La Déesse

In the beginning of the First French Republic, many countries challenged the authenticity of this new government and saw it as an opportunity to take over parts of France. Lille was subjected to attack from Austria in 1792. After several days of cannon fire, Lille won the battle.

To commemorate Lille's victory, a statue was erected in the Grand'Place (or la place du Général-de-Gaulle) in 1845. The statue is known as La Déesse (the goddess) because of her mural crown. Her left hand points to an inscription of the Mayor at the time's refusal to surrender the city.


Lillois enjoying the sun while sitting around La Déesse.

She is meant to watch over and protect Lille. She holds in her right hand a boutefeu, a stick with which one ignites a cannon.


A close up on La Déesse and her boutefeu, as well as the top of the tower of the Chambre de Commerce.

Although originally just a column in the middle of the square, La Déesse is now surrounded by a beautiful fountain. She is a meeting place for many a rendez-vous in the city center, as well as big cultural events (like when Lille won La Coupe de France). If you stop by during la rentrée (the return to school) in September, you will often find college freshmen plunging themselves in the fountain.


La Déesse and her fountain in the center of la Grand'Place.

It's a great place to stop, sit, and enjoy the beautiful Flandres architecture that surrounds la Grand'Place. Especially when the weather is nice.

Check it out:
Place du Général-de-Gaulle, otherwise known as la Grand'Place

Comment Dit-on?

One of my family's stories is about my Uncle Gene. Gene studied abroad while he was in college, spending a semester living in Vienna, Austria. When he came back from being abroad, my mother says, he used to flaunt it in everyone’s faces, continually asking, “oh wait… how do you say [insert German word] in English again?”

I would always laugh at how pompous Uncle Gene had been, sure of the fact that he was just being snobby and shoving his German knowledge under everyone’s noses.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I have become Uncle Gene.

Since moving home, I am often times unable to think up a word in English. My sentences no longer flow. I find myself starting a sentence in a way that only makes sense in French.

I’ve been home for quite a while now, and yet I continue to find myself in situations where my brain is unable to come up with an American equivalent of what I want to say.

Sure, when I came home after a semester of studying abroad in Paris I didn’t have this problem, but when I compare my study abroad experience to my uncle’s (I got to Skype home every weekend and spoke English at school; he never got to call home and was immersed in a German university), I say he really did earn the right to forget English words.

And while I still do feel ridiculous and pretentious every time I forget a word in my native language, I know I’m not doing it on purpose or to show off.

It’s made me “rethink” my opinion of my uncle.

Have you moved back home after a long period abroad? How long did it take you to feel like your English was back to Native-Speaker-Normality? It's been 4 months already, brain, get it together!

Wine More Time

While in Bordeaux, I wanted to drink lots of Bordeaux wine. So while at the office du tourisme, I asked for a list of wine bars. FBF and I decided to try one called Wine More Time because it had an awesome name and a view of the grosse cloche (fat clock).


The bar au vin (wine bar).


The view.

We sat down, selected a wine from the list of vin au verre (wines by the glass) and also got the cheese plate.


The menu.

When the man came back with our wine and cheese, he asked us where we were from (no doubt hearing my accent).

When we told him where we were from, it was surprisingly not the girl from California but the boy from le Nord who was the topic of conversation.

“Moi, je suis de Toulouse, qui est aussi plus nord d’ici, mais pas assez au nord que vous!” (I’m from Toulouse, which is north of here, but nowhere near as far north as you!) he told FBF.

“Vous ne buvez pas du vin là bas, non?” (You don’t drink wine up there, do you?) he continued.

FBF confirmed that in le Nord people are more partial to beer than wine.

I then learned a little bit about the opinion the rest of France has towards Lillois.

“Ça c’est parce que vous n’êtes pas les vrais français!” (That’s because you aren’t actually French!) he exclaimed, brimming with pride to be from le Sud (the South).

FBF had the good nature to laugh, but I was taken aback. It's one thing for Americans and other foreigners to view the French as nothing but red wine drinking baguette lovers, but actual French people thinking the same thing? I was astounded.

Then I realized that half the time I tell people about Lille, I talk about how we're more Belgian than French anyway. Maybe all of France knows this, too.

