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.

Parlez-vous français?

After countless months of taunting by my middle school students for my meager accent français (ak-sent frahn-say: French accent) and countless puzzled looks from French townspeople  when I try to order off the menu, I've been reduced to this: reading French gossip magazines and translated paperback books about single girls out for revenge.  I've been told that this reading material is so simply written and easy to understand, it should only boost my language confidence.

So then, how's it supposed to make me feel when I underline every other word to look-up in my dictionnaire Français-Anglais (dik-see-on-air frahn-say on-glay: French-English dictionary), even though I'm merely reading up on Carla Bruni's new coupe de cheveux (koop duh shev-oo: haircut)?  Well, let's just say I often find myself falling back on plan A to begin with: waiting for the day when I just wake-up speaking French couramment (koor-a-mon: fluently), without any hard work involved.

La langue française  (la lan-guh frahn-says: the French language) is spoken by over 110 million people throughout the world.  A Latin-based language, French is known as la langue d'amour (la lan-guh duh-moor: the language of love), and for good reason: with over 130 commonly-used irregular verbs, and a subjunctive verb tense created just to express moodiness and doubt and make life a living hell for French learners, both being adept at the art of French and being adept at the art of romance seem to be equally as complicated and hopeless...

"Parlez-vous français (pahr-lay voo frahn-say: Do you speak French)?" is the inevitable question I'm asked by any new student who walks through my classroom door.  I'd like the answer to be an astounding "Mais bien sûr (may be-en sur: but of course)!", but it's really more of a shameful mumbled "un petit peu (uhn puh-tee poo: a little bit)" before I hurry off and change the subject.  In fact, a clerk at the gare (gah-rr: train station) once told me I spoke French "very well!" after I asked to buy tickets to Lyon, and I almost kissed her I was that touched by her knack of embellishing the truth.

In the meantime, I'm hoping that with the help of Point de Vue celebrity gossip magazine, the French paperback version of The Devil Wears Prada, French soap operas about accidental pregnancies and crimes of passion, and Les Simpsons dubbed in French, I'll be conjugating my irregulars and thinking in le subjonctif (luh soob-junk-teef: the subjunctive) with ease by the time mardi gras rolls around.  Either that, or just be really well-read in the art of French celebrity dating.

Une vie héroïque

The other night, I went out to see Gainsbourg : Vie héroïque, a film about the life of celebrated French chanteur (shant-oor: singer) Serge Gainsbourg, who during the mid-1900s shocked an otherwise un-shockable country with his sexual escapades, provactive lyrics and love of les drogues (leh dro-gh: drugs).  What I learned about Gainsbourg from the film?  He loved cigarettes (the French brand Gitanes apparently), famous beautiful women...and that's about it.  Oh, and he wrote some music. What I learned about France?  The more you break the rules, the more French people respect you.

I can only help but think that a majority of my American friends would have walked out of the Gainsbourg film shaking their heads and thinking "what a tragic story".  My Grenoblois (Gre-nobl-wa: people from Grenoble) aquaintances walked out of the film and immediatley started sucking down cigarettes, because if smoking three packs of Gitanes (gee-tan) a day will help make them at all as annoyingly famous and in-your-face as Gainsbourg, then so be it.

Les américains (lez amer-ee-kan: Americans) more often than not celebrate people who tend to overcome obstacles while working with the rules, not against them: Barack Obama, Superman, and the many faces of Tom Hanks rank in America's heart as lovable heros who are confident, honest family men who never forget to file their taxes.  In other words, they're safe.

In France, safe doesn't get you anything but a civil service job and a corner appartement overlooking an air shaft.  Being cunning, sexy, and provocative on the other hand might just get you a bronze statue in Notre Dame (no-tra dom: Our Lady) square.

I've come to find that the French really just find breaking the law as another form of fun and cheap excitement.  For instance, when the smoking ban went into effect in restaurants, "no smoking indoors" was taken as a suggestion meaning "as soon as your cigarette is hanging out the window, it's fine". Skipping out of work to go on strike is a weekly ritual, tax evasion a national right, cutting in line necessary for day-to-day survival at the la Poste (lah post: the post office) and being straight-laced an unforgivable treason.  Pollyanna wouldn't be considered wholesome Saturday morning cartoon material here, but rather an epic tragédie (traj-ed-ee: tragedy) of wasted proportions. 

And if you think anything has changed in recent times, think again.  The current French president got divorced and then went on to marry an ex-Italian supermodel and pop singer (while in office), former French president François Mitterand was buried while his femme (fam: wife) and mistresses stood side-by-side in tears, and eternally single, free-willed and free-spirited Coco Chanel is still worshiped as a saint for daring to allow women to wear clothes that were comfortable.

It isn't that French people don't know about the provactive lives of their héros (er-oh: heros), it's just that they'd rather adore a provactive asshole despite his inperfections than someone who pretends to be perfect.  After all, if someone seems perfect they're probably hiding something and shouldn't be trusted.  But when you're willing to admit you're screwed up, what could you possibly have left to hide?

La Salle de Classe

I can't forget the whole reason I'm in France to begin with: la salle de classe (lah sahl duh class: the classroom).  I'm an English Teaching Assistant, which means that my funds for living in France start with--and end with--a room full of tables, chairs, and French teenagers speaking broken English and my ability to help them better understand.


