My France Hurts

Last night, as I was getting ready to go out, my host-mom was putting her daughters to bed. Among the typical good night wishes bonne nuit, bisous, chouchou and requests for lights to be left on and bibrons to be made, something strange emerged.

Kid: J'ai mal au ventre (my stomach hurts)

Mom: Eh oui, j'ai mal à la France

Kid: J'ai mal à la Russie!

Mom: J'ai mal aux saussissons!

It was the first time I'd heard, or at least caught onto, something ressembling the kind of idiotic inside jokes that families make-- jokes bred, I think, by a need to relieve the stress of living amongst one another hour after hour with a healthy does of loony. I don't intend this entry to be some sort of 'everyone smiles in the same language' kind of crap. Well, actually, maybe I do.

Anyone out there...anyone?

So I clearly haven't been so diligent about updating my blog these days, and I'm not certain people are still reading it-- so if you ARE reading it, please leave a comment letting me know! Otherwise, I will assume that my blog has become the virtual equivalent of talking to a wall, or worse, an imaginary group of friends.

Let me say that my recent absence is not for lack of things to write about. Life in Lyon is as challenging, absurd, thought-provoking as always. I just haven't had connection to the internet on my own computer. From now on, I'm going to try to take a different approach-- to just write short but frequent entries rather than these long, ruminative, probably tedious pondering on life as an ex-pat. That is, of course, if anyone is still reading in the first place.

And what could demonstrate my newfound conversion to brevity better than...a list?

Signs that I’ve been living in France for awhile

1) If possible, I try to cater my shopping so that the cashiers won’t have to give me any large amount of change.

2) No matter how warm it is, my neck feels cold and naked without a scarf.

3) I can easily go 24 hours without the internet.

4) I cannot go 24 hours without cheese.

5) I have lots of difficulty typing on English keyboards.

6) I think that 1 euro (i.e. $1.50) is a reasonable, even cheap, price to pay for a can of coke.

7) The idea of exerting any energy whatsoever on Sunday, besides maybe for cooking a good meal, disgusts me.

8) Nicolas Sarkozy and Carla Bruni have replaced Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie as the couple of interest in my mind

9) I no longer 'think' of plans, I 'propose' them. I tell people I am 'in accord' with them and I say things like 'I'll call at her' and 'I got myself up'

10) I barely notice when service is slow, and when it's fast I treat the server like my best friend.

11) Upon looking at the ‘tall’ starbucks latte I’ve ordered I think ‘my god, that’s huge ! there’s no way I’ll ever finish it all !’

And ONE sign that you can take the girl out of America but you can’t take the America out of the girl ;

Despite my doubts, I still finish the latte. And want more.

Ve-love

So, after months and months of avoiding Lyon’s bike system out of fear, laziness, and a lack of sufficient funds for the deposit, I finally got my act together and purchased a Velov card. Now my only regret is that I didn’t do this earlier. Much earlier.

Now, for those who are unacquainted with the concept of such a system (i.e. non-europeans) I will give a quick run-down of how it works. The Velov is essentially a bike rental system available to anyone with a French bank account. To use it, you purchase a Velov card (just 1 euro for a whole week) and pick up a bike at one of the various stations positioned around the city. Afterwards, all you need to do is drop it off at another one. It’s all machine operated and very efficient, except of course, when the bikes are faulty (which is often). The practical benefits are bien evident – it’s cheap, good exercise, and environmentally friendly.

But what pleases me the most about the Velov is the feeling of swiftness you get whizzing around on it from point A to point B. It’s as though I’m suddenly seeing Lyon through new eyes—those of a well adjusted local and not a confused foreigner. On the bike, I can easily glide past the numerous street solicitors as well as the standard creeps without having to exchange a word. A strange feeling of control is attained.

(warning : feeling not attained on a Sunday afternoon in the Parc de la Tete d’Or whilst put-putting through the masses—all cardiovascular benefits will be negated by the blood boiling rage you will feel for the folks that walk slower than snails).

French Friends??

As of two or three weeks ago, I had basically resigned myself to never having any French friends. I figured it was a pity, but tant pis. Until then, I had met a fair number of Frenchies, but the language barrier just rendered it too difficult for me to make any sort of real connection. It was always the same, really-- we'd be introduced, make small talk which would eventually fizzle due to my inability to understand or just a plain lack of things in common. None of them ever showed interest in extending our friendship beyond the occasional party or casual chatting at school.

It was okay, I thought, because I was practicing with my family. And it wasn't like I was hanging out with a bunch of Americans.

The sort of fantasy I'd always had, and I think it is one shared by countless exchange students, was for some very fun, friendly French students to introduce themselves to me, show interest in me, where I'm from and why I'm here, compliment my French, but coyly correct my mistakes, and then, most importantly of all, ask me to hang out with them.