And really, what's so wrong with a having a preference for beer?

Après

In school we’re taught that après means after. After as in subsequent to, for example “after we eat diner, we do the dishes,” and not as in to resemble, for example “he takes after his father.” While that second one is a phrasal verb, when I thesaurus-ed “after” it came up with both.

The French don’t seem to have such a rigid view of the word après, and it took me quite a while to get used to it.

When we first started dating, FBF would often ask me if I wanted to do something après.

To which I would reply, “after… What?”

He would reply with things like, “oh, after we finish eating” or “after the game is over” and would put it into a more concrete context.

But once we were finished with the designated activity, we wouldn’t always do what was supposed to happen après immediately after.

After much frustration and confusion, one day it dawned on me. I had to stop thinking about after quite so literally.

Après when used like this is actually similar to the dreaded American usage of “later.” Later as in some unidentified time in the future, for example "I'll call you later."

Later holds all the annoying flexibility that the French put into the word après.

I wonder if the use of après when said by one's crush in relation to an activity the two of you are going to do together sends French girls into a fit of over-analysis just as "later" did to 14 year old me.

St. Valentin de Loin

Because we are separated by most of France, Spain, the Atlantic Ocean, and probably 44 or so American States, FBF and I sent each other Valentine's Day packages.

FBF was on top of it. He knew what he wanted to give me, packaged it, and took it to La Poste way before I even knew what I wanted to give him. He even sent me photographic evidence of the package being sent away, just to torture me.


Torture.

I finally got around to figuring everything out for him and sent it a little bit late. I was really worried about it getting there in time.

But guess what? My package got there a day early, and his has yet to arrive.

I blame La Poste (because they are evil) and everything being inefficient in France. He blames US customs.

Either way it's Valentine's Day and as if it wasn't already hard enough to be far away from each other, we don't even get to celebrate it in this small way.

Here's to hoping we'll be reunited for next year's St. Valentine.


FBF and I at La Rochelle.
Je t'aime mon amour!

Statue: Mon P'tit Quinquin

In Lille, there is a statue dedicated to the Northern lullaby “P’tit Quinquin” and its author Alexandre Desrousseaux.


Lillois soaking up the sun at the statue dedicated to Desrousseaux and his famous song.

Desrousseaux was a 19th century poet born in Lille who wrote in both French and Ch’ti.

His most well-known and well-loved song is L'canchon Dormoire, more commonly referred to as mon p’tit quinquin. It’s a lullaby that has become Lille's unofficial city anthem.

Here’s the famous refrain (en ch’ti):
Dors min p'tit Quinquin,
Min p'tit pouchin,
Min gros rojin ;
Te m'f'ras du chagrin,
Si te n'dors point j'qu'à d'main.

Which translates to:
Sleep my little baby
My little chick
My fat grape
You will fill my heart with sorrow
If you don’t sleep until the ‘morrow

The statue features the bust of Desrousseaux as well as a woman singing her child to sleep, the embodiment of his famous lullaby.



The lullaby is feautured in Bienvenue Chez Les Ch'tis. When Dany Boon and Kad Merad are drunkenly visiting all the homes along their postal route, an elderly woman sings them this song, bringing them all to tears.

Check it out:
Rue Nationale entrance to square Foch

Le Boudoir

FBF has always gotten a kick out of the things Americans consider French that aren’t French at all. While the French do say “sacre,” they never add the “bleu.” They don’t say ménage-à-trois when speaking about threesomes (a plan-à-trois or a partouse).

The first time I said the word “boudoir,” he didn’t understand what I was talking about. I had assumed he’d know what I was talking about because I had assumed boudoir was a French word. FBF immediately laughed at me. Boudoir, he assured me between chuckles, is not a French word.

The closest thing is bouder; a French verb meaning to pout.

After explaining to him that it means bedroom (and often said in a way that implies all of the things one might do in said bedroom... or maybe that's just me?), he combined the two definitions to create a new one : “une chambre où on vas pour bouder” (a room where we go to pout).

We continued to use the word in that sense for a while, until one fateful day at the beach in Brittany last summer.

Being in Brittany meant I met a whole new slew of FBF’s childhood friends and once again was bombarded by questions about America.

