07.02.03: Patience, Woody, Patience

I am in a Woody Allen movie. In fact, I've become Woody.

I have been observing for the last year how patient I am becoming. This is a forced response. I have attributed it to dealing with french people day in, day out. We don't always a share a common language. Patience, patience.

I imagine that there are multiple ways to learn a foreign language. A seemingly necessary evil is memorizing verb conjugations. Another aspect is actually talking to real people who (quite naturally) speak the foreign language you are trying to learn. This can be scary, intimidating, humorous, and sometimes enjoyable. A way to make take the edge off is to go to a structued environment where you sit in small groups with actual real-live french people and talk for 45 minutes in English -- ostensibly for them to learn english, but quite honestly I find it to be some of the more sane conversations I have here anyway, and then 45 minutes in french -- ostensibly to learn some french conversational skills, but actually a way to defend américain's honor in the face of several massively stupid international "gaffes" (le mot de la semaine this week on RFI, associated to M. Chirac and Iranian-awareness) by our gouvernement. The hour and a half for this exercise is acceptably banal, and perhaps a little educational. The shared lunch afterwards is actually the good reason to participate. At lunch I can manage an interesting conversation with one or two francophones, and honestly share some interesting perspectives.

So today, after the obligatory Bush-bash (or you don't get invited to lunch) we were walking up the street to a resto, when one of the elderly américaine participants asked me to wait for her while she managed her affaires. She said she knew where the resto was for lunch, which I didn't question. After I waited to accompany her, we walked around St-Germain des Pres several times while it became painfully obvious she had no fricking idea where the resto was to meet up with the others. So, I didn't get to have lunch with my frenchy friends today. I really thought I would kill her.

That's when I knew I had become Woody. Patience, patience. This time for an american in paris. Go figure.

She told me she met President Eisenhower when she was a young woman. Namedropper. In Paris, no less. She looks like Diane Keaton will look in another 10 years. She told me she was very attractive when she was young. These are the other things she told me: her father was abusive, her mother was an alcoholic until the day after her father died, her ex-husband, now deceased, was french, haute bourgeoisie, and non-communcative, she is much younger than my father (who is 77), and she loves living in Paris -- in fact, it was her destiny, fulfilled.

All this while I had a little pasta and a glass of vin rouge in a little Italian restaurant off Metro Odéon, on a brisk, sunny winter day. It really seemed like a Woody Allen movie. But a little less funny. But then, the character played by Woody in his movies doesn't see the humor either.

06.11.05: Un an

The maple leaves are bronze, laying on the lawn in the front garden. The fog appears thick every morning lately; this morning the visibility was under 50 meters at the river's edge, the other bank barely discernible through the mist. In the early mornings during this most recent vacances scolaires, the quiet is as thick as the fog. This afternoon, bicycling, the breath visible, signaling the end of automne indien, full-fledged autumn now undeniably here.

It must be one year since I have been here now; the seasons have fully cycled.

Just like last year this weekend, the Sunday market was again a necessary pleasure of the day. Unlike last year, today, several of the vendors recognize me, look forward to a few pleasant words to exchange, a small sale of some bananas, merguez, saucisson dinde, and without fail, une tranche de cantal. The clémentines are in season again.

The clothes vendors were in full force today. At one booth I was encouraged to look at the Levi's. Sixty euros a pair for 501s. I bought a pair of 501s at Sear's last week in Cincy for 20 euros (oh yeah, I received a $15 discount for opening a Sears charge, which undoubtedly I will cancel, so I can get the same discount again next time I make it to a Sear's.) I didn't tell them how much less expensive I can get Levi's for in the US. What would be the point.

By the same token, I went to Carrefour yesterday to pick up some coffee and chocolate to bring to the US this week for some former expats who are on a "I need some french stuff that I can't get in the midwest" craving. So, that is the point. There are some very nice things to enjoy, wherever we are.

