Dare I Deviate?

Pictures are often an easy replacement for the more tricky business of painting a picture with words. But to spare myself the trouble, and you the time, I shall make my first picture post:



Ma petite chambre



Our little kitchen Table for tea, talking and breakfast



Kitchen another view: Kitchens are always of great importance to me because I spend such a considerable amount of time in them. Note all the bottled water, and the Paul's bag (currently used for recycling) but the BEST boulangerie in the city.


Four favourite Filles (Can I include myself?) Left to right: My apartment mate Jenna, myself, French Justine, and Mariah from Alaska. We stopped briefly in an Irish pub upon a live band recommendation, got a drink, took a picture, didn't like the look of the place, and left.

Let’s Get A Bit Sentimental…

I think there’s a false delusion that going abroad- particularly to romantic, beautiful, sophisticate France- makes one forget or brush aside the world left behind. As enamored as I often am with the landscape and though openly confessing to endorse much of the French lifestyle, I miss many people and think longingly of the day when we’ll reconnect or I’ll even just hear from you online. At the end of the day, I’m a people person, and it’s the relationships I’ve formed in the past that interest me mostly keenly and make me the happiest. Many letters are premised with something to the extent of “I know you’re in France probably having a great time, but…” in a way that connotes that I’d be too preoccupied with my new/interesting life that somehow I don’t have the same time or interest. It’s a difficult introduction to respond to because while my life might be quite different right now, such is the case on regular occasion and I am still me wherever I may be. And this me, loves being in touch and hearing about your life and not getting lost in the chasm of space and time.

A Word on French Schooling:

A rigorous French classroom can be absolutely terrifying. I have one professor in particular who has a particularly focused way of lecturing with his hands clasped behind his back as he almost chants the lesson by memory, drawing out a word before coming to abrupt, succinct end to emphasize how we too, should reach such reasonable, manageable conclusions. His information packed lessons, to which we’re scrambling to keep pace with as we scribble notes and write down the verbal translations, might be more manageable if class work didn’t also include rapid memorization (or lack there of) and public disclosure of your failure. He has a nasty habit of suddenly looking very directly at you and saying, “Et vous Mademoisellllllllle, QU’EST QUE vous pouvez nous dire pour. numero. un.?” To which you instantly panic as you say to yourself, “My God, I haven’t even finished translating the phrase let alone decided which verb to insert in this blank! Well, either Rendre or s’Acquitter look reasonable… what tense did he mention? Should I go with present, no, that never happens, passé composé, imparfait? No, there seems to be a lot of passé simple. That’s probably the best bet. Shit, why didn’t we do more passé simple in school? I have NO idea how to conjugate this verb.” This is all crammed in to a five second panicked silence of mortification and fear. Luckily, my classmates are all accommodating and friendly and if I’m lucky, during drills on idiomatic expressions, the nice fellow next to me will whisper “ni froid ni chaud, ni froid ni chaud!” The whispering between students out of general goodwill became quite obvious by the end of the day and I couldn’t decide if the professor didn’t mind it or just couldn’t hear. Such high pressure questions certainly inspires you to return home and study quite rigorously.

Today was my birthday and the best part was slowly opening letters throughout the day, smiling and feeling sappy and rejoicing over every sentiment. After 8 hours of class time (miserably long) I went to a pub that was hosting a language exchange and rolled out conversational/comprehendible French for an hour before coming home to find a delightfully clean room and apartment with small presents waiting on my bed. The desserts I was given are delicious enough to daily die for and pretty much every meal out is a culinary triumph. Let me officially make note: 20 was a most excellent year, 21 shall be even better.

When one speaks of nudity, One soon sees an Ass

Part of my french classwork has been in learning sayings and proverbs. Par Exemple: << Ce ne sont pas tes oignons >> = Those aren’t your onions = It’s none of your business. Or << Mettre la charrue avant les boeufs >> = To do the plowing before you have a mule = To do the secondary before the primary matter. And my idiomatic expression of the hour << Quand on parle du loup on voit la queue >> = When you speak of the wolf a tail soon appears = our equivalent of “Ah, speak of the devil!” if someone appears whom you were just talking about. The crucial difficulty in the delivary of this line is the correct pronunciation of the “ooo” sound in “loup” and then the abrupt, simple “k” sound of deceivingly long “queue.”

