DAWN TO EARTH

Connecting – or not

noreply@blogger.com (Alba) — Tue, 12 Nov 2013 20:03:00 +0000

A few months back, a former client reached out via email to share the good news that she had landed a consulting job at a major company and that we should get together to celebrate. I naively wrote back right away to congratulate her and agree that a celebration was in order offering some options for lunch or dinner in the coming weeks. That was met with total radio – or more appropriately – email silence.

Several weeks passed and another email popped up from her apologizing for not checking that email account more often (despite the face it was the one she wrote to me from in the first place) and asking again about availability to get together. Again, I foolishly responded and was again left hanging in cyberspace.

A couple months later, yet another apologetic email arrived with even more cause for celebration since her position had now become permanent. The phrase “fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice shame on me” immediately came to mind. I didn’t want to get sucked into another black hole of email correspondence, but another friend suggested implementing the “three strikes you’re out” method so I once more responded with available dates.

That was a week ago and here I sit pondering what has become of our ever-connective world actually creating less and less connectivity. Another former colleague reached out to a Facebook post of mine saying he too wanted to “re-connect.” I decided rather than involve all our FB friends in our business, I would reach out off-post by sending an email message separately and directly to him. And so another message got sucked into the cyber black hole. The same friend suggested that maybe he didn’t read his FB messages and I should try responding to the post, which I reluctantly did and lo and behold, he wrote back there with his contact information for all the world, or at least my FB world, to see.

Sometimes, connecting even to a colleague or friend starts to feel like dating. Should I email back right away or should I wait? Should I email or call? Should I call the office number or the cell? I opted the next day to call him and he asked if he could call me back. Then he texted to apologize for being so busy and would get back to me soon. It’s interesting how now I felt guilty for intruding when he was the one who originally reached out. In any event, that was a couple of weeks ago now already and I think the chances of hearing back are slim to none.

During this time, I’ve also been playing email phone tag (this is when an email turns into a “let’s discuss by phone” situation and then the struggles of coordinating that ensue.) I’ve shared my phone number and suggested multiple times over multiple days when I could be available. Perhaps it’s a power play by the other person who wants to be the one in charge of deciding and I’m ok with that, but just make a date and stick to it. Here I sit this time waiting for a phone call that may or may not ever come, but certainly has not come when it was agreed upon.

Once again, it feels like dating as I sit checking my phone to make sure the ringer is on and the volume is turned up. Did I miss the call while I was washing my hands? Wait was that my ring tone I heard or real crickets? Maybe I should try a louder more obnoxious ring tone as if that would actually make the call come through.

The irony is that in all three cases, I was not the one initiating the contact. But each case shares the same condition in common and that is the distracted life that has become the norm. Like an ancient relic, I sit here on the precipice of extinction with my expectations from others to behave as I behave myself, with conscientiousness and follow through, with manners and respect. So perhaps it’s only after being fooled three or more times that we finally won’t get fooled again – wait is that my phone ringing?

Voyage

noreply@blogger.com (Alba) — Thu, 10 Oct 2013 23:07:00 +0000

n. - voyage

We returned a while ago from a lovely sojourn in Martha’s Vineyard where a dear friend of ours not only lives, but was born and bred. While the trip was absolutely wonderful and one I would repeat again, there were a couple of “don’t’s” – the first being not to take the ferry from New York, but rather splurge and fly there, which you can do now direct from JFK. We were being frugal, but the ferry does not take five hours as indicated, but closer to over six and for a weekend getaway, it’s too much time in transport that could be better spent enjoying the island. Furthermore, the ride over was very bumpy and we all know what that means. Fortunately, I didn’t get sick, but I did get terrified and when I lost the horizon due to the darkness of night, I was left just clinging helplessly to my seat staring ahead in the black of night praying for the voyage to end.

Given that experience, pizza seemed like such a poor choice for a boat snack, but there it was in all its greasy glory right along side the hot dogs, chips and beer – staples of the American diet. This leads me to my other “don’t” and that is tempura-fried lobster. Now I’m not talking about frying the actual meat, which could be a good idea, but rather frying the whole thing shell and all. This works with soft-shelled crab – because you can eat the shell, but you can’t eat the lobster shell or at least I can’t. It’s messy enough to get through with one’s little pliers and picks, but now there’s an added layer of grease and fat to contend with. This wasn’t served on the ferry by the way, but at an upscale eatery where we went on our second night. I guess just plain old boiled or baked lobster becomes pedestrian when living near the sea so this was their way of differentiating themselves, but I’m more of a traditionalist.

Traditional is not a word I would use to describe my friend’s father, also a long time Vineyard native. He lives in a non-traditional home with two non-traditional pet roosters who actually come when they’re called and allow themselves to be picked up and held. They greeted us when we arrived and clucked and pecked around us as we visited. We took a little boat ride out to the beach since he lives on a bay and then we each took a turn on his excavator – and that’s not an SUV by the way, but a 10 ton machine that operates on hydraulics used for lifting or digging dirt and moving it from one place to another. I’m still not sure exactly what the project was that he was using it for, but it was quite fun to have a go at it.

All in all, it was a delightful journey with delightful people and the ferry back came all too quickly, yet still took all too long!

Malade comme un chien

noreply@blogger.com (Alba) — Wed, 14 Dec 2011 17:47:00 +0000

exp. – sick as a dog.

To follow up on my previous post, I was premature in celebrating my recuperation. In fact, it took several more days and a full series of antibiotics to do the trick. It’s no wonder that everyone in the apartment got so sick given how hot it is. Well actually I was the only one who got sick, but no wonder!

At first I thought the raspy, throaty voice from endless hacking was sexy. That is until I feared I might have done irreparable damage to my vocal chords losing the ability to ever speak properly again. It was during this time that I realized the expression “sick as a dog” is a bit of misnomer. “Sick as a New Yorker in December” maybe, but my dog is never sick.

One of my favorite sayings is “a faithful friend is the medicine of life.” It’s true that friends always have a way of making us feel better. As holiday cards start to stream in, I realize how lucky I am to have so many friends because I also believe that while friends we have many, good friends we have but a few. Most of us who have entered the social networking game can count upwards of a hundred friends easily – some have even upwards of a thousand, but how many of these friends are really that close to us?

Networking in general has been around since the Dawn of time. Technology has just made it easier. Making new friends, however, is just as complex as it’s always been. Recently, a woman in our building was widowed. She had been very gracious with us regarding a question we had about work she had done on her apartment that we were thinking about doing on ours. So I foolishly felt a tiny connection for that reason. When her husband passed away after a long illness, I reached out with a note of condolence offering my company should she want to get together for coffee, tea, a chat.

She never responded and now when I see her in the building, I feel awkward like she wishes I would go away. At first I felt like an idiot for reaching out to a total stranger who clearly already had a lifetime of friends, not to mention family, to see her through her grieving. It wasn’t until a good friend of mine pointed out though that what I had done came from the right place and that I shouldn’t feel bad about trying to do a nice thing. That’s what friends are for, making us feel better no matter what the circumstance.

Dogs also have an ability to make us feel better because they never judge. They also can intuit when we’re under the weather or just under a cloud. “Man’s best friend” indeed and what more faithful friend than a dog. So here’s to dogs and friends, not necessarily in that order – may the holiday season be as kind to all of you as you all continue to be to each other.

Mieux vaut prévenir que guérir

noreply@blogger.com (Alba) — Fri, 09 Dec 2011 21:40:00 +0000

exp. – better to prevent than to fight or an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.

While I feel like I’ve touched on this phrase before, this week I truly learned this lesson the hard way. I wasn’t feeling well, which made me realize I hadn’t gotten my flu shot yet so I rushed to the pharmacy to do just that. This was my first mistake. I told the pharmacist I didn’t feel well to which she replied, well it takes two weeks to take effect so you may still get the flu. Jokingly I said, well at least I won’t get it again after that. Turns out this wasn’t funny.