At the market today, two young women in white lab coats walked up to me and spoke for a few minutes, too quickly for me to understand what they said. After I said: "Je n'ai pas compris", they paused for the few seconds that it takes one to ask oneself what they said that wasn't understandable, before recognizing that I spoke with (just a little bit of) an accent (for them, anyway), and then they asked me where I am from. One of the two then explained, in a sort of hesitating, but perfectly understandable simple english, that they are med students collecting donations for a student association. When she finished explaining, she asked, rather shyly: "Did you understand me?", in a way that communicated that she had absolutely no confidence that what she said made any sense. It made me realize that when I speak french, although it sounds completely foreign too me, I can be understood, if they choose. And when french people speak halting high school english to me, I can understand, if I choose.

Maybe something to consider as we got to the polls on Tuesday, and in the days to soon follow. We think we talk in a strange language, not understood; but in fact, it's not that difficult, motivation to make a connection and a little patience going a long way to bridge the gap.

I gave the med students all the coins in my pocket. For me, that was the point. Just to prove that I really did understand.

I think I need to go rake a few maple leaves off the lawn.

Un an, et puis àpres? Je ne sais pas, mais je suppose qu'il serait intéressant, encore.

06.08.23: Visit to Grandma's

So, I went to Germany for a week, and I have only have four things to say about it:

• Benefiziumsgässlein (19 letters, ~7 syllables)
• Exclusivherstellung (19 letters, ~6 syllables)
• Riemenschneideraltar (20 letters, ~6 syllables)
• Motivschachtabdeckungen (23 letters, ~7 syllables)

I have no idea what any of that means. But, what the hell kind of language / culture would willingly torture themselves with these kinds of words? Maybe Saxons?

And these were just the easy pickens from one day's touring along the 'Romantische Strasse'. Somehow, these little signs don't have the same romantic caché as, say: "Tu veut rencontrer à Paris?" (5 words, 22 l, 8 syl)

Nevertheless (1 word, 12 l, 3 syl), there are other things to discuss ...

The food ... all right, I really tried.

Everywhere I went, I tried to ask about local specialities and recommended items to try. Maybe I was just in too touristy or too non-touristy of places. Or maybe the germans just don't celebrate food in any way resembling the french-y local terroir thing. Anyway, I never found a resto that was very excited about sharing some local specialty, in the way that it is insisted upon in France. So, I had some brats, had some beer, had some sauerkraut ... I'm not coming up with anything particularly memorable here. I should go back and give it another try. Or not.


The culture ... I share just one memorable observation...

I had a really scary experience.

Sunday afternoon, I needed to go to Julia's grandparents' house to return some clothing articles as a favor. So, drove out to the 'burbs in a little german town outside of Braunschweiger, turn left and right a few times thru a residential neighborhood, houses all seemingly built in the last 60 years (consult history of western europe 101), pull in the driveway, and regard grandma's house, grandma's neighborhood.

I thought I was right back in the neighborhood where I grew up on the west side of Cincinnati (consult 45248, google earthers). Small yellow-red brick ranch house, neatly maintained yard and gardens, little picket fences between the neighbors' driveways. Went inside. Think I have rolled the clock back a few years ... same furniture styles, same floor plan layout as every house I can remember from the days on the west side. Sat down. Grandma offered me everything from coffee to champagne, and chocolate to chicken sandwiches. Just like everybody's grandma I always knew. We chatted. Skiing, football, hunting, taxes, ... The coffee was damn good. The chocolate was quite nice, but she admitted that I could buy some richer chocolates, at a good price, closer to the Swiss border. I was just stunned and amazed at how this home, these people, this visit, felt just like thousands of home visits with grandmas and parents and friends that I have spent in one little neighborhood on the west side of Cinti, 5000 miles away.

When I first arrived in France, people referred to me as an Anglo-Saxon. I had never heard this before, and it sounded a bit odd to me. My family's ancestry is Irish-Italian. So, Anglo ... no, we're Irish, dammit! Saxon ... prego .. I'm Italian. But I guess the few non-germans who migrated to western Cincy do not a culture dictate.

The Braunschweigerians are Saxons ... how was I to know?

I felt so at home, I had to leave.

06.07.23: Le Tour -- Out-Landis-h!

Usually, I watch the Tour on television in Tom's very worthy basement, with a few beers. He has TiVo and an OLN cable package, and for the last few years, with Lance on the hunt for setting some victory records, there was plenty of cable coverage available in the US. This year, alas, je suis ici en France, donc, I have a different view of the Tour ...

