Happy Birthday to Us

The French word for birthday is anniversaire, which makes "happy birthday" bon anniversaire (good birthday) or joyeuse anniversaire (joyous birthday).

However, when you start talking about wedding anniversaries, things get confusing.

Last night before leaving work, I was looking at a calendar and mentioned to my colleague that my anniversaire de marriage was today. He understood well that it was not my birthday, and I was pleased with myself for having successfully communicated my point.

Then when I came into the office today, he looked up at me and said "Happy Birthday!"

I smiled and said "Oh no, it's not my anniversaire. It's the anniversaire of my marriage."

"I know. I understood. Happy birthday! Doesn't that work?"

"errr…no. You see, 'birth' is naissance, and 'day' is the date. Birthday. This isn't my birthday."

"Oh. So what should I say?"

"How about 'Happy Anniversary'?"

"Bon anniversaire? But that's what you say for an anniversaire."

Uhh....forget it.

Partons Vite

For as long as Wally has been trying to trying to impress the French language into my life (roughly 4 years now), he has stressed the importance of listening to French music. His argument is that by listening to French bands, I will enjoy learning new vocabulary and will hear the proper pronunciation.

"How do you think I learned English?" he asked. "Guns 'N' Roses".

It came up again a few weeks ago when I had Wally and Benoit over for dinner. While Wally pondered a French band that I might enjoy, (and he would approve of...which leaves very few options), I shot holes in his plan.

"What am I going to learn from French music, anyway?" I asked. "Nothing but 'je t'aime', 'je t'aime'. I don't need that stuff." In the country of love, what else could they sing about? I do have one Edith Piaf CD, and that's all she seems to have to say.

But I'm not a completely lost cause. A few months ago, when Dave and I were in Saturn, the French equivalent of a Best Buy, trying out computer speakers, I heard a catchy French song. As Dave turned different sets of speakers on and off, I ran to each one, trying to catch some of the words. All I could really hear was "mon coeur", which is "my heart", and pretty darned useless when one is Google searching lyrics.

Some months later, on another trip to Saturn, I heard it again. Again, I strained to hear the lyrics, and this time I could only catch "mon dieu" (my God), which is also pretty difficult to narrow down. I even ran around the store a bit, looking for an employee to tell me the name of the song. Of course, trying to get any help in a store in France - for something you want to buy, let alone the name of a song - is useless.

And then on Tuesday morning, after I had dropped David off at work and was cruising along the quiet country roads to Meru, I found myself humming along to a familiar song on the radio. Mon coeur, mon coeur, etc. It was my song! And this time, I managed to catch a few more words, to get a full line: "Evidemment, tu es mon coeur". Obviously, you are my heart. Well that's just plain cute. Maybe I could like French music after all.

Once in the office, I Googled the line. Google gave me nothing, but proposed an alternative: "Evidemment, tu l'aime encore." Could I have been that wrong in my understanding? I clicked on the link and confirmed the other key lyrics, "mon dieu, mon dieu". I'd found my song!

The name is "Partons Vite" (roughly "Let's Go Quick"), by Kaolin (and right now Wally is cringing).

So, to show you just how bad my French comprehension is, the real line, "Evidemment, tu l'aime encore" does not mean "Obviously, you are my heart," but "Obviously, you still love him".

Wow. French music just went from cute to tragic.

Audrey (see also: Benoit's wife) once told me that all French movies are about the same thing: two people in love who can't be together. Well it seems that their music is along the same lines. Now that I knew that it wasn't all cutesy lovey stuff, I downloaded the song and printed the lyrics. I have been listening to it obsessively for the past two days, and am happy to be learning how to say the words properly.

Unfortunately, having seen the lyrics and listened to them a few dozen times, I've realized that the rest of the song is pretty cutesy. But now I know how to pronounce "Dance in my arms", "I want to listen to your heart", and of course, "Je t'aime".

Partons Vite

Sex and the Village

Disclaimer: this post is about going to see a movie. The blog remains PG.

A few weeks ago, a group of my female colleagues decided that we should all see the Sex and the City movie together. Normally, I would have reserved this movie to see with my friends Katie and Virginia, but being 6000 miles away from them I was happy to have any girls at all to see it with.