I don’t think of myself as a hypochondriac, but fortunately I’m not often sick. So when I am, I can go from ill to dying within hours. The following day I was in urgent care sweating and almost crying explaining all my symptoms to a rather unsympathetic doctor relatively disgusted with me for getting the flu shot when I already wasn’t feeling well. You see I reversed the natural order – not feeling well, flu shot, doctor, vs. doctor, flu shot to prevent not feeling well. He seemed more interested in whether I was pregnant or going through menopause – too old for the former, too young (I hope) for the latter, but he did ascertain that I was dehydrated (probably from the loss of fluids due to the fever) and had some sort of “unspecified viral infection.” He told me to let him know if things got worse.

Well the next day they did. I thought my head was going to explode. I had a cough, dry throat, clearly a fever. I was weak, dizzy, nauseous, in other words an utter and complete mess. So I made a second trip to urgent care. This time it was another doctor, much more sympathetic as far as I’m concerned because I give him credit for single handedly saving my life. It was so simple, ibuprofren to bring the fever down, a prescription cough suppressant and a prescription flu medication. I went from a fever of 103 to 98.7 within hours, slept without sweating and awoke feeling almost cured.

Of course all of this came at a price and it was a rude reminder that I’m not in France anymore. My total for my subscription medications was almost $100 – that was for all two of them! And the pharmacist gleefully pointed out that I had actually saved $70 on one of them because of my insurance. While I just had what I’m guessing was some version of the flu, I can’t imagine suffering through it without relief and to think of the far graver maladies people have to suffer through because they can’t afford health insurance is eye opening to say the least.

So to end with another French expression that mirrors the English one, ne remettez pas à demain ce que vous pouvez faire aujourd'hui – don’t put off until tomorrow what you can do today. I should have gotten my flu shot months ago before flu season hit. But mistakes are to learn from and to blog about.

Chercher le mouton à cinq pattes

noreply@blogger.com (Alba) — Wed, 16 Nov 2011 19:48:00 +0000

exp. – looking for the sheep with five feet or basically something that’s too good to be true – not that I know why a five footed sheep would be such a good thing.

Looking for a job, especially in a difficult economy, can be a daunting task. Beginning with the job descriptions themselves, no matter what the position is, the expectations always seem overly ambitious to the point of being unrealistic. I’m surprised they don’t include things like “candidate should be able to fly and breathe under water.” On the other hand, including words like “motivated, professional, organized and responsible” seem a bit redundant because if one has none of these qualities, it’s not likely they’ll be looking for work.

Waiting to hear from people regarding a job or even just to have a preliminary conversation about a job is reminiscent of waiting for a boy to call you for a date. I remember back to the days when we only had landlines and before answering machines existed, dragging my phone as far out of my room as possible whenever I wasn’t in it in order to not miss a call.

Things haven’t changed much, only that it’s easier to keep a phone close at hand. People drop their phones in the toilet all the time. I’m happy to say I haven’t done that yet, but I remember when I first moved to New York and before caller ID, I answered the phone not once, but twice from the bath to speak with someone who turned out to be my future boss – I remember sitting very, very still.

I’m sort of an anti-cell phone person. I have one naturally and I try to take it with me when I can, but I either forget to turn it on, don’t hear it or can’t find it in time to pick up before a call goes to voice mail. It always startles me when it rings and I find it intrusive if I happen to be doing anything but sitting on the couch beside it when it does. I also have trouble with texting. I find it more time consuming than anything else.

In Paris, cell phones work in the metro, which you would think would cause pandemonium, but the French, civilized in many ways, are certainly so when talking on their phones. There’s no screaming and yelling like you hear in New York. Calls seem to have a meaning there and are kept short in public places. Here, they seem to be about nothing at all and the fact that one is surrounded by strangers doesn’t impede in any way sharing the most personal information as audibly as possible. In this case, I would prefer that people text as long as they look where they’re going when they do.

I like to Skype, but you have to make sure you’re presentable if you’ve got the video going. It goes without saying that there’s no Skyping in the bathroom. Emailing makes it easy to hide and gives you the most time to compose yourself before responding. But like texting, it can grow tiresome when a conversation could be much more easily accomplished by a phone call.

We’ve come into an age when the multiple methods to communicate have in a way made it easier to not communicate at all, at least directly that is. And sometimes all that communication can lead to miscommunication. Texting, typing, twittering, it’s all a lot to do with only two hands so maybe that’s why a sheep with five feet is a good thing after all.

Is that my phone that’s ringing…?

Surtout

noreply@blogger.com (Alba) — Wed, 16 Nov 2011 19:23:00 +0000

adv. – above all (or especially)

This is almost a literal translation into English since “sur,” which technically means on can also mean above and “tout” means all. There are many adverbs that are literally translated, “literally” among them as “littéralement.” “Complètement,” “effectivement,” “exactement,” “définitivement,” all sound like their English counterparts, albeit with a “ment” ending vs. a “ly” one. “Definitely,” “totally” and “indeed” can all be covered by “tout à fait,” sort of more loosely defined as all in fact.

Going back to “literally,” I tend to pronounce it in a British way for some reason. This results in a clipped version by placing emphasis on the “t” before the “rally.” Americans tend to roll slowly over the “t” like a speed bump so that all the consonants are used. There’s one word I notice that some American almost pronounce more like a British person and that’s “forward.” There are people who drop the first “r” so it sounds more like “foeward,” but unlike a British person, they pronounce the second “r”, which is what makes it different.

Other people, especially from the Midwest, actually add an “r” where there isn’t one. For example, “wash” becomes “warsh.” New Englanders, like Englanders, tend to drop the “r” – we’ve all heard about “pahking the cah.” Then there’s the interchanging of the “s” and “k” in a word like ask, turning it into “aks.”

“Ask” makes me think of the French word for sit, which is “assis”. I say this a lot to the dog since he learned his commands in French and the other day I noticed for the first time that the word for sit in French actually has the word “ass” in it, which struck me as funny. “Coucher,” which can mean to sleep or lie down (and funnily has the word “couch” in it) is another command word the dog knows. We taught him to sit first and then lie down, rewarding him with treats when he does. Sometimes, even if I just ask him to sit, he’ll go straight to the lie down position as if to say, let’s cut to the chase.

“Avance” means go or advance, if you want to be more literal. “Attend” means wait. These are two other words the dog knows, even though ironically they sound very similar when you say them. The word “no” and “non” also sound the same in both languages, but for some reason, he doesn’t seem to understand either. Truth is the dog doesn’t really understand anything we say to him. It’s more the intonation and inflection that he responds to and of course, the treats. As complex and intriguing as language is, only humans use it to communicate. Animals operate on a simpler level, interacting instinctively and there’s nothing more literal than that.

Ausgang

noreply@blogger.com (Alba) — Tue, 11 Oct 2011 16:19:00 +0000

n. – exit

Notausgang

n. – emergency exit

These words are in German as you may notice and I discovered them a while ago when visiting my husband on a business trip in Munich. I have nothing much to say about this other than I just found it funny since the second word looks like it would mean “not” an exit vs. more importantly an emergency exit.

German words can be very long. I think it’s their way of being efficient with the language – why waste time separating words when you can string them together to make one giant one.

While living in Paris, I experienced being tri-lingual vis a vis computer keyboards. Mine had the English “qwerty” version, my husband’s work laptop had the German “qwertz” version and my in-laws’ home computer had the French ”azerty” version. It’s amazing how much difference one little key can make when it’s not where you’re used to having it.

I love my computer and I love to type on it. But I have a confession – I still like pens and paper. The other day, I brought out my ancient Filofax to write something down while meeting with someone and he looked at me as if I’d grown another head. Jokingly he asked if I would like a post-it note. I like those, too.

Don’t get me wrong, I can download, upgrade, re-start, log off and shutdown with the best of them, but there’s just something secure about writing on a piece of paper. Notebooks and I mean the ones made from trees, rarely spontaneously combust or disappear into thin air. Hard drives crash – I suppose they use the word crash since it’s a drive. If you haven’t backed it up on your second hard drive and it has to be restored or replaced, you lose everything. And what if the back-up drive crashes? I like to think of my back-up drive like an airplane’s black box, convincing myself that it will survive anything including a nuclear holocaust. Of course, I wouldn’t so it wouldn’t really matter. Paper doesn’t crash and it’s not as if a giant eraser will rub out everything you’ve written (that is if you write in pencil, which I don’t, so even that I don’t have to worry about.)

