The Days of Wine and Roses

Et alors. I think I should retitle my entire blog to "The Stupid Things I Say In French." The most recent was when a group on international students went out to a creperie (I can't do accents on this computer, but there are some) on Saturday. After enjoying some delicious food we strolled around the centre-ville shopping area. We stopped in Sephora, a perfume boutique. By the time we reached this shop, all the non-English-speaking girls had departed, so my compadres and I were jabbering in English, drawing attention from the salespeople and other patrons. As we were exiting the store, one of the British girls and I were discussing how one might buy a perfume simply for the look rather than the smell. I held up a bottle shaped a little like an apple, with a green perfume inside. "Like this one," I said, "just because I like green!" My voice rose about three octaves during that sentence and I got a bubble in my throat, so the whole thing came out sounding like a bad imitation of Ms. Piggy. The salesman was standing about a foot away from me, and gave me a funny look, so I decided to translate for him. What went on in my mind was J'aime bien le vert=I like green. What happened was that I put the bottle back on the shelf, gave the guy a brilliant smile, and said in French "I like the greens!" then marched out of the store.

Even simple things like doing laundry can completely throw me off course. It took me about ten minutes to figure out how to start the washing machine in the laundromat, then five more minutes to realize that at 4 euros per load, I had nowhere near enough change to pay for all the laundry I needed done. Thankfully I now have clean sheets and underwear, so I'm set for the day, but I'll have to go back later in order to have clean clothes for the rest of the week. School is back in session for all the French university students, and they smoke a lot more than the French I had encountered during the previous weeks. So now, though neither I nor Mme Rey smoke, all my clothes smell like smoke. So lavomatique, here I come, armed with twice the amount of change I had last night.

Some days, usually the days when I haven't said anything idiotic to a French person, I begin to feel like a part of this envrionment. For instance, today after I bought a Viennoise sandwich (think sandwich on a baguette with mayonnaise and butter. Delicious, but oh, my arteries) and an Orangina I headed to the Jardin du Mail, a public park that I walk through on my way to school. I sat in the park listening to jazz, eating and writing in my journal, taking the occasional picture, feeding a lone pigeon who, after discovering I had nothing more to feed it, simply sat down by my feet.

I'm getting kicked off the computer, so I'll have to postpone the rest until a later time.

Ah, Technology. Oh, French.

Last Sunday I noticed a strange crackling noise coming from the area near the laptop, and when I investigated I noticed that the power cord had twisted and frayed right at the point where it connected to the computer. When I attempted to twist it back to normal, it sparked and smoked a little. So I disconnected the power cord and left a message on my brother's phone, telling him to order another one for me, stat. Amazing how attached one can get to technology. I have been without a calendar, very near without media (thank goodness for the iPod), without liberal Internet access, and have no way to add pictures to this blog. It has been torture, no lies. What to do, what to do? I can't access my Westminster email from these stupid French computers, the keyboards are all weird, and I can't watch movies (I'd been renting French movies to see if I could build up my comprehension. Don't think it worked, but the movies were pretty entertaining). I tried to go see about ordering a replacement power cord from a local electronics store, but I couldn't understand what the man was saying and there were some people waiting behind me, so I just said "No, thank you," and left.

I've come to the conclusion that I seem rude to a lot of people because I don't have the vocabulary to be polite. For instance, some guy approached me on my way to a class and was asking for who knows what. Something about joining an organization, and there was money involved; I didn't have the time to sit there and ask for him to speak more slowly, and I didn't want to give him money anyways, so I just said "No, thanks. Good day," and walked off. I couldn't think fast enough to give a good explanation, so I just came off as abrupt. Or weird. Like when I went shopping and tried to tell the next lady in line that I was finished using the dressing room. Rather than "J'ai fini," or "I'm done," what actually came out of my mouth was "Je suis fini." Translation: "I'm dead." The lady gave me a little smile, like I just attempted to make a really bad joke about the pressures of shopping, or she could tell I was foreign by my accent, but she seemed to understand that the dressing room was no longer occupied. Success?

And for my last completely random note, what is it about seeing people urinating in parks that strips them of their environmental poetry? The last time I went jogging I ran around to the side entrance of the Jardin des Plantes, and there was a guy standing off the side of the path, urinating into the bushes. I had to chuckle, because the past took me right past and around him so he had to keep turning to avoid exposing himself to me. The encounter took about five seconds, but it was just so absurd that it's stuck in my memory ever since. I've also seen it late at night, after a festival and there were a whole bunch of drunk people stumbling around, and once when I got lost and cut through a park to get back on the main road. That guy was a little more discreet, and had taken his stance behind a sizeable topiary, but I saw him nonetheless. Parks are supposed to evoque a sense of tranquility, of communion with nature, etc. Not memories of people who can't wait till they get to a bathroom to go. Then again, maybe that's how those three men felt they could best commune with nature. I didn't ask them.