Well, when scheduling conflicts were all worked out, only three of us could make it. Caroline looked up the movie times online and we headed to L'Isle Adam after work on Friday evening.

I think I've mentioned L'Isle Adam before - a charming village about 20 minutes from work and trendy place to live in the countryside. We ate a quick sushi dinner, and walked to the edge of town to the theater. It was then that I had the brilliant idea to ask, "This movie is V.O. (version originale...i.e. in the original language with subtitles), right?"

Dilek asked the ticket seller, who looked at us like we were out of our minds. No, of course not; it's dubbed. Ohhh nooooo. All this time I've waited to see this movie and I won't even be able to understand the dialogue.

Most films in Paris are V.O., and I had hoped that the chic little village of L'Isle Adam would have a similar practice. I briefly considered pitching the whole idea and going home, but then I decided to be a sport about it. At least I could complain about it on the blog later. And here I am.

So in we went, and after turning over our tickets we walked into literally the tiniest theater I've ever been in. Aside from - I dunno - someone's basement. Now that I think about it, there was a sign above the ticket seller that said there were 65 seats. I had thought that meant 65 seats left.

After a girl with a basket of candy hanging around her neck did the rounds, the film began. I started off well, and got the first few jokes. And then I got lost. Dilek and Caroline were really nice about it and whispered translations into my ears from either side. But it was still a bummer. And the voices were just weird.

And that's how I saw the most anticipated girly film of the summer; in a village in the French countryside, with girls translating sex jokes on either side of me. Guess I'll wait for the DVD.

One Step Forward, One Step Back

I have reached the elusive goal of anyone learning a new language: I had a dream in French. Granted, it was only one sentence, and I replied in English, but still, it counts.

And then this morning at the market I was at the fruit and vegetable stand, issuing my requests to the youngest worker at the stall, who can't be more than 12 years old. I asked for a "demi-kilo" (half kilogram) of strawberries, and a demi-kilo of cherries. When he handed me four heaving bags of fruit I thought "Gee, that's unusual".

When I had paid and left I reviewed the receipt. He understood my "demi" as "one kilo and demi" and I had walked away with over three pounds of cherries and strawberries each. And now our refrigerator is stuffed full of fruit and my confidence in my ability to communicate is back in the basement. Bummer.

Truth from the Mouth of Babes

I forgot to relate a funny story about our afternoon with the Louchet family. Remember I said I was so happy when I spoke to Zoé in French and she understood me. Well it turns out she was only humoring me, just like the French adults.

David and I were alone with Zoé, and he was teasing her. This conversation ensued, the French bits translated in italics:

me: Zoé, he teases you (although I used the wrong form of "you").

Zoe: What does that mean?

Dave (giggling): Zoé, does Chi speak French?

Zoé: No...she knows some words, but it's not French.

And there you have it: the honest truth from a 5-year old girl.

Why I Always Keep a French Dictionary on Hand

I was in a meeting yesterday, going over my action plan or open issues list or something like that.

My new dotted line boss said, "You need to call a meeting with Monsieur Bordel". Or at least that's what I thought he said.

Back at my desk, I looked up Bordel in the company directory and came up with nil. I went back to the boss's cube and asked "How do I spell 'Bordel'?"

"B-o-U-r-d-e-l." Then he added, "DON'T forget the 'U'!"

As I walked away from his cube I heard some people snicker. What was the deal with Bordel?

I flipped through my dictionary and found it:

1. n. Brothel

2. adj. Mess

I am very happy I didn't write M. Bourdel an e-mail with that misspelling.

Turkey Photos

Today I made one of those cute language mistakes that turns into a pretty good laugh.

I was in the coffee room, chatting with one my colleagues who had just returned from India. I wanted to ask "Do you have any photos of India?", which should have been:

"As-tu des photos de l'Inde?"

But I forgot that you have to say "the India" instead of just "India" (this is a common mistake for me), so instead I said:

"As-tu des photos d'Inde?"

Which sounds like:

"As-tu des photos dinde?"

...which is also bad French, but roughly means:

"Do you have any photos of turkeys?"