There’s a funny commercial (I forget what it’s for) where a man comes into an office meeting with his pad (again the kind made from trees) and pen, which has leaked in his pocket. His co-workers make fun of him as if he’s some sort of cave man and it’s funny. But I relate to that man.

Computers do cut down on paper waste, which is a good thing and you can’t get a paper cut from a keyboard, which is also a good thing. There’s no ink to smudge, leak or run out. Computers have changed the world for the better and will continue to amaze us in the years to come. So as long as my keyboard stays in “qwerty,” I’ll keep typing, but that paper and pen will always be around somewhere.

L’herbe est plus verte chez le voisin

noreply@blogger.com (Alba) — Tue, 11 Oct 2011 15:16:00 +0000

Exp. – the grass is greener at the neighbor’s.

Now that I’m back in New York, I can look at it more rationally than I did when I was living in Paris. It’s easy to romanticize what we don’t have and then see things in a new light when we get them back. In some case, that light has dimmed and in others, it burns even brighter.

For better or for worse, something that stuck out when we first returned was the abundance of things. On top of that, there was the speed at which things got done. Small home renovations were accomplished in a matter of days where in Paris we waited six months to have a hole in our ceiling repaired. Time doesn’t stop here like it does in France for Sundays or the month of August. As a result, the time seems to be flying by at record speed.

Here there’s hardly any request that will be turned down especially when in a restaurant. Dressing on the side, substitutions, sending something back to be cooked more – whatever it may be is almost always met with a “No problem!” In Paris, the few times I dared question something on the menu, I would get a cold hard “Non.” Service comes at lightening speed, the bill shows up before you even have to ask for it and as a result, it’s possible to get home from a weekend lunch while it’s still light out.

That’s not to say I don’t miss long, lazy lunches from time to time. And I do miss saying “Bonjour” to strangers in the elevator. Here if you say hello to someone, they sometimes look at you like you’re trying to mug them. And that’s if they even hear you since almost everyone has their ear buds in or their noses and thumbs pressed down towards their smart phones.

And what’s with all the protesting? I used to make fun of the French for that, but it turns out we’re even worse. I know people are angry about the economy and with good reason, but the protests down in Wall Street have become more of an occupation. That’s one thing about the tenacity of a New Yorker – in Paris, once it’s time for dinner, everyone is willing to pack it in, crack open a bottle of wine and call it a day. Here they’re literally setting up camp and moving in.

The public transportation in Paris is terrific. You can get everywhere on the metro or bus or even velib. Here, the subways are often not running and if they are, there’s no indication when the next train is coming. I don’t think there’s an MTA app like the one we had for RATP, but I could be wrong. There is of course an abundance of taxis at literally arm’s reach, but not so many between 4 and 5 pm. Nobody has ever been able to explain why absolutely all of them have to go off duty at the same time.

It’s true that the city never sleeps – construction is continuous, sirens blare, music pulsates from cars and restaurants and people as a result just naturally talk louder in order to be heard. My dog barks longer, walks faster and plays harder. But with all of this comes an energy that I missed. By comparison, Paris is peaceful with a pace that’s softer and easier. There’s a serenity, a stillness and a calm that allows you to stop and look around and with good reason because Paris is the most beautiful city – La Ville-Lumière – the city of light indeed.

So there’s no comparison because the two places are each unique and precious and how lucky am I to have been able to live in both.

To zen or not to zen

noreply@blogger.com (Alba) — Mon, 10 Oct 2011 22:05:00 +0000

Yesterday my husband and I went to yoga together. We got there as we always do a few minutes early so we can set up our mats and settle in before the class starts. There are some people who don’t really care where they may end up in the class, but there are others who are very adamant about not only their personal space, but where in proportion to the rest of the class it may be. I fall somewhere in the middle.

Class started, we were working on bumble bee breath, which I had never done so I was trying to concentrate on the instructions, but someone arrived late and the distraction began. I could see out of the corner of my eye that she had nowhere to put her mat and the teacher, I don’t know whether it was to make a point or not, really wasn’t helping her. Once we finished our bumble bee breaths, which I bumbled pretty badly, the late woman came over to me and asked me to move my mat so she could put hers down.

This was yoga, but man was I bugged. It was the way she asked, which was more of a command and without any apology. I moved of course and staggered my mat, but she chose not to stand at the top of hers, but rather in the middle. Mats are staggered not because the mats bump into each other, but because people do, but if you’re not going to stand where you’re supposed to, that’s exactly what’s going to happen. Aggravated, I moved again and let her hand bump into me on the next swan dive forward just to make my point.

Half an hour in to class and I was still irked, but now it was because she was one of those over achievers. The teacher would call out a pose and she would take it to the next level – I hate that. What I hated even more though was that here I was in yoga of all places filled with so much hate.

The studio where we practice is the studio where I actually got my certificate to teach yoga. Although it’s changed ownership since then, it’s continued its atmosphere of pretty down to earth yoga and by this I mean, it stays away from a very spiritually led practice. For me, this is not a deal breaker – truth be told, I started going there because of its proximity to where I live, but I like the classes and find them challenging. The clientele, however, I think very much likes that the spiritual side is not really included apart from a few Om’s and a Namaste once in a while.

There was an article in the paper yesterday about this very thing as it related to teaching yoga to schoolchildren. Most schools insist that the instructors refrain from chanting Om or using the prayer position or even saying Namaste, which struck me as a bit extreme.

Om, for a simple definition, represents the sound of the universe, which we all do unarguably inhabit regardless of what religion you follow. Namaste means “the divine in me bows to the divine in you” and who doesn’t want to be divine?! Anjali Mudra or hands in prayer is really just a position where your hands are pressed together in front of your heart, which I find hard to believe could offend anyone.

To take this topic to a more controversial level and across the pond, France passed a ban on head scarves or hijabs for Muslim school girls, which raised a lot of protest. Taking it a step further, they also want to ban the niquab and burka as the traditional full face veil for women in public. These are seen as oppressive to women and against the secular nature of the French government.

But where does it end? What about the orthodox Jewish women who also cover their heads, whether it be by a scarf or many times a wig? What about the yarmulke or the kippah as the French call it? What about people wearing crucifixes or Stars of David? What about the red dot or bindi worn on Indian women’s foreheads? What about lip plates or neck rings worn by African and Burmese-Thai women? True the latter are seen more commonly in their native lands, but hasn’t western culture adopted all sorts of body modification practices itself, the most common among them, tattoos?

It’s interesting that the French culture, which is much less puritanical than ours and where topless sunbathing is the norm has bigger issues with too much covering of the female body. I understand there are more complex issues that are behind the burka ban with regards to women’s rights. Further complex still is the fact that many of the people protesting the ban were the women themselves.

I unfortunately have no answers, only questions. I know it’s far too simplistic to say live and let live even if I don’t know how I got all the way from an annoying yoga moment to questions about religious freedom. But that is the journey that began yesterday and who knows where it will end. For this moment, however, deep breath in, deep breath out and Namaste.

Désabonner

noreply@blogger.com (Alba) — Mon, 10 Oct 2011 20:36:00 +0000

v. – un-subscribe

It’s been three months now since we moved back to New York from Paris and while I have had no trouble letting go of living in France, it seems France has had trouble letting go of me.

Despite the fact that I asked the bank manager to close my account before I even left, it remained open until only recently. My fault, I suppose for moving in July because just the anticipation of vacation and then the sacrosanct August vacation itself completely distracted him from doing his duty. This was a bad thing because despite the fact that I let the cell phone company know I was leaving the country, they continued to debit my account.

I think I’ve already explained the system of “debit immédiate” vs. “debit diferée,” but to clarify, the French don’t really allow credit like we do. If you use your ATM card to pay for something, the money comes out almost immediately, like in the States, but if you have a credit card you can only defer payment until the end of the month, not decide how much you want to pay.

