Normal conversation

While still on the job hunt, I was discussing the different interviews I had been on in France with my brother. I had gone to job interviews at eight different companies at this point, and at most of these, I was offered a beverage (coffee/tea/water) at the very beginning of the interview.

At interview #8, however, no such offer was made. Eventually, after about an hour of interviewing, the interviewer asked me if I would like to go join everyone for le pause café.

Several employees were enjoying their mid-morning coffee break, and I was able to join in on everyday conversations and really get a feel for the place.

After agreeing that it is an interesting interview tactic, as it allows the employer to observe the interviewee in a social setting, and it allows the interviewee the opportunity to see if they’d be a good fit, my brother asked me, “well, what did you guys talk about?”

“Oh, you know, just normal stuff… mostly about vineyards, different wine producing regions, and champagne caves.”

“Normal? ...that is so French!”

I hadn’t even noticed.


Visiting champagne caves in Reims!

Les Lascars

At the beginning of my time here, I felt like I had two very different personalities, my American one and my French one. My French personality was shy, and I am definitely not shy.

I am outgoing, friendly and confident. I am pretty much all up in your face with my opinions.

But something about not being able to speak the language as well as I would’ve liked changed me in ways I didn’t like. I didn’t say anything when I saw people littering. I didn’t speak up when I heard people make sexist or racist or anti-gay comments.

I lost a little bit of myself in trying to make new French friends and speak French well and be French.

Back in March, FBF and I were walking home from a house party in Lille. It was late, around 3am, and we took rue Solferino, the main bar and club street, on our way back to my studio.

I saw a girl crying, surrounded by 5 guys, 4 of whom were dressed in France’s version of gangster attire: colorful sporting shoes, puffy jackets, and hoodies.

At first I kept on walking, even though in the US I would never have allowed that to happen. I would have made sure the girl was okay. I realized this and I made a decision.

I wasn’t going to let my inability to speak French perfectly let this girl be taken advantage of by a bunch of up-to-no-good guys.

I turned around, walked right up to the group of them, looked at the girl, and said, “ça va?” (Are you okay?)

She kept on crying while one of the gangsters replied, “oui ça va, pourquoi ça va pas? On fait rien.” (She’s fine, why wouldn’t she be? We’re not doing anything.)

So I looked him in the eyes and I said, “je vois une fille qui pleure avec 5 mecs autour d’elle et je veux être sûre que ça va.” (I see a girl who’s crying with five guys around her and I just want to be sure she’s okay)

They immediately started back pedaling. “On fait rien. Allez, appellez les policiers! On fait rien du tout!” (We’re not doing anything. Feel free to call the cops! We’re not doing anything wrong).

Although they claimed to be doing nothing wrong, after my intervention, they decided that their time would be best spent elsewhere. After a minute there was just one guy with the girl, and he wasn’t dressed in gangster clothes. He seemed to be the friend who was comforting her. I asked a final, “ça va?” and the girl nodded her head.

Having done my part to make sure everything was okay, I walked away feeling better about my life here. I hadn’t let my limited language skills inhibit me from doing what was right.

Although my American personality has been shining through in my French life more and more as time passes, this final test really cemented it in my mind.

I could be both.

Of course living abroad changes you and presents you with challenges you could never have dreamt up if you had chosen to live at home, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have the best of both worlds. I can speak French, eat cheese, and still stand up for what I believe is right by approaching random gangster looking guys to make sure a fellow woman isn’t being taken advantage of.

I can still be American Laura, even when I’m speaking French.

"..." ou «...»

I had been hearing, and using, the expression “entre gemey” without ever seeing it written or knowing what it literally meant. To me, people used it when expressing doubt, similar to how Americans use supposedly. Since I wasn’t 100% confident about its meaning, I didn’t use it all the time, but I did feel like I understood it enough to not have to ask what it meant when used in context.

This summer a revelation happened between me and this phrase.

La Soeur’s step kids (11 & 9) were camping with us, and were being forced to do dictées. A dictée is when the students are read a small paragraph, and are expected to copy it down without any spelling or grammatical errors.

FBF wanted to be the one to read to them in order to gloat about no longer being in elementary school and having his dictée-days behind him. He read the paper out loud and I followed along. It soon became apparent that FBF was not a very good dictée reader, as he would forget to tell them when a sentence was finished, or what type of punctuation to write. After being scolded a couple of times by the 9 year old, he finally got it together. On the third reading, he was telling them all the punctuation a person could need; point (period), virgule (comma), point d’interogation (question mark), etc.

Part of the dictée was a quotation, and I was eager to learn what this particular punctuation is called in French. FBF said it, and suddenly a light bulb went off in my head.

Ladies and Gentlemen, quotation marks are called “gemeys,” spelled guillemets, in French.

