Toute Seule

Every now and then, the A Quadrant of my brain kicks into high gear (probably my body’s way of preserving itself) and I start to make lists. This is the one I made today.

Things I Still Need

- blanket
- pillow

- lamp

- dish towels

- cushions

- THE ABILITY TO SPEAK FRENCH

This, here, is a picture of my map:

No, I didn’t put it through the paper shredder, just abused the hell out of it. I seem to have a penchant for walking in the opposite direction of wherever I need to go, and, I might note, not realizing it for a good ten blocks. The up side to my stupidity is that I often run into some bizarre and interesting things. Like the other day near Hotel de Ville, for example. I’m so direction impaired that just coming out a different exit of a metro station will disorient me considerably. That’s what I did at my usual Cordeliers stop and somehow ended up near Hotel de Ville. As I rounded a corner, I heard a lot of screaming and shouting. Then what should I see but a crowd of young people, gathered around- well, I’m not sure what it’s called exactly- but it was a fountain that ran a path on the ground- sort of like a man-made river. Naturally I had to see what all the fuss was about. I’m not sure how to begin to describe what I saw- essentially a young (teenage-ish) girl and boy were racing through the fountain thing. A bit weird, right? Well get this- they were wearing DIAPERS over their pants. I kid you not. Soppy, saggy diapers. I knew that this was something I absolutely needed to inquire into, but with something like that- I mean- where do you even start? So I just stood and watched the kids take turns racing, cringeing the whole time at the precariousness of it all (one girl actually fell!) Finally, I turned to the boy next to me and said: “Uhh, connais-tu qu’est que c’est ici?” (Do you know what this is here?) and he explained to me that it was a tradition at the lycees (high school) for the first-year students. A sort of initiation. My god! As if the first day of high school wasn’t scary enough! But the funny thing was that they all seemed to be having a riot. Oh, French people.

In a lot of ways, the diaper-initiation kind of reflects the way I personally feel coming to France. Stick with me here, I promise this is going to make sense. Although I haven’t found Lyon to be at all as “froid” (cold) as other say it is, I can’t exactly say that France is a welcoming country. You’ve got to prove yourself, earn people’s confidence. Every day I feel like I’m playing a game and picking up the rules as I go along. Riding the bus, shopping, eating in a café- all of these things feel like little initiations. And believe me, they are about as terrifying (and sometimes embarrassing) as running through the fountain with a diaper on. But instead of wearing a diaper, I’m wearing an American accent and a lost look on my face.

The other, I did something truly scary- I went and ate diner in a brasserie all alone. Toute seule- they French call it. As far as I know, they don’t have a more delicate term for it, like “by myself.” Vous êtes toute seule, Mademoiselle? the waiter asked me. Oui Monsieur, je suis toute seule, I replied, with a wan, weary smile. It had been a long week with orientation courses and getting settled in. Since we had class the next day, everybody had planned on staying in. But it was Friday, and I wanted to do something to celebrate the end of a hard week. So I went to Vieux-Lyon, because really, I find it to be the most pleasant and relaxing place in the whole city.

The waiter then asked me if I wanted to sit outside. I hesitated, thinking it might get dark and then I wouldn’t be able to read the book I’d brought. Then he said I could sit outside and watch all the beau garçons who were walking by. His directness caught me off guard and I laughed out loud. A waiter in the states would never say that, but then, perhaps their’s a reasons “French” sounds so much like “frank.”

The meal was lovely. A big ham and swiss cheese salad with nuts and creamy dressing, followed by a ham and cheese crepe. Throw in a basket of bread and a demi-pot of pink wine and I was one satisfied girl (for the record, a demi-pot is the equivalent of two glasse, for anyone who thinks France has turned me into an alcoholic!) I dined as the sun set and felt myself grow progressively tipsy and happy. So tipsy and happy, in fact, that I actually had the audacity to converse with the waiters after my meal. Excusez-moi, j’ai un petit question. To which they all jokingly replied oh oui, mon numero de telephone? Je sais. It was definitely NOT their numero de telephone I sought, considering they were all in their 30’s at least. The restaurant’s name was “Le Petit Glouton,” and I was wondering if “glouton” meant “glutton,” since “the little glutton” would be a rather funny name for a restaurant. A simple question, but the Maitre-D went into a long explantion of the word’s etymology, which, thanks to the wine and my fatigue, I only half understood. They also asked if I had Italian ancestry. I must say, they French always have cracked out ideas about that. When I was in Paris a couple of years ago, a man asked if I was japonais- because my eyes are slightly almond-shaped (they’re BLUE, for goodness sake!) But they explained it was because of my roman nose. I definitely have English and Irish ancestors and even some French and German descendance (apparently my lineage has been traced back to Charlemagne, but who knows?) This however, was a new thought: is it possible that I’m somehow related to the Romans who colonized Lyon so very long ago? It’s a nice thought.

