Fondre

There comes a time every hiver (ee-ver: winter) when everyone's had enough.  This is no less true in France: the snow-covered sidewalks and chilly days followed by even chillier nuits (nwee: nights) means that the berret wearing old men with their baquettes (bag-ett: bread) shuffle around with frowns instead of sourires (sor-ear: smiles) on their faces, cars won't stop for pedestrians on the street because they're just too damn grincheaux (green-show: cranky), and everyone clenches tightly to their manteaus (man-toe: coats) because there's no knowing when a cold day will get even colder.

Then, while laying in bed at noon under three blankets next to the heater that's on full-blast for the upteenth Sunday morning in a row, comes that most welcome morning when you look outside the window and see that the sun is out, the birds are chirping, and the thermometer no longer reads below freezing.

Fondre (fond-ruh).  It means "to melt", and luckily for me the snow has melted away completely in Grenoble and my bitter mood has melted right along with it  For the first time in three months I was able to walk to le boulangerie (luh boo-lahn-jer-ee: the bakery) for my ritual Sunday morning croissant (kwa-sant) without wearing a jacket and without being freezing.  That makes for one very happy fille californienne (fee kali-forn-ee-an: American girl).  

I know that the snow could fall again at any time, blanketing Grenoble in yet another white haze of winter and despair.  I mean, it's almost guaranteed to come again, right?  It's only February after all.  The French at least, experienced with cold winters and equiped with blood lines of pessismism stretching back as far as the creation of cheese and wine, refuse to believe that le printemps (luh pren-tomp: spring) has made an early entrance.  Even though it's 65 degrees outside, everyone's still bundled up as if they're about to go on a ski trip.

I, on the otherhand, am a bit more willingly naïve about the whole situation.  For the first time since novembre (no-vembruh: November) a cold, winter-induced fog has been lifted from my brain.  All the stress and emotions from months of trying to keep warm while working, traveling, and grocery shopping have seemed to melt away with the promise of a warm, sunny day.  It's no longer too cold to smile.  Instead, the higher temperatures have seemed to make me giddy.

I feel like I'm stuck in a Norman Rockwell painting: a pearl necklace-wearing American girl with dark brown curls in her hair smiles foolishly while galavanting around sunny French streets in high heels, thankful for life, love, and the French-American way.  With this in mind, maybe it's not so bad if winter sticks around for a bit longer.  I need some bitter cold temps (tomp: weather) to knock some sense back into me.

Joyeuse Saint Valentin

Having been a single girl for more years than I'd like to admit to, I'm well aware of the animosity that stems from these two dreaded words: "Valentine's Day".

Having a Valentine of my own this year has made me change my tune a bit.  I suddenly found it charming rather than hostile seeing men carry red long-stem roses in grocery bags back to their girlfriends on their way home from work.  The people out on the streets in Grenoble all weekend handing out pre-written love letters for a euro, I've learned, are really just ambassadors of peace rather than of ill-will.  And saying "joyeuse Saint Valentin" (joy-oos san val-en-ton: Happy Valentine's Day!) seems to have a special ring to it, seeing as my own Valentin had white roses (my favorite!), chocolates, and French champagne delivered to me just for our own romantic breakfast-in-bed Skype date on Valentine's morning.

Then, on 14 février (ka-torz fehv-ree-ay), I woke up.  Andrew was in mourning (his grandpa just passed away), I was sick, we were 6,000 miles away from each other, plus j'ai eu la geule de bois (j-aye oo lah gool duh bwa: I was hungover).  Mix them together, let fester until 8:00 in the morning, and you get a dish of disaster, best served cold.  Word to the wise: never drink wine and Monacos (beer with a healthy dash of grenadine syrup) on the same night.  You'll regret it, especially if you have a romantic date set-up with your copain (ko-pan: boyfriend) the next morning.

My morning of amour (uh-moor: romance) quickly turned into one of those dreaded, tear-filled, gut-wrenching fights only couples who truly love each other could have.  The whole thing felt a bit too française (frahn-says: French): this story of two young lovers dramatically deuling it out on the one day of the year when Hallmark cards practically command us to stare lovingly into each other's eyes.  With all the pressure involved by restaurants and chocolate companies to make Valetine's Day the perfect day, as a single girl I never realized how hard couples actually have it on February 14th.  Maybe I cracked under the pressure, and amid a pile of papier-mouchoir (pahp-ee-ay moosh-wa: Kleenex) and a tear-stained pillow, I came to a bit more difficultly-saught realization about love and my lover.

Maybe Andrew's and my day didn't fall into the stereotypical love fest of candlelight and compliments, but what it did do was bring us into a better realm of compréhension (komp-re-hencion:  understanding).  Sure, the timing could have been better but the outcome would have always been the same: despite our imperfections, frustrations, and annoying habits, Andrew and I are here for each other.  Even though I'll always wish I could be a better Valentine/copaine/personne (Valentine/girlfriend/person), being in love isn't about being perfect and buying the most romantic gift, but about being realistic, honest, and sincere no matter what day of the year it is.  At least, I think that's what I read in a Hallmark card once...

La Langue de l'amour

Having just seen another fête de Saint Valentin (fet duh sahn val-en-ton: Saint Valentine's Day) come and go, and having been in France for this particular Valentine's Day and having my very own Valentin to celebrate with, I decided to dedicate this post to educating you in a few of the more important phrases in French,  la langue de l'amour (lah lahn-guh duh luh moor: the language of love):

Joyeuse Saint Valentin (joy-oos san vahlen-ton): "Happy Valentine's Day".  And everyone in France is indeed joyeuse (joyous) by the looks of it, because they all seem to be wrapped arm-in-arm every time I step out of the door.  Where's Andrew when I need him?