Most services like cell phone bills and utilities use the same system linking directly to your bank account. I don’t necessarily have a problem with that since I like to pay my bills in full and on time, but only while I’m using those services. The two payments taken out from the cell phone company after we moved put me in the red from a contract I had cancelled and in an account I didn’t want to keep.

While I was finally able to get that all sorted, I still receive a French newsletter by email even though I continue to un-subscribe to it. This is much less bothersome obviously, but no less amusing to me that it won’t let me go. It’s not to say that I don’t have similar issues here. I’d forgotten how annoying telemarketers are and in the first month of setting up our landline (yes we still have one of those), I would get numerous calls daily including calls from the provider of the phone service itself. When I asked how I could remedy this, I was told I could put all the offending numbers on a blocked list so that they would no longer be able to get through, including the number of the phone service provider. Sounded like a great idea so I asked them to sign me up, which the customer service representative did right away. She then asked if I got a call from a telephone survey, could I give her a good review. But didn’t I just say I wanted to be blocked from these calls?!

Times are tough everywhere and everyone who has your business wants to keep it – I get it. But France doesn’t have to worry about losing me forever – there were many happy memories we made during our time there and many wonderful friends. So we’ll be back – sooner than later. In the meantime, I will continue to find more material in Manhattan.

À bientôt!

Apéritif

noreply@blogger.com (Alba) — Fri, 07 Oct 2011 20:39:00 +0000

n. - cocktails

It only just struck me as strange that while the word for cocktails is apéritif, the nickname, or what it most commonly goes by is apéro. Why not apéri? And come to think of it, cocktails may be stretching the translation because the French aren't really known for their bar-tending skills like the Americans or even the British are. Drinks are more delicate tinctures of a wine based nature. Scotch can be readily found, but you will get a strange look if you order a vodka and don't get me started again on martinis since I already covered that in another post. They simply do not exist. I do like that the French toast with "santé" or to your health and the way they drink really is quite healthy.

On a completely separate note, someone recently pointed out the difference between the word parapluie and parasol. I always knew that parapluie was an umbrella, but I didn’t make the distinction between the fact that it was literally to protect from the rain (pluie) while a parasol, was to protect from the sun (soleil).

One thing you are sure never to find in Paris, however, would be an umbrella IN your cocktail. Santé!

Fête du travail

noreply@blogger.com (Alba) — Sun, 24 Apr 2011 08:47:00 +0000

n. – Labor Day holiday

With only a few exceptions, the French like to adhere to dates vs. days for their numerous holidays. In the US, Labor Day, Memorial Day, even Presidents’ Day, Martin Luther King Day and Columbus Day always fall on a Monday. This ensures the day of celebration can actually be celebrated with a day off work.

It’s ironic however that in a country where vacation is so sacrosanct, the French version of Labor Day always falls on May 1 no matter what. So inevitably there will be two years in a row when it falls on Saturday and then Sunday resulting in no impact on the work week whatsoever.

The French have so many vacations, they have to divide the country into zones so it doesn’t all but shut down. Soon after the Christmas holidays are the vacances in February followed by the vacances in April, followed by Easter. Even the television shows and newspapers go on holiday. Le Figaro, the daily newspaper that comes with magazine supplements on Saturday simply re-prints Friday’s edition on Saturday to run with the magazines over Easter weekend. Sometimes, the whole newsstand will go on holiday so then it doesn’t really matter.

One newsstand comes to mind in the neighborhood, whose hours at best are questionable. Once when I asked how late they stayed open, the owner responded “Dix-neuf heure, dix-neuf trente,” 7:00, 7:30. I asked again to clarify because there is a gaping half hour difference between the two to which she begrudgingly agreed to 7:30, but I understood that if things were quiet, those doors would be closing up much closer to 7:00!

It reminds me of the news show called Sept a Huit which runs on Sunday. Sept a Huit means Seven to Eight, but I notice that it actually ends at 7:45. I guess Sept a Sept Heure Quarante Cinq isn’t as catchy a name though.

It’s hard to tape shows on the drive as a result of timing. Better to add some time on either end of the show in order to not miss the end or beginning. The French have a reputation for being late, which doesn’t really fit with a culture that insists on keeping military time. When meeting someone, I usually build in “un bon quart d’heure” or a good fifteen minutes of waiting time. And by “un bon quart d’heure,” the French usually mean half an hour.

Because tardiness is somewhat expected, there is rarely a sense of feeling rushed. If you’re running late, chances are your friends may be running even later. That is unless it’s time to go on vacation.

Anniversaire

noreply@blogger.com (Alba) — Sun, 24 Apr 2011 08:01:00 +0000

n. – anniversary or birthday
Ami(e)
n – friend

While I try not to name names in my posts, it will be inevitable for everyone to know what I’m talking about when I refer to a wildly popular social networking site. I have used it since before we moved to Paris, but find it even more convenient – comforting even – now that I’m that much further away from family and friends.

Only now though on my most recent birthday did I decide to update my profile to show my date of birth (month and date only of course!) I think the only reason I hadn’t done this before was because I didn’t realize you could opt for that vs. including the year as well. All of this being rather silly anyway since most of my “friends” know how old I am!

At the risk of sounding overly dramatic, I was overwhelmed with the amount of comments I received. Based on the number of “friends” I have, over 30% posted something, impressive as anyone in the direct response business knows. And I put quotes around friends because let’s face it, no pun intended, not everyone we’re connected to is a true friend – some are barely acquaintances and some total strangers with just one six degree of separation between us. You see I’m the kind of person who can’t really not accept a friend request. I also have never accepted and then un-friended someone as I know people do. So taking that into account and if I eliminated the people who I’m really not that close with from the overall total, my percentage rate would grow even higher.

I had comments from people I am in touch with regularly as well as comments from people I haven’t seen in almost 30 years! I asked my husband what the protocol was for responding since almost all the comments were posted to my wall and he said it wasn’t necessary – just that I should be sure to do the same for each of their birthdays.

I know we can all become cynical over time and social networking sites can at times be a strange phenomenon, even bordering on voyeuristic and intrusive, but I still found myself moved by an outpouring only made possible by such technology.

So, thank you internet super highway as you were first called, and thank you creators of social networks whoever you all may be, but most of all, thank you dear friends who reached out, for while the time and space between us may or may not have grown, your sentiments reached me and touched my heart.

Il ne faut pas pousser mémé dans les orties

noreply@blogger.com (Alba) — Tue, 22 Mar 2011 11:13:00 +0000

exp. – literally – don’t push granny in the poison ivy – figuratively – don’t take advantage. This conjures up a much more interesting picture than giving an inch and taking a mile. I also like “c’est la camembert qui dit au roquefort tu pues,” it’s the camembert that tells the roquefort it stinks vs. our pot calling the kettle black. Some of the French expressions can be so colourful. At other times, they can be more restrained. Where in English something can cost an arm and a leg, here it only costs an arm.

“Qui va a la chasse perd sa place,” he who goes hunting loses his place, which is a variation of our you snooze, you lose. Here there is hope though because “mais qui va à la pêche va repêche,” or but he who goes fishing gets it back.

One expression where I think we’ve got it right is with the early bird catching the worm. The French say “l'avenir appartient à celui qui se lève tôt,” or the future comes to he who wakes early. Direct and literal, it lacks the visual of the little bird eating the worm. But not being an early riser myself, I’ve always said, who wants a worm! The future on the other hand…

“Mettre de beurre dans les épinards” or “mettre poire dans ma soupe” are two expressions referencing food, putting butter on one’s spinach or pepper in one’s soup, that really mean trying to make a living. Beating around the bush here is “tourner autour du pot” or turning around the pot. “Langue de bois,” literally tongue of wood, means giving pat answers. “Geule de bois” or wooden mouth is the expression for a hangover. And “cheque en bois” or wooden check is the equivalent of our rubber check or one that bounces. In this case, rubber does make more sense than wood.

“Mieux vaut prevenir que guerir,” better to prevent than to heal is like our ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure or better safe than sorry.

“Main fer dans un gant velour” is the equivalent of our steel fist in a velvet glove – pretty much literally translated unless you want to split hairs over iron and steel. And for that, the French “couper les cheveux en quatre” or cut them in four so also pretty much the same as us.