“Comme entre guillemets!” I exclaimed, barely able to contain my excitement of figuring out another piece of the puzzle which is the French language.

I’ve now added a very American action to when I say entre guillemets. I make quotation mark signs with my pointer and middle finger, regardless of the fact that while American quotation marks look like this “ “, French ones look like this « ». Maybe I should be turning my hands sideways instead?


What should be France's version of air quotes.

Directions

When I studied abroad in Paris back in 2007 it was the highlight of my trip, the proof beyond all else that I had managed to fool everybody and seem French, when somebody would ask me for directions. This happened a total of three times and I was elated after each instance.

Even if I never knew the way, I still felt in. I was being confused for a Parisienne. All my hard work had paid off. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t memorized everything in city in 4 months. I was being asked for directions.

Living in the heart of Lille and walking everywhere these past two years means that I know my way around town even better than FBF (in all fairness, he does live in the suburbs).

So when an elderly lady stopped me in the middle of the street to ask me for directions, I was feeling pretty confident. She asked me if I knew how to get to Aux Merveilleux, a pastry shop famous for it’s own creation called a merveilleux.

And as luck would have it, I did know where it was. I could have easily walked there from where she had stopped me. Feeling very French, I started to respond, only to realize that despite being able to get there myself, I was not going to be any help to a lost stranger. I do not know any street names.

In the panic of not being able to be any help whatsoever, I answered her, “hien… bon tu vas par là, et je suis desolée mais je ne connais pas les noms des rues, alors…. Tu continues par cette rue là et puis… en fait, est-ce que tu connais la rue de la monnaie?” (Umm.. well you take this road, and I’m sorry but I don’t know street names, so….. you continue down this street and then.. actually do you know rue de la monnaie?)

While she answered that she did in fact know where rue de la monnaie is, I realized a second huge mistake I had made when talking to a stranger, especially one who is older than me. I had been tu-ing her.

I corrected my mistake and vous-ed her for the rest of our short interaction, saying simply, “Alors vous vont aller jusqu’au rue de la monnai et puis vous prendrez à gauche. Après un moment, vous allez y arriver” (So go until you hit rue de la monnai and then turn left. After walking a bit you’ll get there).

She thanked me and went on her merry way.

Before when I got asked for directions I was on cloud nine, even if all I could mumble back in reply was “Je ne sais pas… desolée” with a very American accent.

This time getting asked for directions crushed my sense of Frenchness. After being here for two years I still couldn’t tell somebody how to get somewhere? And even worse, I didn’t remember to use vous?

I continued my day disappointed in my abilities. But my embarrassment served a greater purpose.

A few weeks later a woman who looked to be in her thirties stopped me on the street to ask me for directions to an Indian restaurant. To my surprise, not only did I know how to get there, but it was close enough to describe it without using street names. After remembering my mistake with the old lady, I made sure to use vous.

She thanked me while starting to follow my directions, and I continued on my original path feeling ever so Lilloise this time around.

Mon Anniv'

I turned 24 on Sunday!


Me and the number twenty-four in a super secret location! Hint: location disclosed in the next two paragraphs.

To celebrate this momentous occasion FBF surprised me with a weekend trip to Reims, the city where champagne comes from.

He took me to Taittinger champagne house, where we took a tour of their caves (cellars) and got to learn how champagne is made. At the end of it we got a taste of the delicious stuff.


The wall surrounding the Taittinger champagne house.

We then proceeded to drink more champagne. We found a café right in front of the Cathédral Notre-Dame de Reims, where the kings of France were crowned, and sipped on our glasses while enjoying the beautiful view.


The perfect view for enjoying a glass of champagne: the Cathédral Notre-Dame de Reims.

Then we went to yet another café to drink yet another glass of bubbly. This time our drinks came with a surprise aperitif of French fries.

For my birthday dinner we went to a delicious fondue restaurant, where I proceeded to eat more than my weight in melted cheese. It was heaven.

The next morning I woke up and opened a birthday package from my best friend. It came with a tiara (complete with rhinestones and a fuzzy, purple feather boa-type lining) and a hot pink birthday girl pin/ribbon. I proudly sported both while FBF and I hit up Reims’ monuments and received all sorts of funny looks from the French.


Me and my tiara being tourists all over the city of Reims!

Lunch in the city came with, of course, a glass of champagne, and after seeing all the sites we headed back home for little ol’ Lille.

All in all, it was the perfect way to turn twenty-four. Can it get any better than lots of champagne, tiaras, and travel? I think not.

Ma Meilleure Journée

Ever wonder how I found my fabulous studio apartment in Lille?

Wait no longer!

Lindsey over at Greetings From The American Girl asked me to describe my meilleure journée (best day), or, as she sees it, an Ah-ha moment, while living in France.

