The Sweet Life

Life, especially as an American, is full of sweet, and the French are quick to point this out, pointing out that this is the reason for our obesity problem and cheesy romantic comedies.  American food, for example, is full of sugar, even when you least expect it.  For some reason this really hit home when I came back to California last Tuesday for a Christmas visit.  After surviving the past three months on a diet of French bread, cheese, and McDo's french fries, I noticed how sickeningly sweet American restaurant food is.  Though this hasn't stopped me from eating sweet potato casserole and shortbread cookies by the boat load.

And then, there's the less literal "sweet".  Like the sweet smell of flowers as you're picked-up by a dearly loved one at the airport.  Topped off by the priceless expressions on the faces of my friends and family when I knocked on their doors last week to wish them a surprise Christmas visit.  Or the sweet look on my niece's face when, while opening Christmas presents, she discovered the joys of tissue paper.  And the endless sweet memories of spending Christmas with your family when no one breaks out in a fight, punches each other, or declares that they're writing someone out of their will.  And to top it all off with the sweet sugarplum dreams I'm able to have cuddled up in bed with three dogs and a cat. 

Even though I miss Paris and the snow,sipping sweet and spicy mulled wine on the couch during this inevitable hangover of a week between Christmas and New Year's in Calfironia, I'm also very sad to leave.  Luckily, I have London waiting right around the corner.  French life may be la belle life, but in America, I've got the sweet life.  Usually, this sweet life is an overly-confectioned fake high-fructose corn syrup version, but sometimes Americans get the ingredients just right and, if we're very lucky, even a family photo.

La Vielle de Noël

'Twas the vielle de Noël in Paris
And all through the city
The streets were all purring
like a blue ribbon kitty.
The Citroëns were all parked in the street without care,
In the hopes that, thanks to Christmas, there would be no ticketing fare.


Karl Langerfeld was nestled all snug in his bed,
While visions of riches and black gloves danced in his head.
Le Pen in his kerchief,
And Sarkozy with his night cap;
All of France had settled down for a long winter's nap.


When out on the patio there arose such a clatter
I sprang to my window to shout “vas te faire foutre, bastard!”
I threw on my knee-highs and tied up my écharpe
stepping out in the sludge
in time to see an old Frenchman barf.


The city lights on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the luster of Frenchness to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature drunkard and eight tiny cans of bière.


Being young and sober, I was more lively and quick
and was able to outwit the man as he tried to give me a kick.
More rapid than the métro his entreaties they came
And he whistled and shouted, and called each cent by name:


“Give a sous, a centime, a pound, a penny!
Give a dollar, a euro, a peso and plenty!
Fill the top of my cup! Fill the top of my bowl!
And merci, merci, merci to you all!"

When thinking of sapins de Noël and Givenchy couture,

Most think of Christmas in Paris as a time filled with allure.

But this man sat as a reminder in the cold;

That there are some Parisian realities that are still left untold.

He was dressed all in down, from his head to his chest,
And his clothes were all tarnished, though he tried to look his best.
A bundle of belongings he had flown on his back;
He was a God-honest peddler just opening his sack.


His eyes were a bit cloudy,
His hair was all greasy,
His cheeks were all rosy,
His nose was all hairy.
His droll little mouth slurred all his words,
But all the same he seemed to have made friends with the birds.


The stump of a Gitane he held tight in his teeth,
So much smoke coming from it that he could hardly breath.
His chapped, naked hands clutched tightly to his portable telly.
Hanging out from his pants. I could see the bottom of his beer belly.


He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf
I almost laughed when I saw him in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me reason to worry, so quickly I fled.


We exchanged not a word, but his image stuck with me.
Sentiments toward French gouvernement filled my head: have some pity!
As I made my way back, he lay a hand on his tummy,
So I gave in good cheer a couple euros of money.


I sprang back down the road as he gave me a whistle
And I ran up the stairs to leave you with this epistle:
To all those rich or poor and down on their luck,
A Joyeux Noël to you all, and may you partake in roast duck!

Moi parle jolie un jour...

I now know what it feels like to be in the presence of a god. Last Tuesday, after spending five hours teaching third-graders how to say words like “cut” and “tape” in English, I made my long-awaited pilgrimage to the David Sedaris reading at the Village Voice bookshop in Paris for his latest work, Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk.

David Sedaris is one of those freaks of nature who can write about something as mundane as say, sitting through an introduction to French language class, and make it into a humorous memoir about masochism. Which is exactly what he did in Me Talk Pretty One Day, his collection of personal essays which, in part, detail his transition into life in France in ways that I can completely relate to. Well, except for the whole gay man who owns his own apartment in Paris and spends his time hanging out with his celebrity sister and watching black and white films part. But at least his struggle with the French language part....I can definitely identify with that, which means he and I are meant to be great friends, bien sûr (bee-en sir: of course).

Unfortunately I'd only had three hours sommeil (so-may: sleep) the night before the reading, so when he showed up and started hilariously giving anecdotes from his diary I got none of those cold-sweat, celebrity-fervor feelings I expected upon meeting one of my most inspirational life models. In fact, all I really felt was an overwhelming desire to go to sleep. Sacrilege!

Like a champ, though, and anyone else with relentless, unquestioning devotion to a deity, I waited in line for two-and-a-half hours to get a five minute one-on-one conversation with the man, in the hopes that his hilarity and fabulosity would somehow rub-off on me. Listening to all the other atrocious American-accented ex-pats in line (mostly NYU students, the fuckers) talk about how much they loved Sedaris, I couldn't help but roll my eyes because, clearly, I love the man more...but enduring that sleep deprived hell while standing in line in my new high-heeled ankle boots was definitely worth the pain...I received inspired advice from Sedaris himself that I should open up my own hotel in Santa Cruz, because Santa Cruz doesn't have any good hotels. Which, I have to say, I totally agree. David Sedaris: I'm on it. I'm considering this new entrepreneurial venture a life quest demanded personally by God.

David Sedaris doesn't like getting his picture taken, so the blurry one you see above is all I got, but the memories I have of him telling a joke about giving Willie Nelson a blow-job are treasures I'll hold with me for a lifetime. And I'm sure that, any day now, I'll talk pretty one day just like Sedaris. Because clearly this man holds magical powers of awesomeness that he felt I also deserved, right?

O, Champs-Elysées!

