hole that sucks away the last vestiges of dignity. It is terrifying. [No, I'm not dramatic]). She then asked, in tone as stoic as could be, "Why?"
To which I responded, "Maybe you're watching TV?"
"No, I'm going to check my emails."
"Ok, haha, I'll leave you alone then haha. I won't annoy you anymore."
"Yes. Dinner is at eight."
What she obviously meant was: "You insane cretin. How dare you attempt to encroach upon my time! And to insinuate that I might participate in such base pursuit as the regard de télévision...you do know I'm French?"
Things quickly deteriorated when, while trying to once more talk with her in the hallway, I accidentally accused her of having perverted knowledge (gross knowledge) of ancient Rome rather than having a lot of knowledge. Although honestly what with the whole culture of pederasty there's hardly a difference.
The next day, having learned my lesson, I did not engage her in hallway conversation. Dinner rolled around and, as her daughter was off being smart and French and doing med school, and host daddy was elsewhere, it was just us two. As she went to switch out the courses, I, taken by the caprice that will one day be my downfall, decided to hold up my empty waterglass to my eye. Like it was a telescope. Unfortunately I timed my childish self-indulgence wrong and she entered the room. Commence owl stare. "Is something the matter?"
Now here's what I don't get. I could easily have said something like "I enjoy the way this glass refracts light and thus was entertaining my overactive intellect with the appreciation of energy along the visible wavelength from a perspective other than my own whilst you were in the middle of bringing me this food which, by the way, is delicious."
Instead I said, "I think I'm pretending to be a pirate."
To which she replied, "We mustn't do childish things at the dinner table."
Of course, what I heard was, "Mortal, who you are is NOT okay."
What you should take from this is that there are times in your life when you will feel so uncomfortably real that everything else seems to fade away into the background and you will come to the realization that nothing justifies your existence in the face of the person with whom you are interacting. This is a walk in the park compared to being me. Happy tenth day in Paris to me!
lundi 17 septembre 2012
mardi 11 septembre 2012
Op Là and the Metro Crew ( Or, How I Learned to Stop Trying and Fail with Aplomb)
The title of this post is part onomatopoeia, part foreshadowing, part overly-self-satisfied reference to Dr. Strangelove. So you know this is going great places.
Let's start with the Metro. Oh lovely metro. Because I am a yearlong student, my yearlong metro pass is taking a year to get here. In the meantime, I had misinformed myself into believing that I could buy a weekly pass (Passe Navigo) easily. It cost 19€. So I only took a 20 euro bill with me to the Metro this morning. Unfortunately, once I got there I was quickly informed by the man working behind the counter that I could not, in fact, buy a Passe Navigo without going through some sort of bureaucratic process. Fair enough, I thought to myself, going over to the ticket dispenser to get myself a metro ticket. Unfortunately the dispensers only take coins. I only had bills. It doesn't take a genius to see that there existed a discongruity here. I was going to have to take action to get change. I didn't want to go back to the counter to ask for change, because he would think I was stupid and I can't have that! This is my metro stop for the year and he will obviously remember my face and judge me every time I use the metro.
In my mind, it was much simpler to ascend the steps to street level and enter the nearest patisserie. Instead of just asking for change, I decided to buy something because it's easier to do something the stupid way. I think. Might have to check up on that one. As serendipity (who is a bitch and not someone you should associate with) would have it, the cheapest item was an almond bread pudding. Which was propitious because it was a huge slab of bread pudding for 1,80€ AND I'm allergic to almonds. Weighing my options, I decided to buy it. Not only that, but as I was buying it, as if to convince myself of the lie of intent that I was committing, I lavished the baker with such voluminous praise as "This bread pudding looks amazing. I love bread pudding. I am so excited to eat this because it looks so delicious and it smells so good. Merci Au Revoir". Naturally I had no intention of eating it. So I threw it out. At the garbage can in front of the patisserie which, as it happens, is stationed in front of the giant glass window. As the baker watched. Confused. Then angry. Whoops. It's a good thing this is the bakery across the street from my house. The one that I have to pass every day to get to the metro stop. At least the guy at the ticket counter in the metro won't think I'm stupid, right?