I usually try to circle back to where I started with my posts, but since I had no real theme for this one other than to share some of these expressions I’ve been collecting, I have nowhere to go. I certainly don’t want to be pushed into the ivy so I will just leave it here where sleeping dogs lie as mine is doing right now.

Ordonnance

noreply@blogger.com (Alba) — Thu, 17 Feb 2011 12:05:00 +0000

n. prescription
I recently decided to go for a physical, something I try to avoid on a regular basis preferring the head in the sand approach of what I don’t know can’t hurt me. In the US, doctors suggest a yearly exam, but here they tend to be more laid back. One doctor told me I could go every five years, which I thought was a splendid idea, but another suggested that after a certain age (!), every two years was recommended.

The exam was relatively straightforward, blood pressure – good, weight – good, no EKG even though I had one the last time in New York, so all that was left was the “prise de sang” or blood test. The doctor actually doesn’t take the blood though, but instead writes a prescription to take to any lab that’s convenient for you.

There are labs all over the city and you don’t even need an appointment. You do need to be “a jeun,” however, meaning on an empty stomach, so the morning is a popular time slot. After I had my blood drawn, I was told I could either return the next day or they could mail me the results. Since I live a block away, I decided I could make it back over there and save them a stamp. The funny thing is that when you pick them up, the technician takes the sheet of paper with an envelope and sticks it in a machine that folds and seals it. I guess they want you to still have the fun of opening it up when you get home.

And so I did and there I was faced with the results – numbers I didn’t understand, many of them in bold with asterisks and next to all of them the “normal” ranges. Obviously the ones that were bolded were the ones where I was not in the range. Some were below, some were above. After googling, never a good idea, I concluded that I was anemic, had high cholesterol and may be close to dying from a severe Vitamin D deficiency.

It was Friday night, I wouldn’t be able to talk to the doctor until Monday and that was hoping she had received the results herself. It made me question the wisdom of allowing a patient to review results without the benefit of a medical degree.

Monday came and calmly I called the doctor only to find out to my relief that I was actually not that far from the normal range in any of the things I was concerned about and in fact, the cholesterol was the good kind so I was ahead of the game there, too.

The Vitamin D was still a problem though. Apparently so much so that I now have to take a dose every three months for the next year! Without adequate levels of Vitamin D, the body can’t absorb calcium, which is necessary to keep the bones strong, especially in women, especially after a certain age and especially with a history of osteoporosis in the family of which I fall into all three categories.

The sun provides Vitamin D, but there is none here in the winter. Sardines and mackerel have Vitamin D, but I don’t often eat those. I was eager to get started so I could get back on track, but now I had to wait for my prescription, which was being mailed to me. They can’t email it, which I understand and they won’t call the pharmacy, which I don’t understand. But knowing that I needed something and not being able to get it right away was mildly frustrating.

The prescription arrived two days later and I marched across the street to get it filled. The Vitamin D is administered in a little glass ampoule that is completely sealed. How on earth was I supposed to get the liquid out? The pharmacist told me just to break the ampoule, which made absolutely no sense to me whatsoever – why would you put medication in a container that’s glass and needs to be broken!

I gingerly snapped off one of the pointed ends, happy to not have injured myself, but the liquid wouldn’t come out. I realized I had to break the other end in order to remove the suction. I envisioned breaking the thing in two, spilling all the contents and cutting my hand in the process. But I succeeded and poured the little elixir into a glass mixed with water, which turned it a cloudy white. How much water is “un peu” (a little)? Apparently, I put enough since I didn’t suffer any dire consequences.

I thought taking some calcium supplements could jump start my road to recovery, but the instructions that came with them warned against taking them in conjunction with Vitamin D. I was confused – did that mean just not to take them at the same time as the Vitamin D or not to take them at all if you have Vitamin D in your system. I thought the Vitamin D was what helped the bones absorb the calcium so if you needed it, why couldn’t you take the calcium with it?

At the risk of over thinking and over worrying creating stress and possibly additional ill affects, I have decided to stick with yogurts and cheese as my natural sources of calcium – two things the French do exceptionally well and there’s no need for a prescription for either!

Les gens sont fous

noreply@blogger.com (Alba) — Sat, 11 Dec 2010 12:32:00 +0000

exp. – people are crazy

When we first got our puppy, I was telling a fellow dog lover friend how many nice people I’ve met while walking him. She agreed, but added that many of them are a little crazy. I see what she means now since I’ve become a little crazy myself.

I tend to rationalize things for the dog, which is ridiculous, since he doesn’t. I’ve watched endless hours of the DOG WHISPERER and have been working so hard on my “calm, assertive” behaviour. I keep repeating the mantra “I am the pack leader, I am the pack leader” over and over again. The crazy part is that I’ll do it outside and out loud when I’m walking him.

Felix is going through his adolescent stage right now, which is just as bad as it sounds. The various developmental stages of dogs are sped up exponentially given that their time on earth is much shorter than ours. Imagine going from baby to teenager in just six months – it can’t be easy. At first I thought the lifting of his leg was so cute – now I’m trying desperately to stop him from doing it EVERY few feet! The biggest mistake is to ask other dog owners for advice because everyone will tell you something different.

The trainer tells me I shouldn’t let him do that – there’s no reason he can’t let it all out so to speak, at once, making a much more fluid, no pun intended, and agreeable walk, for me at least. A woman just this morning, however, insisted that it’s part of their nature and that it’s perfectly normal. She also admits she lets her dog walk her rather than the other way around and when she wants to run an errand she has to ask him to take her to the butcher, or the dry cleaner, or wherever it may be.

She’s not the only one who apparently lets the dog decide. I met one of my neighbours who had a lovely, big, albeit not very sociable, dog. She invited Felix and me over for coffee, the owner that is, but when I arrived I had to wait in the hall until the dog finished her breakfast because she likes to eat alone. She then proceeded to dig under the table, the dog that is, at which point I looked at Felix and channelled the thought – don’t get any ideas.

One topic that I’ve still yet to resolve is whether or not to neuter the pup. In the US it’s practically mandatory and I always thought it the sensible thing to do – unless you want to breed or show your dog, I understand. Here, it seems only to be a necessary option for female dogs, which I find a bit sexist. In English, we use the words personality and character interchangeably, although a character is used for someone with an out of the ordinary personality. Here the word for personality is "caractère” and “personnage” is actually the word they use for a character. If someone is a real character and not in a good way, they’ll use “special.” Anyway, the French think that castrating male dogs will ruin their personality or take away their character. Don’t female dogs have personalities, too?

The woman who has walked Felix and dog sat him the last time we were away thinks he absolutely should be castrated. Why let him look at all the pretty girl dogs and be able to do nothing about it. I tend to agree with her. I thought I was endearing myself to Felix by sending him off to walk with her since she takes a pile of dogs in her little van to the woods for hours at a time. But the DOG WHISPERER made a very good point in one of his episodes that the dog doesn’t know you’ve paid the dog walker and the last time Felix came home, he went into total crisis mode when she left.

Anyone who has a dog and certainly anyone who doesn’t will tell you that they’re a lot of work – all day, every day, for the rest of their lives. Just like people they have phases where they’re more difficult and just like people, a relationship with a dog is a commitment. Unlike people though, the dog will rarely let you take him for granted. We will get through this difficult phase because I will remain calm, assertive and above all, the pack leader, crazy or not.

Embêter, emmerder, se fâcher

noreply@blogger.com (Alba) — Sat, 11 Dec 2010 10:15:00 +0000

v. – to bug

Not surprisingly here there are many verbs that mean to bother or exasperate. The culture of the French can lean towards the dramatic. Discussing, as I’ve mentioned before, along with debating and even complaining, is part of their way of life.

Recently we had a snowstorm or “tempête de neige” in Paris. By East Coast standards, it wasn’t monumental and the perky weather lady on the news made it clear it was coming, but for some reason, it took Paris by surprise. The city became instantly paralyzed and not surprisingly since to my view, there were no provisions to be seen.

People were slipping and sliding, cars came grinding to a halt and the buses ceased running leaving the metros jammed with panicked commuters trying desperately to get home.