In my opinion, there's no better time to visit the Champs-Elysées (sham-pz ell-ee-zay: literally translated as heavenly fields )--the famous Parisian shopping district--than in December. The bare chestnut trees lined up along the avenue are decorated in twinkle-lights, all the magasins (ma-guh-zon: shops) have a little bit of Christmas cheer on display in their windows, and then of course there's the marché de Noël (marsh-ay duh no-ell: Christmas market) where, if you're brave enough to charge your way through crowds of tourists and Christmas shoppers, is full of knick-knacks, sure, but most importantly mulled wine, crêpes au chocolat (kre-p oh shok-oh-la: pancakes filled with chocolate) and gauffres (go-fruh: waffles) which for some reason in France are 100 times better than waffles in the US.

Unfortunately, if you don't like crowds, Champs-Elysées is not for you, during December or any other time of year. I have no idea why, but the Champs is chartered holy ground on the Parisian landscape and so native Parisians and camera-wielding sightseers alike make stiletto-clad pilgrimages here in the thousands every day of the week, as ironically the Champs is also the only street in France that seems to have stores open on les dimanches (lay dee-mansh: Sundays).

I don't think it's the Arc de Triumph (ark duh tree-umf) that opens up the entry of the Champs or La Grande Roue (lah grahn-d roo: a huge ferris wheel in Paris) on the other end--which for some reason never seems to be moving when I see it--that attracts so many here. No, I think it's really, honestly the shopping. Even though the street has become über-commercialized and lost it's former unique French-ness that made it what it was, everything a shopper wants is here: H&M, Nike, Sephora, not to mention some of the priciest but also most delicious (à la Ladurée) cafés in all of Paris.

Ok, sure, these stores exist on every corner on Earth and a good pastry isn't really that hard to find, especially when you're willing to spend $50 on it, but how many malls do you know of that also have chestnut trees?! And twinkle lights?! And a big cement arc?! It's unique, I tell you!

If you don't believe me, the entire Champs-Elsyées experience has even been immortalized into a song by France's beloved French-American folksy singer Joe Dassin in his delightful « Aux Champs-Elysées » (oh cham-pz ell-ee-zay), an ode to this much beloved stick-straight avenue in the heart of Paris. In case you don't know the lyrics, I can sum it up just so:

« While singing along the avenue Champs-Elysées, I feel like saying hello to perfect strangers. I just want to talk, doesn't matter what about, just to have a good time. Champs-Elysées is perfect in sun, rain, at noon or midnight; everything you're looking for is found here... »

Then in more typical French fashion, silly Joe Dassin goes on to point out how he started singing and dancing with some new-found amis (ah-mee: friends) in middle of the sidewalk, but I don't want to give anyone the wrong idea: nobody will be singing or dancing when you come. This is Paris, after all. I mean, I'll give Joe the benefit of the doubt: he was famous back in the '70s, so I'm sure one of his many acid trips turned into a musical ensemble in front Cartier, but things have changed a bit since then. Still, the point is that Champs, while crowded, still holds the heart of most people who come here. And there's a music video to prove it:

 

La neige sur Paris

Paris can sometimes be a very magical place. The buildings are sometimes centuries old, so old in fact that the stone is still black from the soot of the industrial era and cole-burning chimneys. Famous authors, politicians, and actors have called this place home, only to be buried underneath Parisian ground. You can sometimes still feel their Paris of yesteryear as you walk through Les Halles (probably the oldest neighborhood in the center of Paris).  And for some reason, Paris holds a very real romance, more so than that of other cities I've been to. I don't know whether it's the wine, the language, or the Seine running through the city, but something in Paris inspires even the most prudish of American tourists to s'embrasser (sem-brah-say: kiss each other) out in the open in such an openly stated PDA that it makes even full-blooded Parisians blush.

I think, though, that this past Friday I saw one of the most magical elements of Paris take place: la neige sur Paris (lah nay-j: snowfall on Paris). For a mere 15 minutes of pure and silent awe, I watched from my bedroom window as a blizzard engulfed the city, leaving almost as soon as it arrived. I know I'm a coastal California girl and am therefore amazed by even a single snowflake because I've experienced so few of them (though, after spending a year in les Alpes snow has admittedly lost some of its luster), but even Parisians seem to be paralyzed with wonder by the first snowfall of the year in their glocally-celebrated town. Seeing the old stone buildings, sidewalks, and trees covered in Christmas lights beign lightly brushed with snow brings a whole new element of beauty to the French capitale (kap-ee-tahl: capital).

Of course, winter in Paris isn't all fun and games. From what I hear, snow may come and go in Paris but the cold hangs around forever. And it really gets cold here! The kind of chilly, biting, unforgiving cold that forces people to stay indoors and become depressed from lack of sunlight and feeling in their toes. Luckily, though, the French have come up with a few key ways of fighting off the winter blues: vin chaud (von show: mulled wine), twinkle lights along les Champs Elysées (lay shamp el-ee-zay: an iconic shopping district in Paris), and a truly devoted love affair to l'echarpe (luh-sharp: scarf). Christmastime in Paris, show me your worst!

McDo's

UPDATE:  The Onion knows what I'm talking about!

Thanksgiving has got to be one of my favorite days of the year. Pumpkin pie spice, cranberry sauce, and alcohol abound and there's no pressure to buy gifts for everyone. The major bummer about being in France is that I have to miss out on this holiday, because the French don't seem to know it exists. But I've already given up my Thanksgiving Day Parade, sweet potato casserole, and tarte de citrouille (tahr duh see-toh-eel: pumpkin pie). I'm not giving up on at least some sort of special meal with some other Americans here to celebrate food and American manslaughter. The problem is, how best to celebrate it? Pumpkin pie filling is unheard of, sweet potatoes are nowhere to be found, and no family in France is big enough to buy an entire turkey to roast.

Maybe the most appropriate way to celebrate my American heritage this year would be at McDo's (mak dohs: McDonalds), the one American cultural symbol that the French love to hate, and by “love” I mean “worship”. On any given day in Paris I pass by at least three McDo's, and they're always filled to capacity. It's a glowing symbol to Parisians and the French as a whole of what they think America stands for: guilty, salty, fatty pleasures that are bad for the skin and le coeur (luh coor: heart).