The Museum of Natural History

Today we visited the Museum of Natural History, which, as it turns out, is not free on the first Sunday of the month.

That was a bummer, but we were already there, so we forked over the 8 euros each.

The museum is housed in a beautiful building in a park in the southeast side of Paris. The park contains other natural museums and a zoo. We wanted to see animals, so we chose to visit the Gallery of Evolution.

We were hoping for dinosaurs and wooly mammoths, but what we saw were mostly current animals and a few whale skeletons. There was a small, dark gallery containing some endangered and exinct species, which was kind of depressing.

In the basement was an exhibit entirely about flies. It was actually more like an art exhibit, the artist using hundreds of thousands of dead flies. It was disgusting.

The rest of the museum was lots of bugs, birds, and educational plaques. Maybe we would have enjoyed it more if we could confidently read French.

For example, there was a large, ornate clock on display. What this had to do with natural history is beyond me, and maybe I could tell you if I could have read the plaque. Here is what I did understand: This clock was built by H. Robin, as requested by Marie Antoinette. ...trapped in Versailles....tell the time....asked for a clock.....

And that's about it. When I turned to Dave for help, he hadn't understood any more.

I used to shake my head at people who breezed through museums without taking the time to read and learn anything. Today that was us. Just too lazy to try to read French.

As I stared down a stuffed gazelle I admitted to Dave, "I'm only here for the photos".
"Oh yeah," he said as he lifted the camera to his eye, "Me too".

Like a Flower, When it's Done

I learned a new word at work today, and I've already forgotten it.

Around 5:30 an engineer dropped by our area, took one look at me, and said "L'Americaine est (word I don't remember)".

I squinted at him and said, "The American is huh?"

He said "You don't know this word?"

All around me people started flipping through dictionaries. He said "You know, like a flower, when it's done".

Normally I'd take a comparison to a flower as a compliment, but this didn't sound like "delicate" or "cheery".

I said "wilted"? And pointed to the word in my own dictionary.

"No, no, that's not it."

"Defeated", the intern offered.

I looked at him and said "Thanks, man."

Others joined in, suggesting worn out, exhausted, "only works and sleeps"...all the while I nodded and said "yeah, thanks, that's great."

Eric looked up from his dictionary and announced "wasted away".

"That's it!" the engineer said triumphantly. "Wasted away!"

He was rather proud of himself, and when I looked a little skeptical he asked, "Is that not right in English?"

I said "Well, I'd use the term 'wasted away' if perhaps I hadn't eaten in three months".

Then I got a lesson in the different layers of language, how Americans use only the first layer (the more serious "wasted away"), whereas most French people speak about the second layer. What is this about layers, and why hasn't Gil told me about it?

Well whatever, they'd all be wasted away too if they were up until 1:00 a.m. last night reading Harry Potter.

This is What it's Like to Study French

For my French “homework”, I write sentences that I want to say during the course of the week. I keep a notebook of all my sentences, and Gil and I review them in each class.
I write double spaced, because this is what inevitably happens:
The sentence says “They (feminine) didn’t understand me when I called them.”
Aside from the obvious vocabulary, you need to know where the pronouns go, and make sure you have gender and quantity agreement for your past participle.

Gender and Quantity Agreement for Past Participles:
1. Which auxiliary are you using – avoir or etre? Avoir
2. Where is the direct object (COD) – before or after the verb? Before
3. What is the direct object (les) referring to? Elles (feminine "they")

So you have an avoir auxiliary, before the verb, referring to a feminine plural direct object. Therefore, your past participle needs to be both feminine and plural: appellées.

The whole football diagram is necessary just to figure out if the word “called” needs to agree with the word “they”.

This is why French is like math. Really hard math.

Predicate Nominatives

Twice a week I meet with my French teacher Gil (pronounced “Zheel”) for an hour and half lesson. This is the only time when I can freely speak French without worrying about embarrassing myself or making people wait for me to conjugate in my head. Gil is the most patient French teacher I've ever had.

Gil spent a number of years of his youth in Arizona, so his English is excellent. Although this doesn’t stop me from trying to stump him with modern slang and big, multi-syllable words. I rarely find a word he doesn’t know, which is a little humbling when I consider the number of French words I don’t know.