I told the tale of finding my new digs.


Where I Live (Please don't stalk me).

Discover the entire adventure on my guest post over at Greetings From The American Girl.

En Disant Au Revoir

I am no longer an English language assistant. I said goodbye to my students all throughout the week, and I said au revoir to my colleagues on Friday.

What is it about saying goodbye that makes you really feel a part of something?

While the other teachers were nice to me all year and made an effort to get to know me, and some of them I even saw outside of school or had great conversations with in the teacher’s lounge, I always felt a bit a part.

This was partly because of the age differences, partly because they already knew each other so well, partly because I was only going to be there for a short time, and partly because it was my second year as an assistant, so I already had a group of friends outside of the school thus making me less clingy towards the English teaching staff.

But on my last day there, the English teachers I worked with presented me with a card full of “mercies” and well wishes, as well as some gifts.

It was totally unexpected. It was so nice of them.

I loved all the gifts (a Paris t-shirt and two French novels that take place in le Nord).

I went around and faire-d la bise with them all (as is the polite way to say merci to someone after they give you a gift). I even gave the fellow American teacher an American hug.

Then when it was time to leave, everybody wanted goodbye bises (cheek kisses) as well.

I had honestly never felt more a part of the group than in that moment. It was great to know how much they appreciated my work and that they liked having me around.

Although I was ready to be done with having to wake up at 5am in order to catch the train to get to work on time, saying goodbye to the wonderful teachers I met while being an assistant made me wish I could stay till the end of the year.

With a lot of them, it was the first time we had ever faire-d la bise, and due to the French in me, it made me feel like a boundary had been broken between us. I was no longer their English assistant. I was becoming a friend.

All of them expressed a desire to keep in touch, and I really hope we do.

I hope it really was an au revoir (until we meet again) and not an "adieu.”

Vieux-Lille

On a rare sunny day in little old Lille
I explored mon coin
(my neighborhood)

Since mostly it's gray here
I took to the street
To enjoy le Nord with our maisons briques

Une Voiture

Almost every day I walk the five or so minutes to my new favorite bakery. I usually admire the architecture of Vieux-Lille, peek into the windows of the vintage shops, and people watch on my way over. However, between my apartment and the boulangerie, there is a stretch of street that doesn’t have a lot going for it.

It was while I was walking down this part of the street that I noticed a car and this thought popped into my head, “you know, these cars are rather big cars!”

This is the car that I walked by:


A Mini Cooper!!

I then laughed at myself. Mini coopers are not big cars! They are absolutely tiny cars. My best friend got one for her 16th birthday, and it was the tiniest car I’d ever been in. Yes, we did manage to squeeze in 8 people one day and drive around the neighborhood (including my then boyfriend in the nonexistent trunk), but we weren’t comfortable all in there!

Plus, she has a bunch of stories of having almost-accidents because people don’t see her in their regular sized cars (and forget about people noticing her who are driving SUVs).

But here was this exact same car, parked along the classic route I take to the boulangerie, and it was one of the bigger cars there! I had actually questioned the use of the word Mini in its title, just for an instant.

With this unsolicited thought about the large size of a car I once considered itty-bitty, I felt a little more French for the rest of the walk to the boulangerie and back.

Quatre-vingt dix

FBF and I got up before the sun rose in order to go to school or work, respectively. It was one of the days where our schedules matched (because for some reason going to University in France does not give you a consistent time table), so he was giving me a ride to the train station.

We took the autoroute (freeway) and I was mindlessly looking out the window. Within a couple of minutes, we were presented with the panneau de limitation de vitesse (speed limit sign). And while the sign held two numbers (chiffres), a nine and a zero, instead of thinking “ninety” as I do most of the time when presented with digits, I thought “quatre-vingt dix.”

Thinking in French without even trying ever so early in the morning has left me with one conclusion: clearly they were right in driver's ed, and driving while intoxicated is the same as driving with fatigue. Since everybody knows you speak a foreign language better while drunk.

Mon Chien à Brugges

After enjoying delicious and strong Belgian beer at ‘T Brugs Beertje, FBF and I went out to do some more exploring. Since he was driving us home that night, we decided to have mid-afternoon beer so he’d be completely sober by the time we went home. There is something about day drinking that I think makes one more drunk without the ability to realize just how much effect the alcohol has had. I was in such a case.

My Barbar, while delicious and honey filled, was not only strong in flavor, but also alcohol content. My 33cl bottle contained 8% alcohol per volume. I was not alone in my enjoyment of a rather potent Belgian beer. FBF ordered a Malheur, which contains 10% alcohol per volume. Needless to say, we were feeling the effects of the alcohol, even if we thought we weren’t.


FBF's Malheur.