The menu at a French McDo's is a bit comical to say the least. Not only is there your typical McDo counter with your Filet-O-Fish and BicMac standard line-up, but there's also McDo Bistro – an elite branding of McDonald's that sells tarts, macaroons, watery milkshakes in flavors like pistachio and pear, and of course beer. Because what would American cuisine be without a nice cold one to wash all the grease down your throat with? Though I don't think I've ever seen alcohol in McDonald's in the States...I don't know what the hell's up with that. This just seems like a gloriously missed opportunity. Then again, I haven't been to American McDonald's in awhile. Someone get me up-to-date on this, please?

Sadly enough, I'm all too familiar with the McDo's menu because I've been taking advantage of their free wifi for the past month and a half. Braving long lines, enough fries to make my heart shriek in terror, and the all out embarrassing experience of actually having the cashiers recognize me, it's amazing just what I'll do to satisfy my Internet addiction. I even started to get mistaken for one of the many homeless alcoholics who use McDonald's for their “heures de bureau” (or du bwer-oh: office hours) to discuss conspiracy theories and gossip about their friends.

Believe me, the irony of being an American girl moving to Paris and then spending nearly everyday in McDonald's isn't lost on me. If I never walk into McDonald's again, it will be too soon. But I'm thankful for their free Internet and the fact that France's obsession with hamburgers means that there's always free Internet within walking distance in Paris. Even so, I think I'll be choosing a quaint French café over stereotypical American McDonald's food for my Thanksgiving meal this year, merci beaucoup.

Ma semaine de merde

 

Unfortunately, many life lessons have left me with no choice but to believe whole-heartedly in karma. And I must have a lot of bad karma that seems to take the form of total merde (meh-rd: shit), because this past week has been one big pile of feces after another, unfortunately sometimes quite literally.

I started teaching on October 1^st. A month and a half and 75 euros of my well-spent money on classroom materials later, and I've yet to see a paycheck. Anyone who's even spent a day in Paris will tell you that this ville (veel: city) ain't cheap. Trying to survive in this city with no paycheck while I still have rent, bills, and transportation to pay for is absolutely impossible.

It seems that the French have an innate ability to smell merde long before they ever walk in it. Grèves (greh-v: strikes) seem to be called on a weekly basis somewhere in France in opposition to the mere possibility of getting screwed over by the government. The rectorat (rek-tohr-ah) in charge of my pay seems to have built up an entire system devoted to ignoring people just like me, people who are simply trying to figure out why in the hell the government has chosen to merde all over them. Even the streets of France are every morning swept clean of the—more literal--merde left behind by their beloved petits chiens (peh-tee shee-yen: little dogs) by an incredibly ecologically wasteful but aesthetically efficient manner of washing down the sidewalks with industrial hoses to rid every last inch of the pavement from piles of dog crap.

But, just like the French, I've become well aware that because the karmic universe seems to have it out for me, where one pile of merde has been washed clean, along will most certainly come another. This was at least the case last Friday, when after spending a long, tiring day at work with still no news as to why I've yet to see a sous (soo: penny), I come back to my apartment building to find actual human diarrhea on every single step up the seven flights of stairs leading to my front door. My first reaction was absolute disgust, naturally, but I also have to admit that this was a very fitting end to my semaine de merde (seh-men duh meh-rd: week of shit). Or, at least, what I hope is the end. I'm trying to be very polite to everyone I run across in the métro (meh-trow: subway) just in case in the hopes of building up good karma points. Just one question, though: how many karma points does it take to get a paycheck?

Le café à la français

Up until a couple of months ago, I was what you would all a complete coffee accro (ak-row: addict). Seriously. I meant business. There was the morning pint with cream and sugar, followed by an afternoon pint of pick-me-up, and then the occasional evening 8-ouncer as my amen before a restless night's sleep. Then I realized that my petite tasse de café (puh-teet tass duh kaf-ay: little cup of coffee) every morning was turning my skin into a total mine field. Everywhere I looked there was another bouton (boo-t-ohn: zit) exploding in red and puss-infested glory. So I gave up the habit and have been in mourning over the decision ever since.

Well, France isn't helping with this matter at all. No one ever offered me coffee at work last year, but this year it seems all the institutrices (on-stee-toot-rees: teachers) at my schools won't settle until they pour a gallon of it down my throat, one perfect little espresso cup at a time. Every morning it's the same routine: “Vous ne buvez pas de café?” (voo nuh boo-veh pah duh kaf-ay: you don't drink coffee?) is the expected question now by at least two teachers at at least two different schools. To which I respond to astounded and judgmental looks « Non, pas non plus, malheureusement » (noh, paw nohn plu, mal-hoor-uhs-mehn: no, not anymore, unfortunately). Each work day I live a constant reminder of how much I miss my beloved cup of coffee and how everyone in France wants me to drink it. Apparently I'm the only person in this country who suffers from bad skin.

The thing is, I get it. I really do. With a café on every street corner and an entire dinner course devoted to the brew, the French and I are completely on the same page with respect to our reverence for the magic black hericot (er-ee-koh: bean). Coffee is, and always will be, fabulous in my eyes, even if my skin doesn't agree. I and the entire French république (ray-pub-leek: republic) understand how essential caffeine is to get through the day, especially when you spend your day teaching other people's children. But since I don't want to spend the rest of my life looking like a sixteen year-old, I've decided to enjoy my café vicariously through my French collègues (kol-egg: co-workers) while I cry into my morning cup of thé (tay: tea). Life. Isn't. Fair.

Père Lachaise

Even celebrities, like all us mere mortals, eventually fall to their demise and end up underground. Which means it turns out that the best place for celebrity sightings in Paris happens to be a graveyard: Père Lachaise (pear lah-shez), to be exact.

A cemetery in the 20^th arrondissement of Paris that claims Oscar Wilde, Edith Piaf, and The Doors lead singer Jim Morrison as some of its most happening and popular residents, Père Lachaise will probably remain one of the most exclusive hotspots in Paris: you have to be dead just to get in. So I thought, what better way of commemorating the one day of the year that people dress-up and party as les morts vivants (lay mor veev-ahn : the living dead), ghosts, and celebrities alike by visiting the one place in Paris where ghosts and celebrities (and even the ghosts of celebrities) party in equal and eternal harmony?