What’s weird about the French is that they’re all grammar freaks. Stop any Frenchman on the street and ask him to give you an example of a predicate nominative and he won’t bat an eye.

And, like the rest of his countrymen, Gil assumes that we Americans also have such an intimate knowledge of our grammar.

He’ll say, “Show me the direct object in this sentence”.

“What’s a direct object?”

“Well, what is it in English?”

“I don’t know what it is in English, either.”

Then comes the wide-eyed, incredulous, “You don’t know what a (grammar component) is?” look that I’ve been familiar with since I started working for a French company three years ago.

“You don’t know what a direct object is? Didn’t you learn this in school?”

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had this conversation. Not just with French teachers. With friends, colleagues, probably people on the street if I gave them the chance.

“I did learn it in school. Then I passed the test and promptly forgot it. Like calculus.”

Then I watch them pause and mentally evaluate me, a representative of the American school system, and wonder how America can be the leader of the free world when its people don’t even know what a direct object is.

I’m fairly certain that they also think about our president at this point, and probably consider the popular French belief that we’re all cowboys.

Aside from grammar, the French also have an extensive knowledge of their linguistic history. Every French person I know has taught me something about the history of some word. And again, they assume we know the same.

Hervé: What is the origin of the word “rave”? As in “rave party”?

Me: How should I know?

Hervé: It’s your language, isn’t it?

Me: No. We just borrowed it from the British and made it better. *wink*

Nothing irks them more than American arrogance.

They can’t believe that I don’t know the origin of every word in my English vocabulary. And they’re astounded when I tell them that all of us are this way, with the exception of those like my friend Adam, who is so smart he has extra hard drive space and memory in his brain to store that kind of stuff (when I told Adam this story he said “you don’t remember what a predicate nominative is?”). And English teachers.

Sometimes, to really get them upset, I tell them about my English department award in high school. That’s right, French guys: out of 150-odd kids, MY English was the best. Put THAT in your cigarette and smoke it!

Raisins of Anger

This week has been really hectic for me at work because my team is hosting a workshop and software validation session here in Méru. Our colleagues from Germany and the US flew in, we locked ourselves into a few conference rooms, and hammered out the first round of testing on the new release of the software.

Anyway, that stuff is boring, but the best part about workshops is always the group dinner.

On Wednesday we met in a small village about 20 minutes from Méru at a restaurant called Ratapoil, which means “naked rat”. It’s a really unusual place, with mannequins in the garden, comics painted on the front gate, and glass flowers hanging from the ceiling. And my favorite part, the animatronic artist.

Apparently the artist Honoré Daumier used to live in that building in the late 1800’s, and to commemorate him the restaurant owners had an animatronic replica made. So in the corner of the restaurant sits this life-like plastic man who occasionally leans forward and draws pictures. And he’s good! He drew me a picture of Don Quixote during my last visit. It’s a little creepy, but fascinating.

The menu was equally interesting, with such delicacies as lamb’s head, veal’s head, and rognon blanc, or sheep testicles. Oh no, I’m not kidding. Testicles.

My colleague Hervé, a French guy, of course, ordered the rognon blanc, and when his meal arrived he challenged me to try it. And I did. It tasted like kidney, which isn’t a good taste. The guy sitting next to me said, "Well there’s a good way to scare off a date". But at least I tried it, and it made for a good story to tell Dave that night.

Later in the evening we were discussing famous writers and the name Emile Zola came up. I asked, “Who’s Emile Zola?”

There was a fair amount of discussion in French, then Dominique announced “Les Miserables.”

Then he realized, “No no, that’s Victor Hugo”.

More French chattering, and I thought we were done talking about it and started mentally wandering into another conversation. A few minutes later they must have reached a conclusion and I heard “Raisins de….” Hervé leaned forward and said to me “Raisins of Anger”.

I said “What are you talking about?”

He said “It’s a very famous book. ‘Raisins of Anger’. Don't you know it? No wait…Grapes of Anger.”

I said, “Grapes of Wrath”?

YES! They all said triumphantly. What’s a "wrath" anyway?

No, I said, that’s John Steinback.

They gave up. But apparently Emile Zola is a very famous French writer.