Another thing about the metro before we move on: People will tell you that all the French are broodingly impassive on the metro. Actually they won't. They'll say things like "Don't smile on the metro because no one smiles and everyone looks angry". This seems to imply some sort of unique stoic facial expression that serves as a French person's metro-face. Guys, this isn't true at all. Here is a sampling of facial contortions I have observed in my short time on the metro:
1. I look like I'm bored. I'm really really bored and I'm looking at the window. I'm pretending like I'm looking out the window but I'm not. I'm checking myself out. No I'm not fixing my hair. I have an itch. I'm bored. I'm pretty and French and bo-"MERDE JAI RATE MON ARRET!"
2. I look like I just woke up on the street. I know I look like that. I'm probably on drugs. See how my eyes shift? They're really shifty. I'm really shifty. I will glare at you if you approach me and don't even try to look at what is in my bag because I will close it really quickly and look like a drug addict at you.
3. I look like I was just vociferously making out with my boyfriend and then he sneezed on my face. I do not look happy.
Let's finish with the question you probably wanted to know the answer to at the beginning of this post: What is an Op Là? To answer that my friends, we must make a brief foray into the communication style of the French. The French have this particular way of communicating that is just as particular as the hand-waving pantomimery so closely associated with the Italians. Yet they get no credit for it; the collective unconscious of cultural stereotypes holds no murky pool of French sound effects. But there are so many! I wish I were a better stenographer, that I might accurately transcribe the small noises that punctuate their story-telling and generally seem to help the French get through their French day.
My host-father, bless his socially awkward heart, has a particular way of doing things that involves repeated invocations of the Op Là. Putting down a plate? Op Là. Picking up a fork? Op Là. Trying to prepare dinner in the tiny kitchen while the American student living in your middle son's room desperately tries to make conversation with you because it's been five hours since he's talked to anyone and he's taken this moment to come into the have-we-mentioned-how-tiny-it-is kitchen and now you're trying to move a plate while listening to him ramble on about going to the Eiffel Tower oh that's fucking original? Op Là, Op Là, Op Là.
Yes, I decided to try to be social yesterday. I walked into the middle of the kitchen, which is also the beginning and end of the kitchen except when the oven is open in which case there's only a beginning and middle and if you want to open the fridge too well then there's just no kitchen. So I stood there, awkwardly flailing about trying not to be a nuisance while being hyper-conscious of just what a nuisance I was being. The dialog went something like this:
"What did you do today?"
"I just had a meeting at the Fac. Op Là (plate almost goes flying). No, no you're fine. Op Là. No really, you don't need to go back to your room. Op Là. Haha, there almost went our dinner, what would we have done then. Yes, the meeting was fine. Op Là. No, there's really not much to say about it. It was just like an info session. Op Là. No, that's fine, just leave the ham on the ground. I'll get it."
Dinner was a blessedly seated affair in which I repeatedly apologized for being a nuisance and tried to find a socially appropriate way to ask "when is it okay to talk to you? Because I get bored. And lonely. Also I like to speak French."
Answer forthcoming.
Let's start with the Metro. Oh lovely metro. Because I am a yearlong student, my yearlong metro pass is taking a year to get here. In the meantime, I had misinformed myself into believing that I could buy a weekly pass (Passe Navigo) easily. It cost 19€. So I only took a 20 euro bill with me to the Metro this morning. Unfortunately, once I got there I was quickly informed by the man working behind the counter that I could not, in fact, buy a Passe Navigo without going through some sort of bureaucratic process. Fair enough, I thought to myself, going over to the ticket dispenser to get myself a metro ticket. Unfortunately the dispensers only take coins. I only had bills. It doesn't take a genius to see that there existed a discongruity here. I was going to have to take action to get change. I didn't want to go back to the counter to ask for change, because he would think I was stupid and I can't have that! This is my metro stop for the year and he will obviously remember my face and judge me every time I use the metro.