My Halloween may have been spent grave-spotting the hipsters of heaven and hell, but my mind was elsewhere. Last weekend, I received some frightening news that startled me from my proverbial tombe (tome: grave): one of my closest friends from childhood is—happily—engaged. Several acquaintances from high school and college, according to Facebook, have tied the knot, but this is the first of my truly close friends from way-back-when to step-up into that next oh-so-adult phase of life, at least as far as setting an actual wedding date goes. And of course, I'm more than happy for her as she and her super-talented boyfriend make one of the most sickeningly cutest couples I've ever seen. Though somehow I can't help but feel a little blindsided by the fact that not only are my brothers happily busy building families of their own, but now it seems people my own age are getting into that stage of life where they're ready to admit they would rather spend the rest of their lives with someone rather than alone. I thought 35 was the new « adulte » (ah-doolt: adult), not 25. Or has Sex and the City been lying to me this whole time?

Since I'm busy living my fantasy of croissants and grave rubbings of the rich and famous in France, I've missed the very real reality of my niece's birth and will now miss not only the birth of my nephew, but the wedding of one of my meilleures amies (may-ure amee: best girlfriends) as well. And this even though we long ago pinky-swore we'd be each others bridesmaids back when we were running laps around the track in high school.

This reflective thought process has somehow lead to the unsettling reality of my own mortality. No matter how hard I try to stop it, I've been having haunting thoughts this past week about just how fragile my own life really is. As extatique (ek-stat-eek: ecstatic) as I am to be in Paris, I can't seem to shake the sudden awareness of how easily everything could be put to an end. Forgetting to look both ways before crossing the street, accidentally tripping down the stairs, overdosing on cocaine while partying in a hotel room (ok, maybe this last one is more Jim Morrison's fate)...these morbid thoughts that I've been more or less so good at avoiding for the past 25 years have suddenly started sucking the life-blood out of me. But it all culminated in one horrifying thought this afternoon, as I went to see one of the best views of Paris from my friend's 16^th floor appartement (ah-pahrt-eh-mehn: apartment) that overlooks the Parisian skyline. 

As I looked down from her balcony to admire the picture-perfect view of Paris, I had one of my very first terrifying fear-of-heights experiences. Just as quickly as I was captivated by the view of the Eiffel tower from 16 floors up, my mind became captivated by a different thought: what if I slipped and fell 16 floors down? This morbid cogitation left me more terrified than I've been in ages that not even seeing a bunch of five year-old zombies on le metro (luh meht-roh: the subway) on my way home could shake my feeling of vertigo.

I'm not sure if this sudden awareness about the fragility of life is just a coming-of-age process for twenty-somethings everywhere or if the ghosts of maids past are haunting me in my bedroom during my slumber, but this sudden new fear is not one I'm ready to accept. Hopefully my mind is just trying to get into the festive spirit by psyching me out for Halloween, but I can't help but feel like there's something I'm supposed to be learning out of all of this. Because just like every celebrity singer, writer, and everyman in Paris before me, eventually all good things come to an end, and all that's left is some dirt and a rock with a name chiseled on it.

While I'm more than aware how blessed my life is that I can enjoy the view of Paris on Halloween from 16 floors in the clouds, maybe it's time I really start thinking about who I want to enjoy the view with. Someone who would catch me long before I start to fall... After all, if history has taught me anything it's that high school friends always succumb to peer pressure, so if my high school friends have started to take the plunge, it probably won't be that long before I jump in after them. It's just that sometimes that can be the scariest fall of all, but certainly not life-threatening. N'est-ce pas (nes paw: right)?

Chambre de Bonne

Once upon a time, Paris was filled with the super rich, the rich, and the incredibly poor. The super rich had maids and lived in perfectly coiffed apartments overlooking perfectly manicured streets and gardens. The maids lived in the highest reaches of these beautiful apartment buildings, basically in glorified attics, also known as les chambres des bonnes (lay sham-bruh day bone: maids quarters). Since these maids were so busy cleaning up after the families of their employers, they rarely had time to start families of their own, meaning the that the fact that these rooms could only fit a single bed, a table, and some closet space posed no problem at all.

Fast forward a bit to present day. Paris is still filled with the super rich, but instead of maids (who are too bourgeois to have around all the time!), maids have been replaced by les filles au pair (lay fee oh pair: nannies) who keep track of the kids while dear old maman et papa (mom-ma ay pop-pa: mom and dad) are busy cooking, cleaning, and running all the errands the maid used to be in chage of. These nannies now occupy these rooms once reserved for girls who dressed habitually in black cotton dresses with French-cut white lace aprons...or something along those lines. And this is where I come in.

Finding myself in Paris with nowhere to sleep, eat, or while-away my hours after work, I was thrilled when I was offered a job as a babysitter for three young French kids in the 16th arrondissement (arr-ohn-dees-mehn: neighborhood). In exchange for my babysitting, I've been offered a chambre de bonne on the seventh floor of a typical upper-middle-class French apartment building. It's completely outfitted with a twin bed, a table, a stove top, fridge, shower, and closet. Which, considering I'm an unmarried female in my twenties, is all I need. My, my! These French families have thought of everything!

In fact, I've even started to romanticize the situation a bit. I can't help but think of who might have lived in this room before me, during the yesteryear of pre-war Paris. Thoughts of countless young French girls selflessly serving the upper-crust before they were sent home to quietly suffer from the plague come to mind. Way off? Maybe. But hey, it's France! These sorts of things did happen. 

Whatever romance my room may be lacking, the view from my window certainly makes up for it. A sprawling Parisian landscape that, when I poke my head out at just the right angle, even offers me a view of the top of le tour Eiffel (luh toor ey-fel: the Eiffel Tower) which, when it's dark out, actually glistens with twinkle lights every hour. It's nice to see this and be reminded that, hey, I may be broke, sick, and running out of clean clothes, but at least I'm broke, sick, and dirty in Paris, baby!

Le Rhume

It's a truth universally acknowledged that kids are dirty, even the French ones. Sure, they're cute, chubby, and jolly whenever they're not in middle of a temper tantrum, but their cuteness is wrapped inside a germ-infested package of snotty noses, a desire to touch every piece of shiny trash on the street, and an inability to wash their hands properly after using the bathroom. Thankfully I love children anyway. They're mostly non-judgmental compared to their older teenage counterparts, and often give me petits dessins (deh-see-nawj: drawings) and handmade jewelery as their way of saying “I think you're alright”. And then, you know what? I think they're alright too. I respond well to gifts.