Pourri

My new French vocabulary word is pourri, which means “crap”, and puts everyone in stitches when I use it.

My boss said, “Very good French progression. I will note this”.

It’s hard to believe that I’ve had this job for five months and didn’t know the word for “crap”.

Although I did learn “bullshit” quite early.

How's Your Toilet?

A few weeks ago I had plans to go shopping with my friend Irantzu. At the last minute she sent me a text message that said "I'm sorry, I have to cancel, Ludovic (her boyfriend) wants my help to replace our toilet".

I wasn't that bothered, I knew that they were remodeling and it made for a good laugh: Irantzu ditched me for a toilet.

Today I ran into Ludovic at work and asked him, "How's your toilet?"

He smiled and said "Fine. How's yours?"

"Umm...how. is. your. toilet?"

Another smile. "Good. And yours?"

Ok. I quickly reviewed with him the story of how Irantzu and I were supposed to go shopping, she had to cancel, he wanted to replace the toilet....and that was why I was asking how it was, how the whole project had turned out...that it was kind of a joke....

He said, "Oh. So that's not an American expression?"

(stifling a giggle) "No. It's not."

"Oh."

He looked genuinely disappointed.

I walked away feeling genuinely embarrassed about asking a guy about his toilet.

Peeps!

Good Ol' American Sugar

This evening we were sitting on the couch, puzzling over the Simpsons in French, when our doorbell rang. The doorbell ringing is a strange occurance because guests usually buzz at the front door on the street. Which meant our guest either a) knew the front door code (which could only be Wally) or b) was already in the building.

The answer was b. The guy from the apartment above ours was standing at the door with two boxes. He handed me the boxes and said a bunch of stuff. For the life of me I had no idea what he was saying. I said quite carefully "I'm sorry, I don't speak much French" (I'm a real pro at that sentence). He answered "No problem" en francais and repeated everything in French at the same rapid speed. I whimpered and called for Dave. He joined me at the door and the neighbor repeated everything a third time. Dave blinked. The neighbor gave up, we said merci beaucoup many times, and he went back upstairs.

We closed the door and burst into frustrations. "What just happened?" "I didn't understand ANYTHING!" "All I heard was "donner! (to give)" "How could we not understand a single word? Not even the concept?"

Well, I'm assuming the concept was that the mailman gave him the boxes to give to us but seriously, we couldn't understand the guy at all. He might as well have been speaking Greek.

So that was frustrating. But I quickly got over it as I tore into the boxes. Dave's sister and brother-in-law sent us a great box of American stuff. A gossip magazine (Jennifer Aniston has a new boyfriend? Who knew?), a few toys, a book of math puzzles (Lisa knows her brother so well), and some candy. Starburst!

The other package was from my parents, an Easter present that took it's time getting here. A shirt for each of us and more candy. Peanut M&Ms and Peeps! I had forgotten how funny Peeps are. I'm going to take them into work and give everyone a sugar buzz.

Je ne parle pas francias

I Don't Speak French.

I’ve reached a new level with my colleagues, a very lonely stage where I am no longer a novelty, they’re bored with speaking English to me, and my French level isn’t high enough to fully comprehend and converse.

Last week at lunch when I tried to ask Philippe what he got from the magic Easter bells, he informed me that he didn’t want to speak English over lunch anymore, it was too much thinking. Now I spend lunch time silently staring out the window.

Even my Spanish friend Irantzu has looked at me incredulously while I struggled to write something in French (a number, no less) and suggested I try to improve my language skills with books and CDs. Books and CDs! What a great idea!

People told me “in 3 months, you’ll be speaking French like a local”. Well guess what, it’s been 3 months, and I’m still speaking French like an infant.

On a similarly grumpy note, upon looking up the word “error” when writing an e-mail about a software issue, I noticed that many negative French words are feminine: fault, weakness, error, disappointment, breakdown (naturally), depression. Clearly the language counsel (yes, France has a board of people who make decisions about the language) has been comprised of men since the beginning.

I Do Believe Hell has Frozen Over

For the first time today, someone gave up on speaking bad English to me and switched to French. And I understood!

Don't start thinking I speak French now. That was a fluke.