As a former New Yorker, I felt like crying out “People, it’s just a little snow – relax and bring on the salt, “sel” or at least some sand, “sable!” Instead everyone was making excuses – “C’est exceptionnel!” it’s exceptional, everyone kept saying. I’m going on my third winter here and every year we’ve had snow – it was in the weather forecast – what was exceptional about it!

The “éboueurs” or trash collectors went into hiding leaving frozen garbage piling up on the streets. At the risk of sounding dramatic because I am after all becoming more and more French, I felt like I was in a war zone and it all bugged me very, very much!

This is the time of year when the trash collectors, like the “pompiers” or fireman, come door to door to sell you their “calendriers” or calendars. I know this because I was already visited by the latter, catching me off guard by ringing the bell at 8 o’clock at night. Since I wasn’t expecting anyone and am used to my protective doorman bubble back home, I was concerned when he identified himself as a fireman thinking there must be something wrong. Instead, he explained he just wanted to sell me a calendar and while I have the utmost respect for firemen and would be happy to contribute, I was a little bugged that he chose the dinner hour to stop by. On top of it, the price is discretionary, just leading to further confusion with the dinner bubbling over and the dog barking at my heels.

The end of the year does bring out stress in people. The shortened days lead to shortened fuses, the lack of sunlight leads to lack of humour. Winter has started early and unforgivingly this year, but without winter there can be no spring and there’s not a prettier city than Paris when the sun is shining and the flowers are blooming. So until then I will be marking the days off on my calendar and looking forward to that.

Demander

noreply@blogger.com (Alba) — Fri, 10 Dec 2010 15:35:00 +0000

v. – to ask
Exiger
v. – to demand
Insister
v. – to insist

Sometimes French words are exactly the same as English ones and sometimes not at all. I wondered why “demander” doesn’t mean to demand. It seems more logical to me to have another word for to ask rather than coming up with another word for demand.

It’s similar with the verb “marcher,” which doesn’t mean march, but rather walk. There are other words for walk such as “se ballader” and “se promener,” but the word for march is actually “défiler.” This is the same verb they use for cat walk, which makes sense since the models do sort of march to a certain degree. It has nothing to do with the English verb to defile unless you really take offense at some of the latest fashions.

“Se défiler” means to back out as in, at the last minute. There are many other verbs like this, “se manquer,” to miss, “s’appeller,” to call or to name, “se doucher” or “se laver,” to bathe or to wash, “se coucher,” to sleep, etc. All of these things we do to ourselves literally when translated. So even if you miss someone you would say “tu me manques” or you are missed by me. That one is always a little complicated for me even though the rest make sense. “Je me couche,” I put myself to sleep or “je me lave,” I wash myself are logical unless you’re a baby and can’t really do either without help.

The root for the verbs for washing and bathing can be found in the nouns that describe the things we wash and bathe in. For example, “douche” is the word for shower, “lavabo,” the word for sink, “bain,” the word for tub from “se beiner” or to swim. “Robinet” is another word for sink – and makes the distinction between kitchen sink vs. bathroom sink. Hence, “l’eau du robinet” means tap water.

The word “eau” for water rhymes with the word “peau” for skin. The former isn’t that great for the latter here because of the high calcium content or “calcaire.” There are many products aimed at “canilization” or unclogging and freshening drains. The calcium deposits aren’t the only problem. Hair clogs drains as well, but sometimes I wonder if it’s the calcium deposited water that actually causes your hair to fall out. There are also a variety of products targeted at “chute de cheveux” or hair loss, which I suppose is a universal concern.

I’ve always thought it a pity that so many people have too much hair where they don’t want it and not enough where they do. Since humans have worn clothes for centuries now, you would think there would have been a modification at the evolutionary level to redistribute more to the tops of our heads, especially men’s.

I constantly toy with the idea of cutting bangs. Here they are called “franges” or fringe I suppose like the British call them. “Meche” is what the layered side bang is called. It’s also the word for highlighting so you have to be sure you’re clear on what you mean in order to avoid confusion at the salon.

There’s a certain hairstyle that’s very popular here now with boys. It’s a mesh pulled way over to one’s side…sort of like the teen version of the comb over. It looks like it takes a great deal of effort to keep the hair that clearly belongs on one side, all the way over on the other one. It’s the same sort of effort I imagine that it takes to keep their jeans tightly wrapped around the tops of their thighs. But we’ve all been there. I remember spending hours blow-drying my feathered wings, which ended up looking more like little flaccid horns on either side of my head and of course I had many a bell bottom fashion disaster moment as well.

It’s funny how as we age, or at least in my case, I spend a lot less time on my hair and make-up. The French women also have a less is more approach to their looks. I like it – it’s clean and elegant. There is also a healthier approach to getting older here. I don’t see the same lips pulled over forehead looks that I do in the US and that’s refreshing. Sensible eating vs. starvation and diet pills also seem to be the norm. Exercise is practised, but nothing that will emit heavy sweating. Perhaps this has something to do with people not wanting to seek reasons for multiple showers during the day given the harsh water. Instead, a nice healthy “promenade” or walk, will do just fine.

Sentir

noreply@blogger.com (Alba) — Thu, 18 Nov 2010 13:09:00 +0000

v. – to feel or to smell

Someone I recently met suggested I blog about this French word because of its dual meanings. I realized though that in English, the verbs for smell and feel can also be interchangeable. Allow me to back track for a moment in order to give an example.

A few weeks ago while walking my dog in the Champs de Mars, I met a lovely woman walking her own. She happens to be a writer and her latest book is called Consequential Strangers http://www.consequentialstrangers.com. To borrow a quote from her own blog on the topic, consequential strangers are “people who bring novelty and information into our lives, allow us to exercise different parts of ourselves, and open us up to new opportunities.” And this is what we immediately became.

Not long after our encounter, we ran into each other again and since she was about to leave Paris for a while, she invited us to a going away party at her place. It was here that I met the person who suggested blogging about sentir. So now I will get to my example about that verb since it’s all intertwined.

Even though I didn’t know my new stranger/friend for very long, her absence is marked. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that it coincided with the nasty turn in weather and as a result a feeling of emptiness in the park. Where as a few weeks ago, the park was filled with sunlight and golden leaves, now it’s grey and grim and the center where all the dogs congregate looks barren and cold. The French call it grisaille and it's just as it sounds, grey and drizzly or grizzly as I like to call it.

Today as Felix and I approached that center where he used to love to run and play, we came upon a man, his child, one dog off leash and one dog on. Something about the dog on the leash didn’t “smell” right and I slowed my approach. Sure enough the man warned me that the dog wasn’t nice. In fact, he looked downright vicious with one eye missing surely from a fight. I managed to grab my little pup in time to avoid harm, but as another woman passing by pointed out, if the dog is vicious it should be muzzled, not just leashed.

Perhaps the reason we use this word to mean both smell and feel comes from the fact that a dog’s sense of smell is so strong that he can actually learn many things from it. Today, unfortunately, Felix and I both learned to smell danger. And today I met an INconsequential stranger I hope never to see again.

Prononciation

noreply@blogger.com (Alba) — Mon, 15 Nov 2010 14:15:00 +0000

n. – pronunciation
While my French may not be perfect, I do take great pride in my accent. Recently an old friend and former colleague of mine who was coming to France for work asked if I knew anyone who could accompany him during his assignment and translate for him. My husband suggested I volunteer so I did.

Once he arrived in Paris, we travelled to Burgundy where the story he was reporting on took place. On the way, we stopped in Fontainebleau and had lunch just near the magnificent chateau. The name came from a fresh water spring or “Beautiful Water Fountain” if you break down the name Fontaine-Belle-Eau.

When we arrived at our final destination in the small town of Nuits Saint Georges, we were greeted by the owner of the Chambres d’Hôtes where we were staying. Literally translated this means, hosted rooms or bed and breakfast would be the way I would describe it. In this case it was a hôtel particulier, which is another way of describing a single family home. While not as grand on the scale of the Hôtel Lambert on Ile Saint Louis which was recently sold for somewhere around 80 million euros, it was still a large multi-roomed mansion of sorts and expensive to keep up, which is why the woman and her mother had decided to turn it into a guest house.