Faire du Jogging, Take II

Yesterday I went jogging again, and though I'm pretty sure that no one yelled at me again (they might have, but I turned my music up pretty loud) I did manage to get lost. I ran around, and ran around, and it started to rain, and I had my iPod in my bra and was really afraid that it was going to get ruined. Finally these guys in a maintenance garage urged me to take cover. In the five minutes I stood next to them, and with all that they Frenched at me, I was able to respond two ways: "Je ne comprends pas," and "merci." And I laughed a lot to cover up the fact that even when they started to speak a little English I still couldn't understand them. They teased me a lot, complimented my smile (French men, it would seem, flirt with women no matter what their age), and smelled like grease. Finally the rain let up a bit, I thanked them again (one of my favorite responses) and ran off. By the time I got back to the appartment, my thirty-minute jog had turned into an hour's worth of city scenery and sweat, and by the time I stopped I could literally feel the blood pounding through my leg veins. The next time I decide to go running I will probably stuff a map somewhere on my person, or at least plan my route ahead of time. Sure, the French mechanics were friendly, but it was still awkward.

The Roundabout

Permit me to give you a little taste of what it is like to sign up for classes here at UCO. In principal, all one has to do is show up to the classes you want to take on the first day and tell the professor that you're going to be there for the rest of the semester. In actuality, one goes to information sessions about the institutes and the departments they encompass, leaves more confused than when one began, then is told that one cannot view the schedule or location of classes until later in the week. Later in the week one might visit the institute secretary's office to ask for "l'emploie du temps," or the schedule, only to be told that one must find the department secretary. One goes to the department secretary to find that she only works in the morning, and so one returns the following morning to find that on Wednesdays, a lot of French mothers do not work because there is no school on Wednesdays, or something like that.

One might also attempt to find a schedule for other departments, such as history or music, only to find that certain courses do not meet every week, but the dates when the course does meet are nowhere to be found. One asks a French student what one must do to find the information, and he cannot understand the inquiry because of one's thick American accent. Finally, he sends one to the institute secretary who is not very accommodating and becomes visibly frustrated when one cannot understand her rapid French. And so, one hopes that by the time Monday rolls around one can find the elusive secretary, not miss one's first day of classes (which all begin at different times, perhaps some this week), and perhaps even have a preliminary schedule for the next semester, but it is likely that one hopes in vain.
I hope you liked the taste of that better than I do.


Also, a brief note about Skype, about which I was so excited. It's more of a gripe about the users than the program itself. When I am connected to the internet I leave Skype on, just in case someone I know chances to be on at the same time. However, I did not realize that Skype also serves as an international IM service. I have gotten messages every day from single young men in all different countries (Morocco, China, India, Venezuela, Switzerland, to name a few) asking to be my friend, if I'm single and if I want a boyfriend. Now, call me old-fashioned, but I just prefer to form romantic relationships with people I can see. When I get a message from mmJkaaa, a young single Cambodian, asking if I have a boyfriend and if he can be mine, it's not difficult for me to turn him down.

Okay, I'll admit it. Sometimes it's just fun to mess with someone who's trying to start an IM flirtation session, especially when that person's first language is not English. I've only done it a couple of times, but it's just so darn easy to pretend I don't know what these people are talking about, the poor fools. The following is an actual Skype chat conversation in which I indulged when I was bored earlier. This kid is from Saudi Arabia, has one thing on his mind, and ought to be ashamed of himself. I did take some liberties with my relationship status, but for right now I am married to Jesus, so I figure it counts. I haven't edited it, but you'll understand better the ridiculousness of Skype chatting thanks to the uncensored state.

9/13/06 11:49 AM
mohamed barakat
hi

Laurel Ryan
hola

mohamed barakat
how r u

Laurel Ryan
glech, alright I suppose. I'm attempting to sign up for classes.

mohamed barakat
can we b frindes

Laurel Ryan
sure

...
Won't you be my neighbor?

mohamed barakat
how old r u

Laurel Ryan
over 20

...
under 25

mohamed barakat
r u mmarried

Laurel Ryan
No, but not single

mohamed barakat
u have boyfriend

Laurel Ryan
sure do

mohamed barakat
u [insert heart icon] him

Laurel Ryan
of course I heart him. Why else would he be my boyfriend?

mohamed barakat
can h be u boyfriend

Laurel Ryan
h? what?

mohamed barakat
nevermind

...
u love sex

Laurel Ryan
that's a little personal, don't you think?

mohamed barakat
i want to know

Laurel Ryan
Why?

mohamed barakat
as iformation

Laurel Ryan
nope. not telling.

mohamed barakat
r u beutiful?

Laurel Ryan
Inside and out.

mohamed barakat
inside?

...
what means

Laurel Ryan
I have a beautiful personality. And my organs are very good-looking.

mohamed barakat
can i see

Laurel Ryan
My organs?