One of his friends is getting her masters in French literature from La Sorbonne. We got to talking about the use of fake French words in English, and I brought up boudoir.

Much to my delight, and FBF’s humiliation, boudoir is in fact a French word! It's a small room originally created for women to have an intimate, private space amongst themselves, similar to a powder room in English (in the “ladies, don’t we all have to powder our noses at the same time?” sense).


An illustration of a boudoir.

In fairness to FBF, it is a dated term originating from the verb bouder, so he was half right. Plus he's a chemist. I doubt he's ever studied the French language dating from the Era of the Sun King in much length.

As this is not the first time he's lead me astray when it comes to translations (like what the pas means in Nord-Pas-de-Calais), I am as much to blame as he is. I really ought to learn my lesson and stop trusting him on matters of his own language.

Do you know of any "French" words we use in English that aren't French at all? Does your French boyfriend continually lead you astray in matters of the French language?

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.

Lannion: Prémières Impressions

My first impressions of Lannion:

Lannion seems to fit the bill for a perfect mediaeval French village as half-timbered jetting houses are in abundance.



The city is on a hill with meandering roads where lots of adorable modern shops occupy old time buildings, making you feel as if you've stepped back in time.






On top of that, there is a lovely tree surrounded park, complete with old stairs that go to nowhere, celtic crosses, and an old out of use church building. I wouldn't have been surprised to discover a fairy circle there.



The city is small and do-able in a day, but what it lacks in size it makes up for in charm.

Versatile and Missing France

Sara Louise at Sara in Le Petit Village has bestowed upon me the Versatile Blogger Award, and for that I am extremely grateful. I love her blog, and if you’re not already reading it you definitely should be. Thanks Sara Louise!




I’ve been home for a month, and instead of 7 things about me I thought I'd do 7 things I already miss about France:

1. Cheap delicious cheese.
My first week back here I decided to make French onion soup for my family. I went to the grocery store with my dad because he wanted help finding the ingredients as he wasn’t sure what a bouillon cube was or where to find the weird sounding cheese I wanted him to buy. We found some gruyere in the fancy cheese section, and I was beyond shocked to discover it cost 11 dollars.

2. Cheap delicious wine.
On the same grocery store trip we stopped by the wines section and once again I was astounded by how expensive the wine is. Even the cheap wine was expensive compared to French prices. Of course you can buy very expensive wine in France as well, but why bother when you’re poor and a 3euro bottle is more than sufficiently delicious?

3. Baguettes.
I knew I’d miss French bread, but what I wasn’t expecting was to no longer like sourdough bread. The whole time I’ve been in France I’ve been claiming I missed it, but I’ve tried to eat sourdough bread toast three times since I’ve been out here, and I can’t handle the bitterness in my mouth.

4. Real Belgian Beer Christmas Brews.
I have seen two giant billboards advertising Stella Artois as a “Christmas beer.” I also had it proposed to me by a bar tender calling it the Christmas beer. In Lille and Belgium, the breweries make special limited addition Christmas brews and sell it only during the holiday season. These bières de noël (Christmas beers) are delicious and I can’t get enough of them during the holidays. Stella is just Stella. Nothing Christmas-y about it. I also miss all the delicious beer in general.

5. Cobblestone and buildings being older than 60 by a long shot.

Place Louise de Bettignies in Lille.

6. Good Public Transit.
I was car-less in France for most of my time there and it never mattered because I could easily walk, metro, or bus to anywhere I wanted to go. That is not the case over here and I have to rely on the generosity of my friends or parents in order to get around.

7. French Télé (TV).
I really did not think I’d miss French TV as there are so many less channels and even fewer programs worth watching, but I miss how their TV is presented. I tried to watch a rerun of How I Met Your Mother over here and I couldn’t handle all the commercials. In France there is usually just one long block of commercials every half hour, instead of having a small amount of commercials every two minutes.
I also miss feeling like I’m accomplishing something while being lazy and watching TV. In France I could always claim I was “practicing my French.” Here I have no excuse.

----------------------------------------------------
And I hereby pass on the Versatile Blogger Award to:
Bread is Pain,
My Peruvian Life is Not a Musical,
Tales from the Chambre de Bonne, and
The Perpetual Passenger.