We were walking the streets enjoying the general splendor of ancient Belgian buildings, when I saw a man walking a dog. It wasn’t just any dog, however. It was a pug dog. My family has a pug, named Buster, and one of the things I missed from home was my dog. Naturally, I got excited to see another one of his kind walking about in Brugge.

Before I knew it, I had gotten out my camera and had started talking to the man.

“Excusez-moi monsieur? Est-ce que je peux prendre une photo de votre chien?” (Excuse me sir? Can I take a picture of your dog?) I asked.

“Oui! Biensûr,” (Yes! Of course) he replied.

“Oh merci! J’ai un chien comme ça aussi chez moi, et il me manqué trop! Ils sont trop mimis les chiens comme ça!” (Oh thank you! I have a dog like this one at my house and I miss him! Dogs like them are really adorable!)

Like all good pugs, this one was a poser as well, and looked at me ready for his picture to be taken. I took the picture, thanked the man again, and was suddenly surprised at the ease of which French had fallen out of my mouth to grant me permission to take a picture of a French Belgian pug dog.

Les Deux Chiens: Buster and his Belgian cousin!

My new Belgian friend.


Buster!! The cutest pug in the world!! (Apparently the first picture wasn't cute enough)


I’d like to thank liquid courage, as well as Buster, for giving me the opportunity to speak French to strangers and making me feel French, even if I happened to be in Belgium at the time.

Plaques de Muselet

Tonight I went with Laurence, the mom of the two kids I tutor, to an exposition at La Piscine in Roubaix. When we got to the musée, Laurence asked one of the guides if she could recount for an American some facts about the museum. She said, "Ah oui, mais en français." We told her that would do.

So I learned that back in the early 1900s, Roubaix was a thriving industrial city, known for textile manufacturing. During this time, there weren't a lot of good hygiene practices, and tuberculosis and other diseases ran rampant. The city decided to make a public bathhouse to help reduce the spread of disease. This pool fell into disrepair, and then became a museum in the 90s.

The old pool part of the museum was gorgeous. But our tour wasn't of the pool. Instead it was of the new exposition called "conversation anglaise: le groupe de bloomsbury autour de virginia woolf." We had the same tour guide, who was exceptional. She was extremely passionate about the exposition and knew a lot about all the different artists and artworks. The love lives of all the people who were involved in the Bloomsbury house were extremely complicated. I was surprised to find that I was able to follow most of what she was saying when I really listened to her. Sometimes I found myself distracted by certain paintings and would lose myself in thought, but that made it all the better. The entire experience was truly remarkable. I loved feeling like I blended in with all the other French people, listening to the tour guide while at the same time taking time out to appreciate the paintings. What are the French if not lovers of art?

After the tour of the exposition, we went to the lobby where we enjoyed free champagne, appetizers, and bite sized desserts. I met some of Laurence's friends and we all talked about the expo and why I was in France.

One of Laurence's friends asked the bartender if he could have something I didn't understand. Then, he suddenly had in his hand a really cool coin sized cap with a seal that said, "Champagne Joël Gobancé." I said to him, "Wow! That's really cool!" So he asked the bartender to give me one.

Apparently these things are called "plaques de muselet," and the French collect them. He said to me, "Now you can start your own collection like the French do."

I had stumbled upon the fact that once the art has been appreciated, the champagne drunk, and the desserts tasted, what the French take home with them are tiny caps from the tops of wine bottles to remember it all. Merci Joël Gobance for enabling me to never forget such a lovely soirée. Hopefully your cap is my first of many!

Bakélite

Having decided to further integrate myself into my French life, I swapped out my Kurt Vonnegut book for a French book I found in my studio, called Un secret, to entertainment myself during my 50+ minute commute to and from school.

On the way home yesterday, the tram was crowded and I was forced to stand. After a few stops, however, a man exited, leaving his middle seat vacant. Sitting down, I pulled out my book and attempted to comprehend a french novel. A couple of minutes passed when the french man sitting next to me, who I was about to discover was reading over my shoulder, said, "excusez-moi?"

I turned to looked at him and said, "oui?"
"What does 'bakélite' mean?"
"Oh, I don't know."
"Oh okay," he answered, sounding a little disappointed.
"Actually, I was wondering the same thing," I said, proud of carrying on an impromptu French conversation.

A few uneventful moments later, I got up to leave, when I heard the same man say, "but I haven't finished reading it yet!" We exchanged smiles and a quiet chuckle.

I looked up bakélite when I got home. It means bakelite, which was no help at all. According to the Oxford American Dictionary, bakelite is "an early form of brittle plastic, typically dark brown, ... cheifly used for electrical equipment." The author was describing the dog's eye color. Knowing I wouldn't have understood it even in English, being mistaken for a french girl feels like less of a mistake.