Je t'aime (juh t-em): "I like/love you".  Oddly enough, the verb aimer works as both "to like" and "to love".  I wonder if that gets people out of a lot of arguments in the ever-so-awkward "do you love me or just like me" stage of the relationship...

Copain/copine (ko-pan/ko-peen): "Boyfriend/girlfriend".  If you have one of these, then you're probably not dreading Valentine's Day and boycotting Hallmark like I used to as a single girl.

Petit ami/petite amie (puh-teet am-ee/peh-teet ahm-ee): "Little friend".  If you're young (high school or early college) and have a boyfriend/girlfriend, everyone's probably calling them your "little friend" in French with a wink and a nudge, because everyone knows you're incapable of being in a serious relationship with a full-blown "copain" until you're old enough to start paying taxes and dreading your job.

Je t'aime...moi non plus (juh t-em, mwa noh pl-ew): "I love you...me neither".  There was a song written about this sentiment of sex without love by Serge Gainsbourg.  It's now a national mating cry.

Tu me manques (to may mahn-k): "I miss you".  If you know any French at all, or even a little about Latin-based languages, tu me manques seems to more closely resemble "you miss me" than it does "I miss you".  But "to miss (manquer)" in French is a reflexive verb, which means that saying something like "me manque" means "missing myself"...so confusing, and kind of takes the romance out of the sentiment for me, to be honest.

Mon chou (mohn shew):  "My darling".  Well, really it means "my cabbage", which for some reason French women led themselves to believe was a term of endearment...I don't want to delve into that one too much or I might have nightmares.  Personally, I think it's cute when you use it on infants, but if you're actually calling full-grown women vegetables, you're probably also middle-aged, single, and more closely resemble a wilted white vegetable yourself...

Mon puce (mohn poo-s):  "My flea".  Supposed to mean "sweetie" as well, but if anyone ever used this with me I'd slap him.  The French say it's funny, but I think it's just a cop-out.  I'm trying to find the humor behind calling women and children blood-sucking parasites, but why couldn't the French liken those they love to something with a little more cuddle factor, like "my duck" or "my hamster".  Hell, even "my rat" is a step-up from "flea".    

Je t'adore (juh tuh door): "I adore you".  If you don't want to be cliché or boring by saying something as institutionalized as "I love you", why not use the fresher "I adore you" instead? 

Con (con): "Bloody idiot/stupid jerk".  Good word to use on your boyfriend when he forgets Valentine's Day.

Tu es très jolie (to ay tray joe-le): "You're very pretty".  Nice words to use on your girlfriend.  Everyday.  Unless you want to be called a con for the rest of your life.

Nana (na-na): "Pretty girl/chick/hot chick/slut".  Yes, it's slang, and you won't find many guys over the age of 25 using it unless they're losers, virgins, or probably both.  Still a good one to know anyway.

Mec (mek): "Guy".  Slang too, but not quite like nana. 

L'amour (luh moor): "Love".  As in love is in the air, love is all around, love is all we need.

Je te déteste (juh tuh day-test): "I hate you".  For when your mec (or--less likely, but still possible--nana) really screws-up.

Je suis désolé, pardonne-moi, je t'en suplie! (juh swee deh-so-lay, par-don mwa, juh ten soup-lee): "I'm sorry, I'm begging you to forgive me!".  This is crucial to know in case you're that guy (or--less likely, but still possible--girl) who screwed-up, if you know what's good for you!

Joyeuse Saint Valentin everyone, with an extra-special toast and well-wishes for extraordinary love on every other ordinary day of the year!

Raclette et raquettes

In order to be truly Alpin (al-pahn: Alpine) in France, you must do one of two things: you must spend each weekend in the snow-covered mountains skiing and drinking hot chocolate, and you also must spend the rest of the chilly nights de la semaine (duh la sehm-en: of the week) eating Raclette and other cheesy dishes.  This weekend, I couldn't exactly truly call myself Alpine (al-peen: a girl of the Alps), but at least I had a small taste of what it must feel like to be fabulous and French.

Saturday--in a reunion with my old colocataires (ko-lok-ah-tehr: flatmates) from La Côte Saint André and a "new-old" friend from Bristol--I dined on raclette, fondue's lesser-known, lesser-appreciated, but just-as-extravagant cousin.  This regional dish can be served in different ways, but the general gist is always the same: you take a burner and place a wheel of raclette cheese on in, wait for it to melt, then scoop it over warm baby potatoes, bread, raw vegetables, and assorted salami and pieces of pig.  Best served on a chilly day with a side of warm mulled white wine.

After my stomach begged for mercy from too much cheese and potatoes, I woke up the next morning sacrilegiously early to head up to le Vercors (luh ver-core) yet another time, not to ski sadly but to do something that takes quite a bit less practice: raquettes (rack-ett: snowshoes).  Snowshoes are monstrosities placed over your real shoes, tied with several different confusing straps and clips, accompanied with walking sticks with the effect of making you seem to glide over four feet of freshly fallen snow.  They really seem silly at first, but without them you'd have no hope of walking around les Alpes (lez ahl-p: the Alps) without slipping on your butt (as I did today sans snowshoes) and sinking into the snow with every step you took.  The gorgeous winter mountain views were absolutely worth feeling like I had suddenly grown feet the size of Bigfoot .

After delving into the inner workings of life in the French Alpes a bit this weekend, I have to say the best part of it all was, when stopping to orientate ourselves with the map while raquetting, a 70 year-old woman in cross-country skis and Chanel sunglasses sped past us with the greatest of ease.  Note to self: must become more like old French women.