From my conversations, here is what I gather ...

All French people believe that ALL cyclists use dopage for performance enhancement. All French believe that it is not humanly possible for a non-dopaged human to complete the Tour with the average speed that is actually maintained over the three week period. Thus, since the speed is achieved, all cyclists are dopers. Hence, the Tour is not really a test of cycling skill, but a test of mad doctor cleverness. And, lastly, Lance Armstrong need not be considered among the greatest cyclists of all time; his unknown wizard behind the curtain happens to be the luckiest and most skillful mad scientist of the current era.

Thus, the race that carries their name is mostly denigrated by the french. I assume, this carries until the next French cyclist wins the race; in which case I suppose the victory will indeed be a demonstration of skill, tenacity, strategy, and preparation. But, with the current crop of french riders, we wait for some time.

Alas, un Américain a gagné Le Tour, encore, cet an. Merci, Floyd Landis.

For my part, I had the opportunity to watch the Tour speed by twice, so why not?

The first time, Stage 14, a transition stage between the Pyrenees and the Alps, with a few medium size climbs enroute from Montélimar to Gap. We targeted Col de Perty as the most interesting climb of the day and set up camp about 1 km below the summit. How to watch the tour .. take cold drinks, arrive early, take a book (or in our case, french verb conjugaison charts since we were in between sessions from our course intensive), camera and binocs. Find a spot on the climb where you can see the route down the valley for a few kilometers, preferably under a shade tree, and camp next to a German family or two. Wait, wait, wait, and then wait a little more. Share a few german words with El Diablo. Just when you think you have that subjunctive verb form memorized, along comes the caravan. Beacoup de choses tossed out the car windows ... hats, key chains, noise makers, big hands for cheering on your favorite, etc. Wait, wait, wait, encore. How about some plus-que-parfait verb forms? OK, en fin, les cyclistes. Have your camera ready. Even on a climb, these guys are moving pretty good. George Hincapie was trailing in the rear of the peloton today. The maillot jaune for George was a brief moment of two weeks ago, now a memory, filed for the glory day tales. The peloton passes; the team cars in pursuit, le flamme rouge passes to signal the end of the course.

Next viewing ... à Paris for the finale. We took the Metro 8 to Place de la Concorde, and were effectively blocked from walking across the street or any closer to l'Arc de Triomphe, as we arrived only 2 1/2 hours before the race. Up and down the Rue Rivoli, tens of thousands are lined up to watch the Tour parade the Champs-Elysées, even if an américain is destined to take top podium spot again this year. How to pass the time? A nice family from Nice was willing to chat together as we leaned on the barriers, in view of the Place where Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette lost their heads. Or, you can choose to be accosted by an 88 year old French gentlemen, who speaks no english, is happy to bash americans, and it is not such a bad way to practice some french with a guy who won't leave as long as you promise him a cigarette (Gaulois, s-v-p). The caravan passes, this time without gift items for the crowd. The peloton approaches. Quick with the camera, but this time knowing that the race will complete 8 circuits of Paris before the finish. Floyd looked quite content, tucked in behind the Phonak train, bringing the man home for the victory. For me, stroll down to the Marais for a falafel and a beer.

It wasn't Tom's basement, but it wasn't too bad either.

06.06.06: Bonne quelque chose

The locals have a nice penchant for well-wishing, always based around the word bon(ne).
Some recent examples:

• Bonne installation (when you move into a new place)
  
• Bonne dimanche (every Sunday, after every purchase at the market)
  
• Bon spectacle (at entry to a pretty average local musical show), and my favorite ...
  
• Bonne continuation (upon serving the plats after the entrée, for the remaining enjoyment of the meal)
  

I had a few articles to repair/replace/return this week. Every article, every vendor has their own story. So, in order of occurrence on Saturday ...