It was quickly discovered upon my arrival that I have tremendous difficulty in one of the most fundamental french sounds, that should come naturally to an english speaker, but is nothing more than the simple “ooo”. Soon, goon, moon, spoon; nous, fou, tu, coup! Simple. But for whatever horrible reason, the nice round O becomes a very nasal “ue” and thus utterly transforms the meaning of the word. (Don’t worry, I begin every morning saying “nooos, nooos, nooos, nous, nous, nous” in desperate attempt to say it correctly.) For those of you who don’t speak any french “nous” is how one says “we”, and as you could guess, is used very frequently in conversation. SO, at this point whenever I try to say, “nous” I am in fact saying “nu” which translates very simply in to “naked”. For your general knowledge (and to explain my error) you should also know that a fairly crude way of saying “ass” is “cul.” (Pronounced “cue”). All this adds up to that pivitol moment when in sharing my proverb over pleasant dinner table conversation, instead of saying “When one speaks a wolf one soon sees the tail” I instead delivered something that sounded a lot closer to “When one sees a naked person, you soon see an ass.” Delivered to the general hilarity of all as I sat there fully realizing that my “ooos” were still less than sub-par. I am now the newest subject for my host’s daughter to practice her speech therapy.

Learning a new language is far from a passive process. I begin every morning with my dictionary and a notecard where I list new words that I heard the day before, looking up a verb that could come in handy, and adding all the useful words that I come across as I flip through dictionary. I then spend the first hour of the day writing and rewriting my list before carrying it around in my purse to glance at during a free moment of the day. At this point, the nouns are most useful for me to identify the object of which I speak, and any new verbs are stashed away to translate when I hear others speak them. It’s much harder to spout complex “verb” sentences in a new language without previous reflection. As of now “faire, aller, sortir, être” (all those simple action verbs that you lean in the first two years of french class) are painfuly over-used. I’m still in slow process of working verbs like “s’empiffrer”= to stuff oneself, “renifler”= to snuffle, “s’embrouiller”= to be confused, in to my spoken vocabulary. To say that it’s hard and often frustrating is an understatement.

I have moments where I can exultantly spout of what I want to say and understand everything of which my host mother has just ranted on about. I have other moments where I honestly think becoming “fluent” is a lost cause and I can hardly get the most simple sentence out of my mouth. At this point, I utter muddled, weird sentences to the amusement of all, with an accent that I’m told sounds a bit like the British goose in Disney’s “AristoCats” I have very few delusions about looking smart or glamorous.

French Lesson #1: Manners and “La Politesse”

Somehow despite regular reminder in French class as to the hierarchy of different forms of address, I never fully realized how crucially important using “vous” is in public. I’m only beginning to make this my default mode, particularly after a slip up where “S’il te plait” earned me a very dirty look and I kicked myself for not slowing down to address them politely. The importance of being “bien élevé” (well raised) is central to the functioning of their society, and thus a constant “bonjour monsieur” or “bonsoir Madame” must be the first thing out of one’s mouth. A phrase that does work wonders for French and feeble speaker alike is, “Je suis désolée de vous déranger monsieur…” (I’m sorry to bother you sir…) This should be uttered for the smallest impractical question in a store and pre-empt your exclamations over the dead body you just found when you bother the poor policeman from his route. Likely such an emergency would be described as “j’ai une petite problème” (I have a little problem…) Thus far I’ve been most successful in the quiet stores where I’ve wondered in alone and been able to exchange appropriate greetings in a more intimate context.

My primary complaint at the moment as I go through my programs orientation is many of the Americans/girls/classmates tendencies to migrate in groups. Not only is this something that the French do not do as they navigate their way through the small, narrow streets, but the Americans haven’t developed any consciousness of the noise that they make or how much room they’re taking up when they walk side by side with lots of “personal space” bubbles that are just big enough that a French person can’t squeeze through. Being a person who even in Iowa is very conscious of the volume of conversation, it’s mortifying for me when they don’t know how to keep their voices down in the café and simply talk softly over the table. The French certainly notice and I already know the chilling affect of their icy glare, and yet I don’t quite have the courage of yet to always say to my American companions “please, hush…” I also have a harder time being with the Americans when navigating the streets because many of them look so out of place and noticeably American. When alone I can navigate quite comfortably because I’m use to the Vancouver etiquettes of not smiling at strangers or making eye contact with men, and I’d like to think that my clothes have yet to mark me as American either (something which I say with a bit more confidence because my French homestay declared, “tu t’habilles trés francaise!” (you dress very French) which at this rate feels like one of the highest compliments.)