In my mind, it was much simpler to ascend the steps to street level and enter the nearest patisserie. Instead of just asking for change, I decided to buy something because it's easier to do something the stupid way. I think. Might have to check up on that one. As serendipity (who is a bitch and not someone you should associate with) would have it, the cheapest item was an almond bread pudding. Which was propitious because it was a huge slab of bread pudding for 1,80€ AND I'm allergic to almonds. Weighing my options, I decided to buy it. Not only that, but as I was buying it, as if to convince myself of the lie of intent that I was committing, I lavished the baker with such voluminous praise as "This bread pudding looks amazing. I love bread pudding. I am so excited to eat this because it looks so delicious and it smells so good. Merci Au Revoir". Naturally I had no intention of eating it. So I threw it out. At the garbage can in front of the patisserie which, as it happens, is stationed in front of the giant glass window. As the baker watched. Confused. Then angry. Whoops. It's a good thing this is the bakery across the street from my house. The one that I have to pass every day to get to the metro stop. At least the guy at the ticket counter in the metro won't think I'm stupid, right?
Another thing about the metro before we move on: People will tell you that all the French are broodingly impassive on the metro. Actually they won't. They'll say things like "Don't smile on the metro because no one smiles and everyone looks angry". This seems to imply some sort of unique stoic facial expression that serves as a French person's metro-face. Guys, this isn't true at all. Here is a sampling of facial contortions I have observed in my short time on the metro:
1. I look like I'm bored. I'm really really bored and I'm looking at the window. I'm pretending like I'm looking out the window but I'm not. I'm checking myself out. No I'm not fixing my hair. I have an itch. I'm bored. I'm pretty and French and bo-"MERDE JAI RATE MON ARRET!"
2. I look like I just woke up on the street. I know I look like that. I'm probably on drugs. See how my eyes shift? They're really shifty. I'm really shifty. I will glare at you if you approach me and don't even try to look at what is in my bag because I will close it really quickly and look like a drug addict at you.
3. I look like I was just vociferously making out with my boyfriend and then he sneezed on my face. I do not look happy.
Let's finish with the question you probably wanted to know the answer to at the beginning of this post: What is an Op Là? To answer that my friends, we must make a brief foray into the communication style of the French. The French have this particular way of communicating that is just as particular as the hand-waving pantomimery so closely associated with the Italians. Yet they get no credit for it; the collective unconscious of cultural stereotypes holds no murky pool of French sound effects. But there are so many! I wish I were a better stenographer, that I might accurately transcribe the small noises that punctuate their story-telling and generally seem to help the French get through their French day.
My host-father, bless his socially awkward heart, has a particular way of doing things that involves repeated invocations of the Op Là. Putting down a plate? Op Là. Picking up a fork? Op Là. Trying to prepare dinner in the tiny kitchen while the American student living in your middle son's room desperately tries to make conversation with you because it's been five hours since he's talked to anyone and he's taken this moment to come into the have-we-mentioned-how-tiny-it-is kitchen and now you're trying to move a plate while listening to him ramble on about going to the Eiffel Tower oh that's fucking original? Op Là, Op Là, Op Là.
Yes, I decided to try to be social yesterday. I walked into the middle of the kitchen, which is also the beginning and end of the kitchen except when the oven is open in which case there's only a beginning and middle and if you want to open the fridge too well then there's just no kitchen. So I stood there, awkwardly flailing about trying not to be a nuisance while being hyper-conscious of just what a nuisance I was being. The dialog went something like this:
"What did you do today?"
"I just had a meeting at the Fac. Op Là (plate almost goes flying). No, no you're fine. Op Là. No really, you don't need to go back to your room. Op Là. Haha, there almost went our dinner, what would we have done then. Yes, the meeting was fine. Op Là. No, there's really not much to say about it. It was just like an info session. Op Là. No, that's fine, just leave the ham on the ground. I'll get it."