The thing is, every time I enter the classroom I get a little sweaty and my mouth starts to dry from nerves.  Every new hour and with each new student comes a new learning experience not only for mes élèves (mez eh-lev: my students), but also for moi (muhwa: myself).  Not being able to speak fluent French with students in the classroom has proven to be more of a pain than I ever realized, often leaving me wondering if I even have the slightest impact on ces petits enfants (sayz puh-teet on-fant: these kids).


Of course, it doesn't help my enthusiasm when I show up to the high school only to learn that I won't be teaching that day, or more often, show up to le collège (luh koll-ehj: the junior high) only to be handed the lesson I'm supposed to give seconds before I walk into class.  Supposedly all this experience is great training for thinking on the run, but personally I'd take a little organization over pulling lessons out of thin air any day.  In the meantime, my confidence dies a little every time I struggle over my head teacher's hastily written lesson plan, keeping my fingers crossed that my students won't discover that no, I don't in fact have any idea what I'm doing and just play along instead: I feel like dancing the jig anytime a student voluntarily participates, and I understand finalement (feen-al-mehn: finally) just how much planning lessons feels like I'm back in 10th grade, mindlessly pouring over homework until the wee hours of the morning while wishing I could be watching The Simpsons and zoning out instead.


Just when I'm about to give up, there's that spark of communication between me and the students: I've said something new, and they've understood.  And they're thankful for it.  So thankful, in fact, that ils se plaignent (eel zeh plehn: they complain) when the bell rings because they actually wanted to finish the lesson.  I shed a tear of happiness, all is right with the world, and for a mere moment the salle de classe seems a little less threatening after all.

Deux-mille dix: la revue

"Joyeuse nouvelle année et bonne santé!" (joy-eus new-vell an-ay eh bone sahn-tay: Happy New Year and good health!)...this seems to be the mantra around France for the entire month of January.  Practically no one in France wished me a merry Christmas, but even strangers have gone out of their way here to wish me good health, even though I'm pretty sure deep-down they couldn't care less if I tripped over and fell right in front of their faces (in fact, I've done that numerous times since the snow started in Grenoble).  The French are simply more excited about new beginnings than they are about waiting for a fat red man to climb in through the window (Santa Claus doesn't come down the chimney in France because, of course, some apartments don't have chimneys and that wouldn't be fair, would it?).

Well, just barely a week into my own deux-mille dix (doo meel dees: 2010) and already I've witnessed beautiful beginnings and heartbreaking ends.    I spent the entire two weeks of les vacances de Noël (lez vay-kans duh no-elle: Christmas vacation) with one of my favorite families in the world, saw my sister for the first time in months, got another surprise visit from my boyfriend, welcomed my beautiful niece, Sedona, into the world on New Year's Day, and said goodbye to two of the most loving (and loved) dogs in the entire world: Oenghus and Mab. 

According to the Chinese, 2010 is the year of the Tiger, which is a year of bravery, courage, and vivacous honesty.  Well, to be honest then, judging by this roller coaster leading into 2010 I'm a little worried about what that might mean for me personally.  But Tigers supposedly always land on their feet. I'm hoping I will too.  In the meantime, I'm anxious to discover all the trouble I might get myself into this year...

Mab and Oenghus

Nearly thirteen years ago, I held two tiny dachshund puppies in my hands and fell immediately in love.  Even to this day, that love has never dwindled.  We've done everything together, Mab, Oenghus, and me.  But especially Mab and Oenghus.  They developed in the womb together and since that time they've never been apart from each other for more than a week.  They go on walks together.  Sleep together.  Hump each other.  They do everything in a duo but fight.  They never seem to get on each other's nerves, unlike any other siblings I know--myself included.

It fact Mab and Oenghus, the now full-grown and graying miniature dachshunds even had to go and become paraplegic together.  After a long puppy-hood of romps in the mountains and sex on the beach, Mab and Oenghus' spines went out on them within three years of each other.  They haven't walked since, but have scooted along with limp hind legs happily in-tow.

The fact that their ability to walk and be typical rambunctious dogs has been taken from them but their luster for life hasn't changed has always inspired me.  Oenghus and Mab, legs or no legs, have lived on enjoying every bit of life they can, proving to me that life doesn't stop being worth living just because things aren't the way they're "supposed" to be.  There'll still be beautiful sunny days, people who love you, and leftover Thanksgiving scraps to look forward to even if it takes a little longer to scoot there than it used to.  Being reminded of this everyday by Mab and Oenghus has continually been a blessing in my life.

Tomorrow, Thursday, January 7th, 2010 is the last day Mab and Oenghus will grace this world with their presence.  Fitting with the rest of their lives, they will be put to sleep together at our home in the loving care of their three canine siblings, feline sister, Mom, Dad, Dylan, Erin, Andrew, and Sedona.  I would give anything to be there and remind them of how much they mean to me, how much I love them, and that even though they won't be basking in the sunny spot of our front yard anymore, not a second of any day for the rest of my life will go by without my thinking of them, missing them, loving them, and being thankful for the beautiful part of my life that was spent with them.

Unfortunately, I'm 6,000 miles away from where I should be right now.  I can't say "Goodbye, until we meet again" the way I want to.  So, instead, I would like everyone here to know, on the last day that Mab and Oenghus are with us, how much these two little dogs have made an impact on my life.  They will be missed by everyone who knew them.

Mab and Oenghus:  Thank you for letting me be a part of your amazing lives.  I love you.  Always.