I cheerily told her about our visit to Fontainebleau, but she cocked her head indicating she didn’t understand. I repeated Fontainebleau. Again, she cocked her head and looked confused. Fontainebleau, I kept saying, surprised that she hadn’t heard of it since it’s so famous. Finally, she said “ah, Fontainebleau.” It was not a good start to a translating effort if I couldn’t even make her understand one of the most famous French cities within an hour’s drive from where she lived.

However, my friend and I had a giggle about it because neither one of us could figure out what I had done wrong. I explained the story to my husband when I got home and he spotted the error right away. I was pronouncing the end more like the color blue is pronounced in French. Instead, I should have pronounced the end to sound more like blow. It’s a subtle difference I can assure you!

I run into the same situation with my dog’s name, which is Felix. People ask me what he’s called and I answer, Felix. They ask me to repeat it and then they say “ah, Félix.” I guess it’s because I don’t use the accent when I speak. I’m getting used to it because I’m not changing the way I pronounce it, which is more like Feelix than Fehlix. Someone I know who is from Peru pronounces it Feliz, which is cute so sometimes my husband and I call him Feliz Navidad. I like the fact that Felix comes from the Latin word for happy. I do get tired of people telling me that Felix is a cat, though.

My friend and I had more language giggles during our excursion, mostly at his expense because he doesn’t speak a word of French. As such, his pronunciation or lack thereof, make it hard for even me to understand what he’s trying to say. He did make some valid points though, like why put an “s” in the middle of a word if you’re not going to use it. In Vosne Romanée, a region in Burgundy, the first word is pronounced Vone, not Voznee as he liked to say.

With the arrival of the accent circumflex in the French language around the 16^th century, many an “s” before a consonant disappeared. For example in the word hôtes seen above, the accent over the “o” has eliminated the need for an “s” which surely used to be there as we see in the English word, host. It’s the same with hôtel or hôpital. In English, while we also use the word hotel, we still use hostel to describe lodging of a more practical manner. Gîtes, which is another word for inn, also has an accent circumflex, this time over the “i” replacing an “s” that must have been there preceding the “t.”

But my favorite language faux pas or false step, literally translated, was when my friend said bonjour at the end of a conversation. I explained it’s not like aloha or ciao. Bonjour is always hello and never goodbye. We had a good giggle over that one.

Bonjour!

Supermarché

noreply@blogger.com (Alba) — Sat, 13 Nov 2010 14:35:00 +0000

n. – supermarket
Marcher
v. – walk
Faire les courses
v. – go (or literally make) grocery shopping
Cours
n. – class or course
Court
adj. – short
Faire les magasins
v. – go (or literally make) shopping (for anything other than groceries)

Magasin
n. – store (that sells anything other than groceries)
Magazine
n. – magazine
Carte
n. menu or card
Caddie
n. – caddy or cart
Online food delivery exists here although I have yet to use it. I did, however, break down and buy what I call the “granny trolley” to do my grocery shopping and how I do love that! I simply wheel the trolley along the tiny sidewalk to the supermarket, throw everything in it as I wheel it up and down the aisles and then throw everything back in it once the delightful check out clerk has rung everything up, ready to pay as soon as she’s finished and be on my way. It sure beats the pressure of begging for and then un-sticking the plastic bags while the line mounts up behind you. I used to refuse to pay until everything was packed because once you do, the clerks just start moving the next person’s things along piling up on top of yours. I know I’ve written about this before, but I’m still waiting for someone to explain why oh why can’t they simply help!

The culture of real grocery shopping in Paris or most European cities for that matter is different from many American cities in that you run your errands at several shops all located nearby. The butcher, baker, cheese shop, fishmonger, greengrocer, etc. are all separate entities. Pharmacies are also separate stores and here are more like old-fashioned chemists than drugstores like we’re used to. I don’t usually take my granny trolley when I shop like this, but rather only when I’m cheating and going to the market where I can get almost everything in one place.

It’s not the same of course because there you don’t strike up a conversation with the butcher who is so fond of our puppy that he’ll let him lick his hands across the counter. Of course in the States, you would never see a dog in a butcher shop much less the supermarket. Here they are tolerated and left tied up near the check out awaiting their masters if not actually condoned running wild through the store.

The thing I like about the supermarket is that it’s open all day. Most of the other little specialty stores shut down for lunch and by lunch I mean from 1-4. There is a great store for dogs, but they don’t even open until 2 and there’s another little repair store that never seems to be open. It's called “Je repare tout” or “I repair everything,” but I've added to that, “Mais je ne suis jamais la,” “But I’m never here.” In fairness I did go in once with a broken alarm clock, but he couldn’t fix it. Maybe a simple amendment to “Je repair presque tout quand je suis la” would be better, “I repair almost everything when I’m here.”

So like everything in France, errand running is an art. Timing, patience and the art of conversation are all part of the equation to ensure success. And if I did choose to do all my shopping online, I would have nothing to blog about!

Avoir du temps à tuer

noreply@blogger.com (Alba) — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 13:49:00 +0000

Exp. – killing time
Entrepreneur
n. - from the words "entre" or under and "prendre" to take

Nearly four months after our kitchen ceiling collapsed, I’m sitting here waiting for the entrepreneur or as we would call him, handyman, to come and finish repairing the hole. He began on Friday, today is Monday and as long as he continues to show up, it should be fixed by the end of the week.

Nothing happens quickly in France – nothing. People don’t rush here because there’s no point. We had brunch yesterday with friends, leaving the apartment at noon to return at 5pm. Getting back to the kitchen ceiling, it took six weeks just to get our insurance expert to come and take a look at it. Of course it was during August when everyone is on vacation. The process then had to be repeated two months later since there was some dispute over how much the repairs would cost.

Disputes or discussions are a way of life here. And both take time. The unions are still disputing and discussing the retirement reform. To explain it simply, the reform would raise the retirement age by two years in order to keep the pension coffers from running out. I think it’s already been passed into law, but that doesn’t stop the unions from holding their manifestations or protests. Even the lyceens or high school students got into the act, protesting in a show of solidarity while their representatives made the talk show rounds to discuss the topic even further. It’s difficult sometimes to understand anyone’s points of view though since another French habit is talking over one another.

When I was on the bus the other day I started up a conversation with a lovely French woman. A young lyceen got on the bus without paying. Apparently he didn’t have his metro card for some reason, but he did have a healthy sense of entitlement. He and the bus driver started to dispute and the woman rolled her eyes and said “ah we French love to discuss things – you see how much they discuss this and all it’s doing is wasting time.”

Time here is not a luxury, but a right. People deserve their time and they will take it and yours. This is why vacation time is not a privilege, but an expectation. When discussing the strikes one day with a Nigerian taxi driver, he said, “In my country, we work to get ahead, to buy a home, to make our lives. In France, people work to get to their vacation.” That’s why adding another two years to the retirement age feels like a life sentence.

The French have a reputation for being tardy, which while not true for all of them, does play into their relationship with time. Even television timing can be off as we have witnessed when trying to tape French shows. For some reason and especially with films, we have to remember to build in some extra time in order to risk missing the end since they don’t seem to start when the guide says they will.

An hour and a half after expected, the handyman has shown up. When it comes to repairs, I’m happy for him to take his time and in fairness, he does a very good job. Traffic and bad weather got in the way of punctuality this morning and because I had nothing else planned, “ca me derange pas,” it doesn’t bother me. He tells me he still has another three days of work to do – further patching tomorrow followed by first and second coats of paint the following two days. But we just realized in talking that Thursday is a holiday, Friday a “pont” or bridge for those who can take it allowing for a nice long four-day weekend. So the job will actually finish next week, which is a good thing too because he tells me that after that he will be on vacation.

Poubelle

noreply@blogger.com (Alba) — Fri, 05 Nov 2010 16:44:00 +0000

n. – trash can

Upon leaving my apartment, I have six doors to open and two buttons to push just to get outside. This doesn’t include the door to the trash and recycling room in case I need to drop anything off on my way out. And it also doesn’t include the various light switches that I need to push in times of darkness.