After six months in Lyon, I'd written this off as a laughable pipe dream. But friends, it has actually happened!

And so here I am (or was) sitting in a bar, the only exchange student among a group of French girls and boys, straining to follow the trail of their banter over the blaring music, whilst self-consciously sipping the prim little glass of white wine they teased me for having ordered (I was in the mood for it!)

And here I am (or was) walking down the streets of Lyon with them at 1am as they speak in English and I speak in French (practice all around!)

And here I am, greeting one of them with a bisous before we go to take a coffee at an outdoor cafe.

And I figure, even if nothing comes of this, I'll at least have these moments to remember when I look back on my year in France.

Happy Saint Valentin!

Note: I wrote this two weeks ago but have only now gotten around to posting it. Enjoy!

This morning was no different from a typical morning— as usual my alarm went off and I continued telling myself I would « get up in five minutes, like, for real this time. » Of course, this resulted in me having hurry like hell (I regret all the money I have spent on make-up, as I never have time to put in on anyway). I was dashing into the metro station, whipping out my wallet in which my precious tecely monthly pass is stowed, only to get an annoying surprise : the doors would not open. Why ? Because my card had in fact, expired. Yes indeed, it was now February.

Once I ‘d gotten over my annoyance with both the transportation system and myself, for forgetting, and once I’d reluctantly purchased a croissant to get change to buy a metro ticket, it dawned on me that the beginning of February is pretty significant, inasmuch as it marks the halfway point of my ten month stay in France. It’s difficult to grasp the fact that I’m now ‘over the hump’ you might say- that from this point on my time in France will start to feel, more and more, as though it’s dwindling away. On the other hand, I can’t believe I’m only halfway through it—after all that has happened, the struggles, the friendships, the crazy encounters, the culture shock— it’s hard to believe I’ve lived through all that, and was, the whole time…just getting started.

Luckily, to keep life from getting banal, I’ve got a whole new set of challenges facing me. I have taken on the job of being a « jeune fill au pair » for two French girls. Yes, I now live with a French family. A very French family. As in—they say things like « c’est la vie » eat stinky cheese like it’s going out of style and have the collected works of Victor Hugo proudly displayed on their living room bookshelf. I just went to check on the girls a minute ago, actually, and the older one was teaching the younger one about your basic three dimensional shapes. I was never aware that you could cover this subject using French cheese packaging for examples, but it is all the sudden completely clear. The wedge of camembert, the cylinder of chevre ! What’s next – a field trip to the epicerie ?

It’s odd the way speaking a different language proves to be not only mentally, but actually physically tiring. As of late, I have found myself exhausted in addition to having an suspicious penchant for sleeping nine, ten hours straight. Despite this, I have not for one second found myself wishing to be back in my old apartment. Now, as opposed to last semester, I am learning new words and phrases on a daily basis. The first words I utter each day are French ones (and unlike before, they’re not just un cafe creme, s’il vous plait). At last it feels like I’m getting the immersion experience I came here for. And my mattress, in addition to being twice the size of my old one, doesn’t cost me a dime.

The girls are aged 8 and 11, so my job consists mostly in mitigating their squabbles and transporting them to and from their various activities. Sometimes it’s very easy and I feel like I’m barely working. I unload the dishwasher while they do their homework, bring ‘em a glass of water, make a joke or two—whatever. Even being authoritative hasn’t proved to be too much of a challenge despite my dodgy French. And yet, it’s challenging in a different way. The kind of challenge presented by sitting around a dinner table with a family that isn’t your own, and not quite understanding what they’re all chuckling over, whilst trying to conceal that fact (the smiling and chuckling along strategy stops working at the point where they turn to you and ask « tu comprends ? ») The kind of challenge presented by the constant feeling that you may commit some horrific cultural faux pas (or rather, a grosse betise) any minute. The kind of challenge that comes from having your own language bottled up inside you all day. Save some text messages, I haven’t spoken English all day, and now, writing this, I am amazed at how reflexively I edit my sentences- how intuitive my sense for what sounds and doesn’t sound good really is. Hah, well, or at least how intuitive it feels- god knows, it wouldn’t hurt to edit my blog entires a little more.

But I wasn’t quite correct in equating not speaking English to the suppression of words- it’s bigger than that. It’s the suppression of personality that can get to you. And the contrast between who I am with this family (somewhat daft, bashful but bubbly, goofy au pair) and who I really am (a wee bit of a sarcastic bitch) couldn’t be more apparent than when I have friends over. Speaking to them in English, I suddenly become concious of, and infinitely grateful for, the ability to express my thoughts, subtle nuances and all. But it feels weird being able to do so in a place where I normally can’t.