Considering I teach almost 200 children everyday, ride the Parisian metro ( the very dirty but practical subway) to and from work, and have been subsisting on a McDo's (meek-dohz: McDonald's in French) and yogurt diet because I'm broke and McDonald's is the only place in my neighborhood with free wifi, I'm actually pretty surprised I lasted two weeks in Paris without getting sick. But Thursday morning, when I woke-up to my alarm at 5:30 in the morning to dress for work, I had that all-too-familiar “oh shit” feeling: I was getting a cold, and I could tell this one was going to—how you say—suck balls.

Let it be said that the French don't seem to handle having une maladie (oon mahl-ah-dee: an illness) very well. You should see the way they baby their children at the slightest mention of a stomach ache, and it seems that every time I show up to work some teacher or another is at home sick, recovering from what could only be terminal pneumonia from the way the French dramatize it. 

 

This all makes sense if you think about it, considering that not too long ago Paris was ridden with plagues, death, and the worst possible stench you could possibly imagine. However, I was under the impression that underground plumbing in France was installed long ago, doing away with the need to associate the common cold with death, but still this fear seems to have been passed down through the generations. The French won't hesitate to go to the doctor the moment their throat starts to itch, and in case le médecin (luh mehd-uh-sun: the doctor) is out on vacation, there's une pharmacie (oon farm-uh-see: a pharmacy) on every street corner selling every type of snake oil to cure whatever particularly ails you, whether that be your puss-encrusted pink eye or the cottage cheese pattern on your thighs.

After spending two and a half hours waiting for the train in the cold suburban air due to yet another grève (grehv: strike), I was feeling particularly crappy the next day and headed to the corner pharmacy myself to hopefully find some generic equivalent to DayQuil. Not so easy in France, where pharmacists tend to be treated with as much revere and respect as doctors--and porquoi pas (por-kwa pah: why not), I guess—though this means that all over-the-counter medicine is actually kept over the counter. In order to get so much as a multivitamin, you have to explain your each and every symptom to the pharmacist before she will prescribe what she deems appropriate and hand it over to you. 

 

This is the case even for something as simple as buying ibuprofen, as I experienced last year, when I explained to the man behind the counter, « I'd like some ibuprofen, please » to which he responded « Why? ». Confused, I explained « Because I have pain ». « You should take aspirin, it's better » he said, handing me a ten euro box of aspirin. To which I had to explain that I, in fact, had horrible menstrual cramps and ibuprofen is the only thing that works, and where's a box of tampons while we're at it? Eventually he gave in, but I've never willingly walked into a pharmacy ever since.

But this is a brand new year, in a brand new city in France, and my cold was making me feel particularly pathetic, so in my plugged-up nose, watery eye, sore throat and chills haze, I stood at the pharmacy counter down the street explaining to the nice, soft-spoken lady pharmacist in my broken French (translated here for your comfort and my humiliation): 

 

«Good day! I have a nose that is....I do not know how to say... » as I point to my nose trying my best to make snot motions with my hands. 

 

The pharmacist helps me out  « stuffed or runny? » she asks in French. 

I think for a minute and decide « yes, runny!», making runny snot motions with my hand now just as she did, realizing that I had never until this moment bothered to consider whether a stuffy nose was actually runny or vice versa, « and I have bad in my throat and eyes with some water. Is it that you have things for to hide the symptoms?»

« Yes, of course! Tell me, do you have chills? »

« But yes, I do! »

« Do you have a fever? »

I feel my forehead, wondering why I never bothered to ask myself the same question, « No, I do not believe so! »

« And how are your bowel movements? »

« Fine. Just fine . »

I look behind my shoulder and the customers waiting in line at the next cash register over are looking at me with sly grins on their face, partly thrilled to be witnesses to my humiliation and partly intrigued by my over-eager French phrases that would make even a two year-old cringe.

The pharmacist strolls over and takes down the French equivalent of DayQuil and some cough drops. She explains to me that I'm to take the DayQuil—called Actifed in France—once every four hours, on a full stomach, and then the night pill at night, when it's dark and before I go to sleep. Then she explains the cough drops to me, saying « These you suck on, to make your throat losen up and feel better. They're sweet and they taste good. ». At five euros a box, I didn't care how good they tasted. I'm an American, not an idiot, and I'd rather spend my five euros on something more worthwhile, like a bottle of wine, than 12 honey-flavored cough drops. I know when I'm being gypped.

I tell her I'll just take the Actifed. She gives me a look with raised eyebrows, then says « as you like ». I pay, say my most polite merci (mer-see: thank you) and leave at a casual strolling pace, vowing never again to forget the name for French DayQuil, as that entire fiasco could have been avoided.

Two days later, and I still feel like crap but thanks to that lovely pharmacist's keen powers of deduction, she was able to properly surmise that I, in fact, have le rhum (luh room: a cold). Maybe if I had just bought the damn cough drops, I'd be cured by now.

Au revoir, Bonjour

Another summer come and gone, and I found myself at the airport on the morning of September 26^th giving a heartfelt au revoir (oh ray-vwa: goodbye) to those I love at the San Francisco airport. As far as goodbyes go, I'm not a huge fan, and each time I have to say goodbye seems harder than the last. So, true to fashion, this past particular time also particularly sucked. Watching my family wave crude sexual gestures to me from the waiting area at the security line, I found myself thinking fondly about the amazing family and friends I have in the States, and all the inconnues (in con ew: unknowns) waiting for me in Paris.

Luckily, as I stepped onto solid ground and said bonjour (bone jewr: hello) to France once again, it wasn't long before the City of Lights decided to offer me some charity by providing me with a pretty sweet housing situation. After a day of frantically emailing every housing offer I came across online while sitting in the dimly-lit and smelly common rooms of a hostel in Montmartre, I managed to set-up a meeting with a family in the 16^th arrondissement (arrow dees mont: neighborhood) of Paris searching for an English speaking babysitter for their three enfants (on fant: young children) in exchange for housing. Three days later, I was lugging my 60-pound valise (val eez: suitcase) up seven flights of stairs to my chambre de bonne (sham-bruh duh bone: converted maid's quarters) overlooking the top of le tour eiffel (luh toor ay-fel: the Eiffel Tower) and hundreds of other quaint stone Parisian apartment buildings similar to mine, rent free for the “simple” task of spending ten hours a week looking after a 2 year-old boy and his 3 year-old and 5 year-old sisters. I'll probably have a mental break-down and reconsider motherhood completely by the end of this year, but for the moment I'm content at least at having a place in Paris to call my very own.