France Telecom (who, by the way, have launched a new marketing campaign called "Open". On large black signs, the word open appears in simple text font, in orange letters, just left of center. I don't know if this in deference to or in defiance of l'Académie Française, but in small print on the bottom of each sign is the translation into french ("s'ouvrir"). At any rate, the cell phone that I purchased from Mr. Open-ness last month is no longer working. The reason I bought a new phone last month is because the prior one was stolen from my house on Easter week-end. So, after about one and half hours of conversation, it was decided that the next best step was to have Mr. Orange visit my house on Tues AM and replace the phone. Despite several attempts at explanation, it was not real clear to me why that was a better solution than just exchanging the one I had with me for the one in the back room of the store. No matter. Everything will be resolved on Tues. Mr. Open does not equal Mr. Convenience today.

• Bonne conversation.
  

FNAC ... and Michelin GPS.


I bought a Michelin GPS machine just after Christmas last year, without which I suppose I would still be wandering the Loire Valley trying to find my hotel in some medeviel shaped village. Instead, I travel the roads of france without fear, without regard, without maps, and I always arrive on time. Michelle (the voice in the machine who guides me thru each rond-point) is suffering from some strange voice malady that needs to be rectified. Approaching Place d'Italie on Thurs evening, she could barely choke out 'deux----i---eme ----s--ort---ie'. I had a flashback of Chevy Chase and BigBen. I took the first sortie. At any rate, to get Michelle fixed, as it were, Mr. FNAC demands that the machine be sent back to Michelin for ONE MONTH. Incroyable. After much protestation, he did agree to write on the return ticket to Michelin that I need the GPS for professional reasons, so please return urgently. Mr. FNAC suggested this might speed the process to three weeks. This, for an article with a one year guarantee. I am sure every return ticket has the same urgent plea. I am not the least bit confident that I will ever see Michelle again, and I am not happy with the prospect of traveling le sud de la France next month with old-fashioned maps.

• Bonne route, bonne chance.
  

Decathlon ... and a bike rack. I bought a bike rack a few weeks ago, but it doesn't fit the bike, so I returned it. No problem. Just get in line with your receipt and the cashier will refund your money. No long conversation; I almost forgot where I was for a second.
But then she said:

• Bonne restitution.
  

06.05.10: Marva: à contre-courant

The first time I heard Marva Wright was in New Orleans, Christmas night, 2000. The stock market was at an all-time high, 9/11 was nine months in the future, Iraq was a fading memory from 1991, gasoline pump prices were $1.65 a gallon, and we were 6 days away from the dawn of the 21st century.

Having said all that, Marva sang the blues. In the face of so much optimism, in a smoke-filled room, packed with Bud bottles and voo-doo scents, accompanied by Henry Butler, Marva made us forget all that there was to celebrate, and instead feel, deep in the core of shared memory, the omniscience of pain. It was a moment, an evening, not to forget.

I caught up with Marva again this week. This time in St-Sulpice, Paris's largest church (and, thanks to the DaVinci Code, perhaps currently the most famous) on a chilly, drizzly spring evening to kick off the St-Germain des Prés Jazz Festival. (Metro 4) This time accompanied by Lucky Peterson on the organ and the London Community Gospel Choir. Now, we are post-9/11. Diesel pump prices are 1€15 per litre. The S&P500 e-bubble is seen for what it was. The CPE and Clearstream scandal have infected local politics and policy. Iraq is no longer a fading memory, but a constant reminder of how the misperceptions of the few can result in the adverse reality of the many. And Katrina dumped hundreds of thousands of gallons of the Gulf of Mexico on FunkyButt's, where I last saw Marva in the Ramparts.

Having said all that, Marva and the congregation pumped out some gospel to carry the message that hope is omnipresent. Lucky, in solo, softly playing the organ, proposed the most heartfelt version of A Change is Gonna Come. Everyone believed. Marva's At Last was right on time.

Marva the contrarian. She gots the goods. I think the rain is letting up.

06.04.14: Respectez le fromage

OK, so where I work, there are about 10,000 frenchmen and a few people from various countries around the globe. I am the only person there that doesn't speak french (yet). Shame on me. OK. I am working on it. Really.

At any rate, all of the written communication in the plant is in french. Until this week. A new sign showed up in the cafeteria:

"Please take on a full piece. Dont cut the cheese."

When we walked into the cafeteria on Thurs, 6 people read the sign and immediately looked at me and started laughing. The sign was obvioulsy not posted for them. I told them it wasn't very good english.