I was spoiled living in New York where I barely had to use my hands until it was time to unlock the door to my apartment. With 24/7 doormen and electronic elevator doors, I could keep my hands safely in my pockets if I wanted until I reached my final destination. Locking and unlocking my apartment door was also much less complicated there. The lock to our Paris apartment is spring loaded, which actually requires both hands to operate.

I mention all of this only because if it was troublesome before, it’s only more so with a little ball of fur underfoot that needs precision timing in order to successfully coordinate his disposal needs at street level.

Last night at around 11pm, after suspecting the timing may be right, I proceeded along my ritual of door opening, closing, locking and button pushing giving myself the additional challenge of disposing of the trash and paper/plastic items. Here bottles fall into a third category and since they make such a loud crash in their receptacle, I don’t take them down between the hours of 10pm and 10am.

Lo and behold, no trash or recycle cans to be found since they had already been put out in the street. I thought Monday night was trash pick up, but with only one can for a seven story building, it makes sense that this is a two or maybe even three time a week event. Maybe it occurs every night and I just don’t notice unless I have anything to take down with me after hours.

Trash and recycle disposal in New York was so much easier – there was a room at the end of the hall on every floor with a chute for the garbage and all other items, glass, paper and plastic could simply be left next to said chute. Oh how spoiled we Americans are with all of our space and conveniences. Adapting to a new day-to-day life or “vie quotidienne” has been challenging at times, but there’s always a light at the end of the tunnel. Here all you have to do is remember to turn it on.

Dresseur

noreply@blogger.com (Alba) — Thu, 30 Sep 2010 15:16:00 +0000

n. – trainer as in for dogs
It wasn’t that long ago that I was the head of a department that brought in millions of dollars in international advertising revenue working with high-end luxury clients worldwide. Today I was taking directions from a dog trainer a good generation behind me in age.

The economic crisis was partly responsible for the change in my life. Advertising budgets being cut causing revenue to drastically decrease was one of the reasons that the office I ran, once the in-house sales team for one of the largest international magazine publishers, was outsourced to a media rep firm. The city I lived in and loved, New York, is now one I love to visit since a great work opportunity brought my French husband to Paris. So it is here in my new home that I have been spending my time carving out a new niche, a new identity for myself.

At the moment, my role is nurturing, rearing and training a puppy. It may sound trivial, but anyone who has dedicated themselves to it as I have will tell you it is no small feat. I am humbled by the patience and discipline that it takes along with the respect I have for someone who is an expert in his field, the dog trainer, just as I used to like to think I was an expert in mine, an advertising executive.

Once the boss, I am now the trainee. In fact sometimes I think I have more to learn than the puppy himself. I was so proud today when I told the trainer that I taught the dog “attends” or wait in addition to “assis” or sit. He tells me “Down,” (because like most French people he has trouble pronouncing Dawn for some reason) “Felix doesn’t understand French, there is no point in teaching him the word for wait.” “But you’ve taught him the word for sit.” I insist, confused as to what I’ve done wrong. “Exactly, and the word for sit is enough – to wait on top of that doesn’t mean anything.”

It’s amazing how we complicate our lives. The trainer is absolutely right. As long as the dog is sitting, he’s not moving, therefore he is naturally waiting. The puppy doesn’t need many words, which doesn’t come naturally to someone like me. I used to spend hours meticulously drafting emails whether it was to convince a client that our titles were the right environment for their products or to explain the rationale for our negotiations. Now it has come down to several “mots clefs” or literally translated, key words: “laisse,” leave or stop; “prends,” take it; “assis,” sit; “avance,” go; “couché,” lie down and “c’est fini,” it’s finished, to signify the end of the game or exercise.

Once ecstatic at landing a million dollar marketing campaign, I’m now thrilled at the sight of my puppy peeing anywhere outside of our apartment. Once exhilarated by gaining a new client through endless prospecting, I’m now elated when my puppy follows me in the park without his leash. There is a different, but undoubtedly far more profound feeling of accomplishment that my new role brings me. And while I have the time to dedicate myself to it, I want to excel at it. I want to make the trainer proud, but more importantly I want to make my puppy the best that he can be.

Mind you, not everyone is pro trainer. Many think it unnecessary and a waste of money. I think that for the basics of dog psychology, it’s been very helpful. I see how affective the theory of rewarding or “récompense” is. My puppy will do anything for those tasty little treats the trainer keeps in his pocket hanging on his hip. On the other hand, they make the dog thirsty and after a session with the trainer, my pup poos and pees more than ever! But I don’t follow all of the trainer’s rules. I still pick my puppy up and put him on my lap from time to time (just don’t tell him.)

So while Felix may not bring me much in terms of revenue, he brings me everything in terms of loyalty and unconditional love. As for the housetraining and leash training and all the rest, it will come with time and perseverance. There is an expression here, “Petit a petit, l'oiseau fait son nid.” Little by little, the bird makes his nest."

C’est fini.

En baver des ronds de chapeau

noreply@blogger.com (Alba) — Tue, 14 Sep 2010 12:19:00 +0000

Exp. – have a tough time of it
The trainer used this expression about the dog and I see what he meant. While I tried to get a better handle of the expression by looking it up, I couldn’t really find a satisfactory explanation of its orgins, but because “baver” is the verb for drool and “ronds de chapeau” is the noun for hat brim, it makes sense that this would be a difficult thing to do – unless you’re standing upside down, which is what it feels like sometimes when training a pooch.

We human adults take so many things for granted. But when I now take Felix for his walks, I realize how many perils lurk outside. The streets are filled with trash, even in our pristine neighborhood. I really don’t know why it’s so hard to reach one’s arm out and throw something in the many trash bags that line the street. I remember once in New York when I was in the subway, I watched a woman drop her metro card on the ground. I called after her because I genuinely thought she dropped it by mistake, but she gave me a look to say “I don’t need it anymore.” My jaw sort of dropped unconsciously as I looked a foot past her where there was a trash can. She got the message, picked up the card and threw it away.

I watched a woman here the other day open up her packet of cigarettes as she crossed the street and just drop the plastic wrapping on the ground. That plastic wrapping is not only litter, but now a possible choking hazard for my dog. I’m constantly pulling wads of paper, cigarette butts, metro tickets, you name it, out of the dog’s mouth. He also loves leaves and pigeon feathers. I sometimes feel I’m walking a dustbuster.

As I’ve mentioned before, the French love their dogs, but apparently they don’t love cleaning up after them so much. This leaves another obstacle to navigate, which I was always cautious of before, but now I have the added concern of my dog’s open mouth ready to ingest anything he sees.

Felix is happy to have the attention of anyone, man, woman, child, fellow dog. Total strangers want to take his picture and hold him. Today while we were walking, a woman stopped to tell me how adorable he is. She went on to tell me about her dog that had died. When I asked if the dog was old, she explained that she had actually eaten something that killed her and started to cry. It broke my heart to see such profound sadness in her eyes. I told her she should get another dog to which she replied that she was too old. That broke my heart even more. She wished me all the best with Felix and I tried to take comfort in the fact that maybe for just a few moments he gave her some happiness, but her sadness lingers with me as I write this.

Just as it’s readily apparent when people love dogs, it’s equally so when they do not. I always wonder what goes through the minds of people who glare in disgust at my little innocent ball of fur. I wonder how unhappy they must be to look at something that makes most people’s heart melt with such contempt. What amuses me the most though is the expression on Felix’s face as they march past him as if to say “Wait, don’t you think I’m cute – what’s wrong with you?”

My dog is napping now – a time when the world goes quiet and I can tend to things that need to be done. Sometimes he dreams and according to the trainer, only predators dream because they feel safe when they’re sleeping. Sometimes I feel like napping, too because when the little whirling dervish of energy comes alive, I need to be fortified. Another thing the trainer explained to me is the role of the alpha male (or female in my case). He said that when puppies get too unruly, the alpha will simply turn away from them or even turn their back on them completely. Another trick they use is to yawn signifying that they’re bored with the behaviour. But after dealing with a puppy at play, I actually believe the alphas yawn because they’re just really tired!