In the meantime, I'm spending most of my days running back and forth between Paris fashion week tents to see if I can stalk any celebrities of Paris Vogue fame, opening French comptes bancaires (kompt ban-kair: bank accounts), and going to primary school orientations. Then, at night, I sit in my room alone listening to the traffic go bye rocking back and forth hoping for some copains (ko-pan: friends) to share the city with. Yes, un peu pathetique (un pu pa-tet-iq: a bit pathetic). I'm just hoping Paris hasn't given up on me as a complete charity case at the moment and still has some amazing, funny, witty French friends in store for me not too far down the road before I end up turning out like some really pathetic hermit Parisian stereotype, like Quasimodo or something.  The sad part is, I already have the scoliosis so a life of freakishness probably isn't far behind...sigh.

Home Again

Ok, so it's been awhile.  Awhile for my blog, and awhile since I've been home.  As far as the blog goes, you can't blame me: I've been trying to unpack, job search, and get over the typical home sadness that comes when travelers return and shockingly realize that home hasn't changed into some exotic foreign country, and life hasn't completely fallen apart without them like it's supposed to.  Kind of like home sickness, except the other way around, if ever-so-slightly more narcissistic. 

Of course, it's sweet to be home: I've gotten to sleep in a bed full of dogs, cats, and a charmingly handsome (and comfy!) boyfriend again (though two very important dogs are missed), my mom actually put roses on my windowsill (why weren't my roommates in France ever so accomodating??), I'm able to finally enjoy the new baby smell of my gorgeous niece Sedona, and I can engage in grocery shopping transactions again without the inevitable fear of running into a language barrier regarding asparagus.


What's draining about being home is that I've spent the past week and a half uploading thousands of pictures, searching for a job in the crappy job market I almost let myself forget about, and unpacking. Considering I've spent the past eight months struggling to do something as simple as call a taxi, the familiarity of the monotony of home life seems, somehow, eery.  Almost enough to make me run for the nearest airport again, but then I think about going through airport security for the tenth time this month, and a simple nap sounds much more feasible. Enough naps, and I might be able to summon up the energy to post the rest of the Europe photos and share them with you, though somehow traveling around Europe again sounds slightly less scary and frustrating...

Au revoir

As I type this I'm sitting at Parc Paul Mistral, watching French hippies stand in a circle with their shirts off, rhythmically banging away on drums and quietly chanting while their friends in dreadlocks juggle nearby. I'd almost think I was back in Arcata or Santa Cruz again, except for the fact that 100 feet away are three disapproving French ladies in their troisième âge (twa-zee-ehm ahj: senior citizens) with perfectly coiffed hair and bundled in sweaters (keep in mind it's practically 90 degrees out today), shooting these hippies judgmental glances and gossiping behind cupped hands, while an equally old-aged Frenchman in dress shirt and khakis tries to dance to the music. And on the bench next to them is a girl no less than six months pregnant,simultaneously rubbing her belly with one hand and smoking a cigarette with the other while she giggles with her husband and watches three labs run around the grass, chasing after a toddler. Oh, only in France...

This is what my life in Grenoble has come down to: watching hippie ladies, old ladies, and pregnant ladies sit together in the park while they gossip, smoke, and giggle. And it's all about to come to an end. Tomorrow is Monday, which marks the first day of my last week of work. This week will be full of au revoirs (ohr vwa: goodbyes), but it won't be melancholy. I'm ready to move on. In fact, in French there are many ways to say goodbye, but most of them all mean “until the next time”, which sort of takes the sting out of the sentiment. Au revoir directly translated really just means “until the next sighting”. A bientot (ah bee-en-toe), another casual way of saying goodbye, really translates to “see you very soon”, and a tout a l'heure (ah toot ah loor) implies “until the next hour we see each other again”. So what do the French say if they never intend on seeing someone again? Adieu (ah-deeu), which means “to God”. This very formal word for goodbye is best reserved for a French person if they think they're about to die, or secretly hope that the person they're saying goodbye to is about to die and be sent up “to God”.

A bit like the French, I like to think of goodbyes not so much as a parting forever, but the chance to say bonjour (hello) to someone else. Sure, I'll be saying my goodbyes to my students this week, but I'll be saying hello to Andrew on Friday for the first time in months. I might be saying goodbye to my apartment at the end of May, but I'll be saying hello to my home in Boulder Creek for the first time since September, where my family and animals will be waiting for me. And I might be saying goodbye to Grenoble and all the friends I've met here, but I'll be saying hello to a new region of France in October.

That's right: on April 7^th, 2010, I received an email from the English Teaching Assistantship program in France informing me that I'd been offered a teaching assistantship position in the region of Versailles—a suburb of Paris. Knowing that I have a place in France waiting for me--giving me another year of trying hopelessly to seem French--means leaving Grenoble is not sad but just a necessary step towards more adventure, and I couldn't be more ready. Even though I've been spoiled with six weeks of vacation in the past seven months, I'm exhausted. Nothing about Grenoble has been easy, but rather one long lesson that has taught me that chasing after my rêves (rehv: dreams) is a whole lot of hard work, mixed in with a few sunny days in a park listening to hippies butcher the drum...and a lot of other nice moments too.

Quand la vie vous donne de citrons... aka Leith (in Romansh)

Quand la vie vous donne de citrons (kand lah vee voo dohn duh see-trohn)...when life gives you lemons, sometimes you feel like just chucking them right back in the face, plus throwing a few hard, sharp rocks for good measure. That's certainly how I feel right now, anyway. I don't want any citron pressé (see-tron pres-ay: lemonade); I'd rather have my niece be healthy, I'd rather the hot water in my apartment be working, and I'd rather be able to visit my sister in Sweden before she—and I—leave the continent. But no, sometimes life's just a bitch and you have to wait for the PMS to subside.

The past few days Iceland decided it wanted to be on my liste de merde (leest duh mehrd: shit list), so it started spewing ash into the sky, clouding any chance of my getting to Scandinavia for the week to see my sister. Full of optimism—or at the very least complete naivete—I decided to make a trip to Genève (Geneva) anyway to see if my flight from the city would eventually take off. If you read the news at all, you'd know it didn't. So I've spent the past two days wandering around this lovely city in Switzerland, where Romansh is one of the forgotten official languages.  What the heck does Romansh sound like?  I have no idea.