Looking “American” might not be so painful if the tennis shoes, bell-bottom jeans, and flannel jacket didn’t make you an immediate target for the taunts of some men who walk behind you making crude propositions “parce que vous êtes anglaise.” (because you’re English- a term for any one who speaks the language). This has put me in the doubly irked position of annoyance at the torments of “les français” but also feeling like I could grasp my north American friends hand and say, “can you please try to not look to American.” As we do orientation classes on many public etiquettes, I may be experiencing double culture shock as I realize how I was truly not raised with similar values of appropriate public interaction as many of the American students, nor do I yet process all the proper formalities of functioning in France. My current strategy for social and public survival is to find those more culturally sensitive individuals with whom we can at least try to blend in together. Everything is just barely underway and I remind myself that today is in fact only the beginning of the third full day in France. If I’ve given myself a three month marker for reasonable social fluency in France, I need not panic yet that the day to day is more challenging than I anticipated.

Did I mention that the yoghurt is fantastic? OR that I’m writing this at two o’clock in the morning because my body is still not on French time… ooh lalalaa…

Waiting

Its easy not to write when waiting for inspiration. It's a very passive attendance, attuned for that moment when words run smooth. But my books of late are failing me and their words do little to generate fresh thought. I have no new secrets and I'd rather not report on the day to day- I'm left rather uninspired. I'm in a complacent limbo, waiting for life to begin. This is scheduled for 9:34 AM on Tuesday the 20th of January, my flight to a life that I've selectively chosen to fill with fine food, the revelry of youth, and the romance of another language. I wish I could encapsulate without seeming to be an indulgent epicurean how much I need carelessness and fun. Right now too much thought is wasted on life theory and not enough life living. I hope by the time I'm 30 or 80, I can look back at my self now and smile and shake my head. I hope I can say, "Me oh my, how I so needlessly fretted." I'd prefer current thoughts to be nothing but pointless flounderings and the basis of purpose to be far removed from confusion and uncertainty.

We have such a breadth of allowance for the life of each individual. To one is prescribed luck and happiness and to another only grief. It was long ago said that life is not fair, but I'm mystified more that we aren't more put off by both extremes. Within this range human life is so much harder to define and thus difficult for for the young such as myself to direct an end. I feel like we're told to feel guilt whenever prosperity affords happiness and simultaneously taught pious satisfaction as the remedy for our complaints. Perhaps our feelings might be secondary to what we do with our lives, but once again one needs a value to which one directs their end.

A little Review

Since my morning began (all posts seem to begin with my mornings) with my old vocabulary workbook and coffee, I was pleased enough by my finds that I decided some words and derivations might be worth sharing with my blogging friends. Vocabulary isn't very fun if mentally hoarded away, as many logophiles might be inclined to do (always looking for the opportune occasion to bash someone over the head with an impressive word), but rather we might all have more interesting and fun conversations by using a choice, tasty word. This is likely quite elementary for any of you who have done the most basic latin or greek, BUT nevertheless (how nice that that's one word) it never hurts to do a little review.

Uxorious (adj)- dominated by one's wife. UXOR= latin for "wife" (Why isn't this word used more? I've heard so many guys say that they essentially don't want an uxorious wife.)

Avuncular (adj)- pertaining to uncle-like affection. AVUNCULUS= latin for "uncle" Easy to remember because its so close to "uncle".

Matrix (noun)- the surroundings within which something begins or develops. MATER/MATRIS= latin for" mother". I thought this worthy of inclusion just because there may be increased confusion of how to use this word since the film The Matrix was produced and our other affiliation with its use is in calculus boxes of numbers (or was that algebra? I haven't done (I'm pleased to say) much beyond simple math in quite some time...) Anyway, NOT just a framework of an idea, but the environment of its inception.