Dinner was a blessedly seated affair in which I repeatedly apologized for being a nuisance and tried to find a socially appropriate way to ask "when is it okay to talk to you? Because I get bored. And lonely. Also I like to speak French."
Answer forthcoming.
vendredi 7 septembre 2012
Fin Tours Debut Paris
We have finally left Tours which means...the end of the French Class From Hell. To anyone not in the program it's impossible to describe the flame of joy that burned merrily in the hearth of my heart as I walked out (early, ostensibly to "chercher mes valises") of that awful skylit room for the final time. Shame that the professeur was as lovely as they come. I feel bad resenting the product of her hard work, but what're you gonna do?
Oh, in exciting pre-Liberation news I finally took a French bus! And it was (almost) not a complete disaster! Which is to say that the morning bus went off without a hitch. The afternoon bus, which I judiciously made absolutely sure was the right bus to take, was a complete disaster! After getting on the right bus, I naively assumed that it would take me to the right stop. I got on a self-assured traveler of the world, confident that I might even pass for a real French person such was the effortless assiduity with which I montéd the autobus approprié. These delusions of competence shattered soon afterwards when my bus passed not one, not two, but three of the stops that would have left me within easy walking distance of my home. My fight or flight response thus activated, I took it upon myself to mash the request stop button like a fiend several thousand times, attracting the attention of several of my fellow passengers. At last my prayers were answered (or perhaps we'd just come to a stop that finally had people at it), and lo the doors of the bus did open. Unfortunately the doors closed on me on the way out, so I had to force my way off the bus and endure the confused stares of the French busgoers as I walked the length of the bus towards my final destination, home. It was only then that I realized I'd lost my water bottle in the struggle. Eight euro cents not well spent. The moral of the story is that it's ok to take the bus in the morning but absolutely the worst idea ever to attempt to repeat success. If you do something right in a foreign country, it was a fluke. Don't get cocky.
Anyway, we left Tours the same way we came: on a bus that smelled of sweat (three cheers for broken air conditioning in 90 degree weather!) and the pheromones of eager anticipation. That's right Sweet Briar friendlings, I can smell your emotions. Wait don't read that, I want you to like me despite my tiger nose. Moving right along, we finally arrived at the Alliance Francaise/Sweet Briar office and, in good Sweet Briar form, they had us do something confusing and unnecessary. We were told to leave our luggage out in the courtyard (because the gates would also keep out the people who were luggageside, right?) and descend into the ass of the Alliance, where we filled out the seats of a theatre that has undoubtedly held really great productions of things in the past. There, in some sort of Frankensteinian fusion of pageant and adoption ritual, our host families waited for us. Parnet then read out our names, whereupon we filed up to the stage to meet our host family. By which I mean our host moms. Because gender roles guys.
My host mom, whose name I forgot immediately upon learning it and will now have to squirrel out of her through the winning combination of subtlety and smoothe-talking that is my calling card, took me to her apartment. And though many of you will have read my Facebook status, I am going to repeat here: MY BALCONY OVERLOOKS TWO FOUNTAINS. People who know me know that I love fountains. People who are reading this blog in Nepal, hi! I love fountains. A lot. Their apartment is amazing, they are the friendliest people, and only photos can describe how happy I currently am with this situation. Undoubtedly I will die in a fire sometime this year, but until then let the real study abroad experience begin!
My host mom, whose name I forgot immediately upon learning it and will now have to squirrel out of her through the winning combination of subtlety and smoothe-talking that is my calling card, took me to her apartment. And though many of you will have read my Facebook status, I am going to repeat here: MY BALCONY OVERLOOKS TWO FOUNTAINS. People who know me know that I love fountains. People who are reading this blog in Nepal, hi! I love fountains. A lot. Their apartment is amazing, they are the friendliest people, and only photos can describe how happy I currently am with this situation. Undoubtedly I will die in a fire sometime this year, but until then let the real study abroad experience begin!
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