...
Or my personality?

mohamed barakat
yes

Laurel Ryan
That was an either/or question.

mohamed barakat
u organs

Laurel Ryan
That would be a little difficult, seeing as how I like to keep them on the inside. But trust me, I have a gorgeous set of lungs. And my liver is sparkling clean.

mohamed barakat
i mean sexual organs

Laurel Ryan
That's not what I was talking about. But no, they stay on the inside of my body, too.

mohamed barakat
u have photo

Laurel Ryan
Of my innards? Negative. I'm not sure I want to see them. And plus, x-rays are expensive.

mohamed barakat
i want to see u extrnal

Laurel Ryan
Sorry, no can do.

mohamed barakat
why

Laurel Ryan
I have a phobia

Laurel Ryan
I'm going to go eat lunch now. Bye.


Seriously, I am going to go eat lunch now. Bye.

Faire du Jogging

I'm sore. I've already talked about the shin splints, but yesterday I decided that it would be a good idea to go for a jog. Leaving my apartment building, seen at the right (and no, I can't pick out my apartment in this picture). While waiting for the trusty iPod to load I opted to do some sit-ups, making it to about 20 by the end of three songs. I know, I'm a beast.

At last, the iPod is fully charged and I have a playlist specifically for my exercise. I jog down the stairs, out the door, and around the corner to the Jardin des Plates, or for ye non-French-speakers, The Plant Garden. It's original. I run through the park, discovering a little bit more of it as I go (there are goats, ducks, two types of geese, and several parrots kept in the garden. Odd, but it's something to see). Though I'm not the only person exercising in the park, people seem to stare a bit more at me when I go past, and one man even laughs and says "Cours!" or "Run!" and I tried to smile but it came out as more of a grimace, seeing as how I was already out of breath. Note: It was very unusual that he even acknowledged my presence, so maybe I was breathing extra hard or something like that.

After I tour the park about three times I jog (and by that I mean I walk about half the distance) to UCO, around the campus, then back to the apartment. My legs feel like jelly, and today not only are my legs sore, but my back is killing me. I don't understand it.

On a completely different note, I'm about to go find out which level of French class I will be in for the rest of the semester. This should be interesting. I'll let you know how the revelation goes.

2:45 pm
I checked. I'm in the dummy class.

Le Quatrieme Jour

Firstly, I would like to clear a few myths about the French:
1) France is not dirty, at least not any dirtier than would would expect with so many people in such a small space.
2) The French are actually very helpful, specially if you sit in their seat on the train and then they tell you that you have the wrong seat, but you don't understand them and then have to tell them to speak more slowly, then they start speaking broken English for your sake and you think they're telling you to wait outside the car, so you go fiddle with your luggage until they come and get you and explain that you can sit anywhere you want, but if someone has a reserved seat you have to give it up to them. Then they help you get your massive amount of luggage off the train because you look so young and lost, and you drop your suitcase on your toe again and nearly break it.
3) Not all French folks take wine with their meals, nor do they all smoke. My landlady, for instance, has said that she does not like to drink, and she does not smoke. In fact, I have seen fewer people smoking here than on the Westminster campus, and half of those people have been either German or Japanese.

Today I wore a t-shirt out and about, and never have I gotten more stares from the average passer-by. If women wear t-shirts here they're cute and fitted, so there's no better way to scream "I'm American!" than to wear a faded, loose cotton t-shirt.

Good news, all. I have a Skype account, laurel12685, at which you can call me. So please, call me at a reasonable hour, keeping in mind that I am 7 hours ahead. I'm insanely jealous of the other international students who still can use thier cell phones in France ("Call me later if you want to come out with us. Oh, no cell phone? Too bad."), but one way or the other I'll work around it. I would find the group of cell phone-enabled students. Also, I'm not the fat American, as I anticipated. There are several other Americans who fatter than I. And they consistently speak English, so they stick out like sore thumbs. Hah. Then again, the Germans do the same, though they tend to be a bit mor trim in their physique. But I'm not worried, since it takes my short legs 20 minutes to get to and from school, and though I've some wicked shin splints I anticipate a massive increase in leg muscle and endurance by the end of the semester.

Jet lag has displayed itself in funny ways. I can sleep and wake when I want/need to, but I tend to take really long naps in the middle of the day, such as from 4-10, or 2-7:30. I've missed supper twice becuase I've been sleeping. It's extremely disorienting.

I would also love to speed up my learning process, because every time I try to tell a funny story to Mme Rey, my landlady, I end up lapsing into silence because I can't translate fast enough or actually enough. However, there are a bunch of American students sitting around me, using their laptops as well, and their accents and their vocabulary are worse than mine, so I feel a little bit better. It's easy to tell who's American by their accents, or because they say "uh" when they are at a loss for words. I'm trying to avoid them, because I'll be thinking in French, speaking French, then the Americans cluster and I forget how to speak French. Curse you, fellow Americans in Angers. Curse you.

Well, it's time for me to find some food, stock up on groceries for breakfast (which will be interesting), and find a darn birthday card for my brother. For the life of me, I cannot find one. But au revoir, mes amis, et n'oublie pas à prier pour moi.