Pedant (noun)- A person who pays excessive attention to learning rules rather than to understanding. Paidos= greek for "child" or "boy". I think we're all familiar with "pedantic" but I think we should also starting calling our legalistic friends "pedants" to see how they react. (note: this is not very nice.) BUT the irony of using it like this is that pedant can also mean "a scholarly show-off." Thus, in calling our friends pedants, we ourselves might equally be the pedant. haha! it bit us in the bum.

And to differentiate between two similar sounding (I CAN'T think of the word for this!) words:

Misogamy (noun)- hatred of marriage GAMOS= greek for "marriage" So a misogamist is someone who hates marriage, not to be confused with

Misogyny (noun)- which is a hatred or distrust for women. GYNE= greek for "woman" I think we're all use to hearing a man being referred to as a "misogynist." We could infer that a misogynist will inevitably also be a misogamist, but a misogamist could still love women of any sort.

I feel like my little list is mostly of a nasty sort and we now know more words of an insulting, if not helpful nature. Thus lets conclude on a word to which we can direct all our various gender aspirations (I jest).

Virile (adj)- Having certain characteristics popularly associated with men, especially physical strength, procreative power, vitality and assertiveness (man oh man, what a list!). VIR= latin for "man". I must include the sentence example that reads, "The heroes of Ernest Hemingway's novels are often virile men who risk danger in war or sport" I am reading Hemingway right now for the first time and it was nice to come across him.

Nice is a word that I was repeatedly told not to use during primary school. It was written in large letters on a poster of forbidden words, tacked above the chalk board to remind us of what we shouldn't include in our monosyllabic writings (how cruel, when it's so easy to spell). Since it was so unceremoniously plucked from my vocabulary, today I have reinstated its use by using it twice in the post above. It is a very nice* word.

*NB (nota bene): Nice IS one of those words that has undergone utter transformation in its idiomatic meaning. It USE to mean "stupid or trivial" as derived from the latin word "nescius" so a "nice fact" was something unimportant or trivial. (I think this dates back to the 12th century). The only definitions that I could find that remotely connote this outdated meaning were: "having fastidious, finicky, or fussy tastes" and then a step up from that: "showing or indicating very small differences; minutely accurate." My best guess as to the etymology of the word would be that as precise and fussy habits became more aligned with culture values of refinement, it began to connote more positive meanings until we arrived at the present day's trivial meaning of being "inconsequentially pleasant" (my own definition.) I'm sure there's enough historical complexity to this word that one could write their thesis on it. So I'll stop here.

Feel free to make corrections or suggestions.

Daylight

"Hover over our darkness and depths. Create us once again.
Create us anew O God. Create us not novel, but new."

I saw my parent's room with new eyes as sunlight flooded the space and the golden walls hung with large-brimmed hats glowed with the light of morning. I wondered if a room of sheltered light would hinder adaptation to the outside world. Through many years I'd preferably stay inside where ugliness couldn't touch me. I admittedly still long for empyreal escape but I know not by which measure it's mine to demand. As a child at my friend's backyard lake where we held bare feet over still water, we dared each other to walk on the surface as Jesus once did. "If we but had faith the size of a mustard seed" we echoed "we could walk on water." We stood poised for motion on the wooden dock and looked down in to the muddy depths where we knew slimy black seaweed and silt awaited us if we sunk. Neither counting off or reckless abandon drove us to hurl ourselves off the dock. We'd eventually draw back our dirty feet and climb up to the house where the demands on faith and trust weren't so portentously held in our hands.

I've climbed two rock faces alone, without ropes in the wild where no one was there to see my ascent or my jubilant arrival at the top. Any fear of falling was kept in check by the anonymity of my endeavour and the knowledge that any pain or triumph was mine alone. Far from self-satisfied as I surveyed the landscape below, all I could say was, "It's just me, its just me." It felt incomplete to not share the sunlight or quiet woods, or the morning sky from a greyhound bus or smile together at the German family that fed their kids crackers and poked their curious faces above their seats. How many thoughts and memories do we keep contained within ourselves alone? This summer Tonya found an onion that had rolled beneath our mammoth kitchen stove, and we set it in the windowsill to let it recover under the long day's light. In its final hour we let the sunlight seep in before we buried it back in the ground. I was glad to be with someone who found this not hockie but sane. If we shed light on the small and the trivial, how much more exigent it seems to bare ourselves.