Some observations we can make here:

1. Assumes all french speaking people know how to behave in public with cheese.
2. Assumes all previous mal-handling cheese purchasers do not speak (or at least read) french. This is a very small population.
3. Conversely, we could assume the actual fromage abusers are french, but to save face, the sign is posted in english as a diversion.
4. Assumes that the offenders are compliant with written instructions - so obviously does not apply to the french
5. When it is important to communicate, even a frenchman will stoop to english.

I will just say this: I did not cut the cheese in the cafeteria. (and I will not explain this expression to the locals, just yet).

06.04.12: Impressions et Surreality

OK, it's been some time since I actually had a few minutes to update (well, OK since I made a commitment to just sit down and do it). Had a troublesome project to complete at work that took too much time, but since that is where the income flows from, whaddaya gonnna say? Well, that is behind me now (in a good way), so here are some non-work related impressions from the last month or so ...

Mid-March ... The man on my right is sporting an ivory-white yarmelka with gold letters "Elijah Cohen Barmitzvah 15.04.2005". The man in front of me has on a purple wig. The lady behind me wears a cowboy hat and boots, and her children are dressed like spiderman and annie oakley. The man in the front of the room stands behind a podium, rocking back and forth on his feet, looking alternatively at the ceiling and the scroll unfurled on the podium, while chanting, singing and reciting a poem. At seemingly random moments, the whole crowd stomps their feet and spins their little noise makers. I have on a yarmelka myself, believe it or don't, and the whole time the man to my left is pointing to a book I am holding in my hands and keeps saying in very broken english: "if you want to understand what is going on, you have to read the book." I look at the book, and each page has 3 languages written on it: Hebrew, Hebrew with latin characters, and what looks to me like fairly complicated french. OK, I am not going to figure out what is going on here. I look in the corners of the room, expecting to see Salvador Dali sketching this scene. Dali does not show himself. Instead, I listen to the chant, and calm myself with this little riddle: If you are in a french temple, and someone says: vous êtes très gentil, are they saying I am kind for sharing the seat, or are they calling me a Gentile? I opt for the former. Always the optimist.

The ceremony ends. I stroll next door and have a pizza and a beer, sans yarmelka.

Just another evening in a strange land.

06.02.05: Chambre d'hôte: ouvert

As the Ukrainians left Monday evening, Colleen and Andy were chugging north on the train from Barcelona. So, with the exit of the eastern Europeans, comes the arrival of the North Americans, and the first official guests to chambre d'hôte mesnil. As of 31-janvier, we are now officially open.

Colleen and Andy made themselves at home and pursued the obligatory primary tourist meccas in gay paree, and (as some of us still work for a living) we hooked up in the evenings for some nice meals and conversations. We did the circuit: Tues evening in the Quartier Latin for a simple and traditionelle Menu à 15, Wednesday in Le Marais for a feast of mid-eastern 'quinze éléments' with a wide-ranging spectrum of fish, meats, cheeses and vegetables.

Thursday we went for a traditional and very nice repas at Le Timbre in Montparnasse (6th, Metro 4 to Vavin). Quadruple feast day: groundhog's day (US), le chandeleur (France), l'anniversaire de Colleen (local), and also the 16th anniversary of the day when F.W. de Klerk promised to set Nelson Mandela free (international). A day worthy of celebration. We ate 80% of the menu (skipping only the andouillette and the boudin). The assiette de fromage was a selection entirely from l'Auvergne and the vin de l'Ardèche, selected by the chef, was a great accompaniment for the wide range of plats (confit de canard, poulet roti and brouillard). Elbow-to-elbow in the postage stamp sized dining room, one friendly server, assisted by the chef in full view of the dining room, we were the first to arrive and second last to leave.