Geneva itself is beautiful, and fortunately I was able to score a room in an over-booked hostel and get out of Grenoble for a while. The thing is, the more I wandered around Geneva, the more I realized that the stereotypes about the Swiss are completely true: obsession over Swatches, immaculateness as religion, and shady Swiss banks are everywhere.

I've noticed you can tell a lot about a culture's values by what their buildings look like. In the States, we believe in capitalism and the free market, meaning our skyscrapers tower over churches and other less-important buildings like behemoths, dwarfing anything that gets in the way of the Corporate America. In France, they're a bit more lackadaisical about money, religion, and life in general and their skylines mirror this in a melange of white-washed concrete apartment buildings and the banks and churches that blend seamlessly in between them. In Switzerland, though, it's the banks that stand out among the crowd with their fluorescent signs that practically scream “deposit your illegal profits here”. Even the cathedrals on the hill can't help but feel inadequate and humiliated standing next to these Swiss banks that really are on every street corner.

And on the subject of money: for a country as conspicuous wealth-centered as Switzerland, I've got to say that the Swiss Franc is the fakest looking money I've ever seen. Unfortunately I didn't get a picture of the money while in Switzerland because, well, I forgot, but trust me: the money is just recycled rainbow vomit, and the coin francs are pretty enough but also big enough to double as tricycle wheels.

The Genevois (jen-ev-wa: people living in Geneva) are rich, the streets are spotless, the cars are all Ferraris or Maseratis or--at the very least--Audis, though the lack of grit means the city lacks a certain je ne sais quoi. What's a city without seedy hookers and petty street crime, anyway?!  Lac Lemin (lah-k lay-mahn: Lake Geneva) is a refreshing spot to relax after you've spent a day's salary on breakfast (this city is expensive!) and everyone here seems to speak at least three languages. Geneva also seems to attract a lot of Americans: I heard more American accents in Geneva in three days than I've heard in my entire time in Grenoble. I'm not quite sure what all these Americans are doing here, but seeing as Geneva's the home of the United Nations, I guess you can't help but expect everyone in the city to actually be  from somewhere else.

Anyway, as far as travel plans go not the hottest weekend ever, but since every single European on vacation this weekend was in the same boat (or lack of airplane, ha) as me, I can't say it's all due to my bad karma.

Notre Dame

Awhile ago I read an article about a woman who prayed to Sainte Thérèse (sahnt ter-ehz: Saint Thérèse), asking the saint to scatter flowers from heaven.  Saint Thérèse is from Lisieux (lis-ee-u), France.  A nun during the late 1800s, Thérèse showed her love for God and humankind by scattering flowers, hence her nickname "The Little Flower".  The theory in the Catholic Church is that if you to pray Thérèse for 14 days, then on the 15th day you will be presented with flowers in some form, a sign that your prayer will be answered.  Just as the legend goes, the woman in this article prayed to Saint Thérèse and, lo and behold, on the 15th day received 12 dozen leftover roses from her neighbor's garden.  Instantly the woman's faith in the Church was renewed and she's been claiming the healing power of prayer ever since.

As inspiring as an article like this can be, I'm not a religious person.  Sure, I believe in some strong greater-than-human force, and I also believe in the power of prayer if only in so much that positive thoughts cause positive actions.  But honestly, I really couldn't care less if someone needs Christmas, Krishna, or karma in order to express their spirituality--or lack thereof.  France, for instance, seems to be less and less religious everyday, but there's one thing the French still have faith in: Notre Dame (no-tra dahm: Our Lady), and there are plenty of intricate cathedrals around celebrating Her.

French love les femmes (leh fehm: women), and of all the women they love, it seems they love the Virgin Mary the most (well maybe second most to Bridgette Bardot or Chanel).  Most cities in France have at least one cathedral dedicated to the matriarch such as Notre-Dame de Grenoble, the cathedral in downtown Grenoble that I visited today in order to light a candle and say an Ave Maria for my beautiful, perfect, wonderful 3-months old niece who goes into Stanford Children's Hospital on Monday for major heart tests and, possibly, surgery.

There are a million-and-one ways to express spirituality, but in my desperate need of a physical way of expressing my inner-turmoil over my niece's condition, it was nice to have a cathedral close-by to just sit and think and cry and hope in peace in front of the powerful, sacred Our Lady icon with her baby in her arms.  Even if I don't believe in the power of the Pope, like most of the French I do believe in the power of women and the incredible strength of Sedona to make it through.  After all, ever since her birth Sedona has become the lady of the Maver family.  Her birth, existence, and beauty makes my faith in family stronger, and my prayers will always be with her.  I hope yours will be too.

Pâques

Pâques (pak : Easter) is here, marking the arrival of spring and--even for the French--chocolate eggs, bunnies and hens who lay said chocolate eggs, and lots of cakes and other delicious food.  Like any other dimanche (dee-mansh: Sunday), restaurants and shops on Pâques are shut and families are out enjoying the warmer weather in the park.  As a 24 year-old American in Grenoble, how did I celebrate this holiday, you might be wondering?  With alcohol and mes amies (mayz ahm-ee: my girlfriends), of course, who when loneliness kicks in substitute as a very fine adoptive family great for parties and English conversation.


This holy weekend was spent on Saturday lapping up the vino at lunch over pizza in le centre ville (luh sen-trah veel: downtown) followed by a happy hour cocktail at a bar followed by more pizza and cocktails over a dinner that ended at 11:30, followed by French club music and "wine juice" afterward.  We left the bar tipsy and tired as bells were ringing-in the holy day and fashionably dressed actually pious French women were leaving the Saturday vigil.

Naturally, a samedi (sahm-dee: Saturday) like that would have to be followed on Easter Sunday by a trip to Chartreuse, the famous distillery in Voiron (vwar-own) which manufactures industrial strength, green alcohol made by Chartreuse monks from an ancient secret recipe.  The distillery offers free tours and tastings of this blessed liquid  named Chartreuse, which happens to taste more like ancient cough medicine than it does an ingredient in world-famous cocktails.  The entire distillery smells just as strong as the liquor tastes: earthy, musky, spicy, with a bit of holy mixed in (thanks to the monks).  All in all, a very blessed French Pâques, a holy Sunday when oddly enough the one place in France still open is an alcohol manufacturing plant run by monks.  Joyeuses Pâques,tout le monde (joy-oos pak too luh mohn-d: happy Easter, everyone)!

