Une année de l'amour

A year ago today I went on a walk with five dogs and a tall, over-talkative, handsome boy/man named Andrew.  We met at noon at the top of my street and compared notes on school, work, and dogs coupled with a few awkward silences, all ending with an exciting exchange of phone numbers.  365 jours plus tard (jwers ploo tahrd: days later), and Andrew and I have engaged in countless conversations, fights, kisses, and one année de l'amour (ahn-ay duh l-moor: year of love).

It's never easy being in a relationship, especially a long distance one.  I swore to myself, in fact, that I wouldn't let myself be in a relationship when I went to la belle France (lah bell Frah-ns: beautiful France) because I thought the pain of having part of my heart in the States while I was trying to live a life 6,000 miles away would be too hard to handle.  Besides, I've always prided myself on being independent, and there's nothing more threatening to a girl who likes to be on her own than a man by her side.  But I fell hopelessly in love with this vegetarian boy who so innocently cheered on baseball teams, never forgot the importance of a goodnight phone call, and always let me win an argument.  So when the time came to say bon voyage (bon voy-aj: farewell) Andrew and I made a pact to make our relationship work, day-by-day.

Five months of our relationship have been spent à la distance (ah lah dees-tahns: long distance), and we've weathered our fair share of emotionally taxing relationship hurricanes, but Andrew has also been my constant companion on the phone, through emails, letters, and random surprise visits to help me through all the tough points this year that I couldn't have gone through alone.  Mon copin (moan ko-pan: my boyfriend) has taught me in the span of 12 short months how difficult but wonderfully freeing it can be to let someone into my life in a very real, honest way.  

Andrew has seen me at my best (when I was trying to impress him into second and third dates) and at my worst (too many times to count), and vice versa.  And tu sais quoi (too say qwa: you know what)?  Every time I see Andrew as his less-than-perfect self, I fall a little more in love with him.  So thank you Andrew for being you, for falling in love with a girl like me, and for sharing this year with me.  I can't wait to see what the next year has in store for us!

Leith (in Dutch)

Last week, on yet another one of France's much-appreciated two week random vacations, I packed my bags and headed off to Amsterdam to meet up with my sister and other friends for a week of what the Dutch like to call tolerantie (tolerance).  Basically, for the Dutch there are three regels (rules) to tolerating something even though it's technically verboden (forbidden).  These three rules are as follows:

1.  Whatever is being tolerated should also be making the Dutch government a lot of money.


2.  Whatever is being tolerated should do no harm.


3.  When engaging in an activity that is technically illegal though tolerated, for God's sake, be discreet.


Most important of these three rules, of course, is the first.  Money.  This first rule is why the world's oldest profession, prostitutie (prostitution), is a major building block of Amsterdam society.  This first rule is why Katholieken (Catholics) could line up by the hundreds on their way into "secret" Catholic churches long after Catholocism had been banned.  This first rule is why "koffie winkel" ("coffee shops") somehow mysteriously wreak of skunky grass when you pass by them and also serve "space brownies" made with "green butter" and "weed".  This first rule is also why bicyclists who trample overpedestrians still get entire lanes of the road to themselves and pile fietsen (bikes) one on top of the other in the middle of the straat (street) (by the way, trampling over tourists in Amsterdam isn't considered harmful because hunting down tourists is also a perfectly legal national sport).


Rushing through this quaint European city that's practically leaning on it's side due to rotting foundations from its kanaal (canal) system, I had little time to really get to know the Dutch, but what I did get to know I fell in love with.  After all, how can you not love a country that devotes itself to windmills, clogs, and overweight hookers?

In fact, by the end of the trip I myself was on a bike, effortlessly gliding through city streets (with a look of sheer terror on my face...it had been five years since I'd been on a bike), hopelessly trying to be mistaken for a native Dutchwoman.  Unfortunately, I'm at least five inches too short to fit in with these people who gorge themselves on dairy, and my Yankee accent stands out like a cat in heat when spoken around a language that sounds like some strange mix of German and lyrical gibberish.  I can only hope that future budgeting allows for multiple visits back so I can work on fine-tuning these Dutch traits.  Maybe in a few years I'll be squashing over tourists on my vintage bicycle with the rest of the Netherlands.

By the way, Holland is a state (divided into North Holland and South Holland) of which Amsterdam is a part.  If you live in Holland you, ipso facto, live in the Netherlands, but you don't necessarily live in Holland just because you live in the Netherlands, and just because you're visiting the Netherlands doesn't mean you're going to visit Holland.  That would be like saying you're Californian even if you've lived your entire life in New York, just because California is part of the United States.  I learned that that little fact this week.  That's right: I'm almost 25 years-old and still learning basic geography.  Problem?

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.

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.