On Wednesday as we were chowing on the éléments, a musical duo came in to entertain the crowd (and hope for a few coins, no doubt). The guitarist from Cuba and the bongo sidekick from Paris (and hey, aren't we all from Paris at some time?) posed for a photo op for Andy. Andy pulls out this cheap medium format camera that has duct tape on it to cover up the light leaks, points it in roughly the general direction of the musicians, and pulls the lever for a very long manual exposure. There is no way to hold a camera steady for more than about 1/30 sec, on a day without too much café, and I know he added a little wine to the café he drank earlier. So I'm thinking: what the hell kinda photography work is this? He tells me there is actually a market for this kinda stuff.
The trick is though, you never really know how the image is going to turn out, so you take a few hundred images, and from time to time the image is everlastingly priceless. So, you have these black&white candids, where the subject is randomly placed (or not) within the view window, and the film is bounced up and down a few hundred times within the timeframe of the shutter opening, and perhaps the lighting is about right, and perhaps some nice darkroom work all results in a memorable sense-du-moment. Or perhaps in the blurred image, we each have the opportunity to see what we want to see.

[Sidebar: I imagine this is like US foreign policy. You points your Rove-r in one direction, he perhaps holds steady long enough to sketch a shaky image of the future, so you pull the shutter and hope for the best. I guess the difference is, you can pull the shutter a few hundred times on a cheap plastic camera, and noone is likely to get hurt. Not sure there a few hundred mid-eastern countries left to experiment on in the hopes that one will turn out to be a thing of beauty for the ages.]

Sometimes, I think about the decision to come to France this way. Was the future-scope camera centered on the target, was the exposure about right; did I have a clear enough sense of the image that would come out of the darkroom? Not so obvious just yet. But the camera still has a lot of film left on the roll. So for today ... point, steady, click. The collage continues.

[Addendum: the guest book at chambre d'hôte mesnil has this inscription supplied by our most recent guests: "... the best shower and bed we've experienced in all of Europe."
Next?]

06.01.25: Ukrainian Roulette

The Russians are coming, the Russians are coming.Well, actually, the Ukrainians are here. Really.

So, here we have it. Six Ukrainians here for six working days, and they work for six hours a day (I am a little anxious about this six repetition, especially since I just took the DaVinci Code walking tour last weekend).

At any rate, if two languages being spoken in the same room (français et anglais) can cause confusion, three languages (en plus, russian) is approaching a level of entropy that may require a corollary to an existing law of thermodynamics. The official language for this week's activities is english. I am the only person in the room who speaks english (er, well, at least american) as a natural language. Most of the french have a pretty good command of english, and two of the six Ukrainians speak english (not bad, actually) and they have to translate everything into Russian. Everything. And the chief Ukrainian does not speak english or french. Needless to say, progress is slow. Having said that, we are making progress.

[As a side note: If I understand it correctly, Ukrainian is actually the official language of the Ukraine, but since the Russian language was required for the past few generations, there is a general re-learning of the native language taking place currently. In the meantime, for basic communication, the folks with us this week are speaking Russian (not that I can tell).]

Lunchtime, we get to have a little lighter conversation. At least, I try.

On Monday, I asked the frenchies if they had read the recently released report from the University of California-Davis that states that it is not a good idea to have wine and cheese together. At first, they asked if this was referring to Kraft American Pasteurized Process Cheese Food. In which case, they agreed. Anything not fit for human consumption is not improved with any type of wine. I explained that this was a rigorous study, conducted to the highest oenological and fromogological standards that demonstrated that elements in the cheese inhibit the ability to taste some characteristics of the wine. Their question: "But does that mean the experience is not enjoyable, or just different than expected?" Maybe it helps to start with the right question. At the time, we were having a very nice Bordeaux with some Bleu d'Auvergne and Brillat Savarin. I didn't mind it a bit.

Today at lunch I explained the story of the current film, 'Goodnight and Good Luck', to the group of french and ukrainians. Gouvernement intrusion into private lives, un-American activities, banishment from the film industry, champion of civil liberties from the media, relationship between two current Georges (Clooney and fourth-last-letter-of-the-alphabet), and parallels with current events in the US. Wow, this guy had to translate the whole thing for his Ukrainian buddies (and still eat lunch.)

At the end, the chief Ukrainian said something to his translator in a relatively serious tone of voice, which then got translated to us as follows:

"Da, we know of such practices from our experience with Soviet Union. Maybe just a little more severe for us. You should take care with current situation."

Everybody laughed. Me, a little nervously.

It's not everyday I get advice about protecting civil liberties from someone from the former Soviet Union.

Maybe he's got a point.