Sommeil

I love sommeil (so-may: sleep).  Ask anyone who's ever seen me in a bed.  Sure, I might be an oiseau de nuit (wa-zo duh nwee:  night owl), but once you get me sleeping I'll be damned if I'm getting out of bed before I've hit the "snooze" button at least five times on three different alarm clocks...

Yes, very sad but I'm impossible to wake-up in the mornings and I'm never, ever chipper before noon and that's only after I've had at least three cups of coffee.  At least in this regard I fit in with the les français pretty well: we both hate mornings, are addicted to coffee, and especially hate mornings where we have to wake up early and drink that coffee specifically for the purpose of going to work.  Quel horreur (what horror)! 

Where I stand-out as not being in the least bit française but instead a stressed-out, hurried, and in poor health américaine is my lack of sleep.  While I can listen to the French complain about having to go to work on any given day of the week, I rarely hear them complaining because they didn't get enough sleep the night before.  The French are always pretty well rested, they just prefer not to work.  Moi (mwa: me/I), on the other hand, realize that while I do like teaching for the most part, I think a major reason why I dread Mondays so much is because Monday means that, for five days straight, I get less than six hours of sleep every night.

How do the French do it??  Along with skipping a meal, having messy hair, and putting make-up on in public, it seems that missing sleep is just something the French would never do.  After all, being cranky and stressed from lack of sleep is not only bad for the skin, but it's just si americain (see ahm-ehr-ee-kan: so American).  The French see full stomachs and a long night's sleep as key to a happy life and as a way to ward off eventually looking like a tired, strung-out American with who gulps a super-grande coffee while sprinting to catch the bus on their way to work.

Unfortunately as hard as I try, going to sleep in the wee hours of the morning is just hard-wired into my recent American college graduate psyche.  Late nights are a sort of souvenir (sue-ven-eer: memento) I keep with me from all the way back in high school when I realized that I could procrastinate on all my papers as long as I pulled all-nighters the night before they were due.

Even today it's as though I'm stuck in a bagarre (bag-ar: fight) against time and the inevitable. I try to keep myself awake as long as possible, even if it's for no good reason.  If I call it an "early night" (ie: going to bed before midnight) I feel like I've somehow failed myself and also wasted perfectly good hours of darkness better spent surfing the Internet, watching t.v., or reading a book until I eventually pass out with the lights still on...so not classy, and sooooo not French!  Yet the painful cycle starts all over again: Monday will come, I will wake up at 5am having only slept for four hours.  I'll struggle to keep my eyes open the rest of the day, and fall asleep drooling on the bus ride back home.  Thankfully in America they make pills for this sort of thing.

Les crêpes

Pancakes have always been my favorite breakfast food.  There's just something so completely perfect about a round, baked bread drenched in sugar and coupled with a warm cup of coffee and a mimosa on a dimanche matin (dee-mahn-sh mah-tun: Sunday morning), and it seems every country agrees with me.  Americans have buttermilk pancakes with maple syrup, the English have thin pancakes topped with castor sugar and lemon juice, and in India there are dosas: thin, crispy, flaky pancakes served with chutneys and curry.  But no pancake seems to be more celebrated or as universally well-known as the French crêpe (kreh-p: pancake).

Crêpes originate from the north-western region of France known as Brittany, but crêpes have been around so long, are so delicious, and so simple to make that they're ubiquitous throughout the country.  Seat yourself at any crêperie (krehp-air-ee: pancake restaurant) in France and you'll be handed a menu with almost fifty options of crepes to choose from:  savory crêpes or sweet crêpes, buckwheat or white flour, simple toppings like cheese or sugar, or more complex toppings like bacon or fruit and alcohol.

My own personal French classic standard is crêpe à la Nutella (kreh-p ah lah new-tell-a: pancake topped with nutella).  Actually an Italian invention, Nutella is a hazelnut and choolate spread slightly melted and drizzled on the inside of the crêpe before the pancake is folded into quarters and shoved into my mouth just as fast as I can chew: messy, sweet, chocolaty and absolutely perfect on any day of the week. 

French cuisine (ki-zine: food) is infamous for being rich, indulgent, and almost impossible to master, but to me the crêpe is the more honest symbol of typical French fare: simple, delicious, drenched in butter and works well when eaten with just about anything.  The French are well-aware that they have a legacy of complex recipes and seven-course meals, but any true Frenchie I've met would much rather run out and grap a quick crêpe from the local café than spend hours sweating in the kitchen over a hot oven.  Of course, this is a well-kept secret so don't tell anyone I told you.  All French people I've met claim to be great cooks who also happen to know whether or not a bottle of wine is going to be good just by reading the label on the bottle...I pretend to believe them.

L'art du "non"

When in doubt, the French just say "non" (noh: no).  Les français (lay frahn-say: the French) seem to believe that adding no at the end--or beginning--of any statement automatically annuls them from any commitment to other people and even to their own words.  Just in case the word non isn't enough, the French can always add "ne...pas" or "ne...jamais" ( nuh pah, nuh jahm-ay) to a verb as just varying artistic ways of saying non. 

Let's not lie, the French value the powerful drama equilvalent added when "no" is thrown on the table.  No can start an debate, break a heart, ruin a friendship much more easily than a "oui" (wee: yes) can, allowing the French to regard non as a palindrome of godly proportions for its ability to piss people off in the matter of seconds.  So sophisticated in fact is the detail-oriented French art of saying no, that the tone in which you say it and the number of times you repeat it carries varying meanings.  For example:

Just saying "non" once means "No, but you might be able to change my mind".

Saying "non, merci" means "No, and you're really starting to annoy me".

Saying "non, non, et non!" means "No, I'm never going to change my mind, and I hate you".

Of course, the word "yes" feels a little lonely in France with the word non getting all the attention, so the French have even created a special way to say yes if you're saying yes to someone who has just told you non.  When followed by a non, the French oui becomes si (see: yes), a yes-word only used when you're trying to argue with someone who's just said no.  For example:

"Non, je ne peut pas payer!  Je refuse!" - [No, I can't pay!  I refuse!]

"Mais si!  Il faut que tu paies!" - [Yes you can!  You must pay!]

Confused?  Good, because I am.  I've been in France for six months and still can't figure out the correct way to say oui, si, or non in certain situations.  Then again, I think that's partially why the French make it so confusing in the first place.  After all, if you get so confused during an argument that you've forgotten who's said yes and who's said no, chances are the argument will just come to an end over a bottle of vin (von: wine) and some food, and the one thing French love more than saying non is eating.