At times like these, being in France is like a wonderful little dream. Oh how quickly it can turn into a nightmare! Ladies and gentleman, I now present to you my biggest horror story to date. I’m pretty much agnostic, but that doesn’t stop me from sometimes envisioning what heaven and hell might be like. I got an idea of what heaven must be like two years ago when I visited the gardens of Versaille. Today, I got more than an idea of what hell is like. I know for sure. Hell is a place called Carrefour.

Americans, think of Wal-Mart. Now think of a Walmart where all the signs are in French, you must have a 1 euro coin to use a shopping cart that, by the way, is extrememly difficult to navigate. Put about twice as many customers in, clutter up the aisles a bit, and you have Carrefour. Again, it was like playing a game. A horrible, horrible game called “just you try to get down this aisle!” The best was when I discovered the groceries were on another level. You go up a little escalator-like ramp, with your cart. When I got to the top my cart got a bit jammed and instinctively I cried out “OH MY GOD!” but the people behind me kindly helped me over the hump. The whole thing reminded me of a ski-lift, on which the right timing is crucial for a smooth landing. But none of this is at all traumatizing in comparison to what came next. Buying my things. As soon as I begin to put my items on the conveyor belt the clerk starts speaking to me in rapid french. It’s loud despite the fact that I ask her to repeat three times, I still have no clue what she’s saying. Somehow, things proceed. I pay for my items and then she’s suddenly asking me for 10 euros. Eh? I don’t get it, but I also realize it’s the same country where you pay for public toilets, so with resignation, I hand over the money. Then suddenly, I’m being directed towards a counter and being handed a slip. Quoi??? The man at the counter ignores me for a couple of minutes, then looks up and starts to ask for my telephone number and address. I’m so confused I feel like pulling my hair out. Is this another component of the French bureacracy? For a moment, I truly thought you had to register to buy groceries in the country. I was so distressed and could feel my French slipping away amidst what I will lovingly refer to as the Carrefour Cacaphony. I couldn’t understand what the man was telling me. Then, I couldn’t help it, I felt the tears welling up. I was sick of the struggle. All I wanted to do was buy some things. When the guy asked me what floor I lived on, I just snapped. “POURQUOI EST-CE QUE C’EST NECESSAIRE??!!” and, oh god I cringe to recount it, folks- burst into tears. All the stress, the hassle, the struggle of my first week in Lyon culminated into that moment, where I was standing in the middle Carrefour, practically choking on my own tears.

It was necessary, apparently, because I had told the woman that I wanted my groceries delivered.

You can imagine how embarassed I was to be crying in public, but I couldn’t manage to stop myself, and this made it difficult to explain to the managers that I hadn’t understood the lady and that I didn’t want my groceries delivered. Somehow, I got my money back and was kindly escorted to the elevator.

How do people who speak NO French ever make it here?

One of the managers was pretty nice. He said about the clerks “ils ne parlent anglais et ils n’ont pas la patience.” In my frazzled state, I really thought he said they have no passions and I thought that was a bit bizarre indeed. I got off the elevator wondering what having passions had to do with their ability to help me, then realized I was nowhere near the taxi station. LUCKILY, a couple of kind ladies detected my distress. They saw all my bags and gave me a ride to the taxi station.

God bless them.

That’s the thing about France- every rude person is counterbalanced by one (or two) unbelievably nice ones. A couple of days ago I received my very first faire la bise from an Algerian girl who lives in my residence. We had just met in the elevator, but she told me to drop by her room any time and was just so warm and friendly. Yesterday, I received my deuzieme faire la bise from a spanish girl who stopped and asked me for directions as I was walking to the metro station. Somehow, I actually knew how to direct her to where she was going, and since it was the same direction as me, we ended up having a conversation. She said her english was pénible and I realized that's exactly the word I've been searching for to describe my French. However, she said that she liked speaking French and would be happy to practice with me any time. Quelle chance! Unfortunately, my American telephone is really starting to hinder my social life. Must be fixed.

Last night, I also had my first dinner party with my some new friends from orientation. I brought the cheese and the dessert. We've gotten to the point where we're almost always speaking in French to each other, so it's great practice and not stressful because we're all learning. We were, however, greatly amused when it soon became evident that everyone had bought their food at "Petit Casino"

All in all, I think things are going to be okay. As long as I continue to meet people who have passions.