Never being able to say exactly what I want to is frustrating, and yet, I can’t imagine going back to a world where I always could- though I know I inevitably will. Wrestling with the monster that is French syntax has become such an integral part of my life that I think I’d feel strangely restless without the struggle. Bored, too, not being able to construct phrases like « les filles, je ne veux pas sois mechant, mais ma patience n’est pas…grande…comme les montagnes » (Girls, I don’t want to be mean, but my patience isn’t…big…like mountains).

The language is also starting to grow on me, much like a somewhat dopey, awkward boy. Repellant at first (seemed impossible) then ever-so-slightly charming until one day, I realized as I was sitting in class, that I was actually taking pleasure in listening to the lecture- not for the subject matter, but for that sort of hushed elegance you rarely find in English. That’s right- hit me with those liasons ! Bizarre, but I was listening to it in almost the same way I listen to music- appreciating its sonority, anticipating all the dips and bends in the cadence. Though I always hoped I’d be able eventually speak French, I never fathomed a day would come when I’d actually take pleasure in it. And though there are times (many) when I feel like I’m progressing at a snail’s pace, when I think back to where I was a year ago, or hell, even five months ago, I’m pretty baffled.

Luckily I’ve got the girls to keep me from getting too full of myself. When I make a mistake, instead of being coyly corrected, I am given a harsh reprimanding by my eight year old girl. That is- when I’m still coherent. When she raises one eyebrow, screws up her nose and cocks her head to the side, I know I’ve ceased to make any sense at all. But the miscommunications can be pretty funny. On our first day together, she asked me to « devine » (guess) who was taking her to the ski bus tomorrow. In return, I asked her who this « Devine » character was. Now Devine has become a somewhat mythical figure, popping up in imaginary games and jokes.

She also told me had learned two phrases in English from her old au pair, a girl from New Zealand who spoke barely any French when she first arrived. They were : Oh my goodness ! and Shutup !

I have to say, after two weeks of being this kid’s au pair, I understand why. Perfectly.

And here is some French that she has taught me.

« Ca pu ! » (that stinks ! referring to my bedroom where the garbage can had gone a little too long without emptying)

« J’ai mal au ventre » (I’ve got a stomach ache--her excuse every night for not sleeping)

« Est-ce que tu crains si je fais ca » (are you ticklish ?)

« J’ai honte » (Literally « I have shame » but I think this is how the French say « I’m embarrased » considering she said this after she insisted on pushing her doll’s stroller to McDonalds, then had to face the reality of doing so).

« J'ai pete"-- I farted

Okay, so nothing that’s going to be particularly helpful when it comes to analyzing Proust, but I’m glad to know it.

Et bien sur, je suis tombee malade...

Because we are in the thick of winter, and because I spend several hours a week around kids, it was somewhat inevitable that I would get sick. It started with a little congestion and a cough, but when I got my first ear ache I knew it was time to call a doctor. Naturally, my host mom was only too eager to supply me with her doctor’s number, as me being bed-ridden would make life around the house significantly more inconvenient. So I called and got an appointment for the next day- 5pm. When I told my host mom this, she nodded, then reflected for a minute and said « let’s see if we can get you in in the morning instead, otherwise you’ll be really sick . » In addition, she bought me some pills and gave me a silk bandanna to wear around my neck in the evening (apparently keeping your neck warm makes your throat less sore). Now, I’ve always been of the « grind your teeth and stick it » persuasion when it comes to illness. Unless I’m in physical pain (like the earache) I consider it a bother to go the doctor. I suspected this attitude was very un-French and my suspicions were confirmed. The next morning I went to the doctor. Luckily, I understood everything she was saying, including ‘take off your shirt and hang it up on the hook, please.’ Suspicion number 2 confirmed—French doctors love to get your naked.

The appointment was all very painless, however—just the usual stuff. The painful part came afterwards, in first, the 32 euros (cash only !) I had to hand over to the doctor, and then, the 33 euros worth of medication that she prescribed me. As it was, I barely felt ill, yet this lady sure as hell felt differently. I needed, apparently, 10 days of anitbiotics, a decongestent, cough syrup, nasal spray, and just in case my senses hadn’t been sufficiently numbed- painkillers.

Clearly this is not a place where New Age medicin or ‘natural’ healing has taken off. But since the average lifespan of a French woman is 84 years, I don’t feel I can critique their approach. I mean, imagine what the lifespan would be if they didn’t smoke ?! I have to admit also, that I got quite excited about taking all these drugs once they were in my hands (please nobody take that quote out of context). I somehow imagined them doing something miraculous—give me boundless energy, happiness, life…

Reality : I felt much the same, a bit more tired, actually and a bit sick to my stomach. So yes, I started to actually feel worse. But this is only day 2, so we’ll see.

Later that day, I told the eight year old about all the medicine I’d been prescribed and she asked me who paid for it. I told her that I had, but that the government would (thank god) be re-imbursing me every penny. Then she asked the classic and very intelligent one word question that children are known to ask : pourquoi ? (why ?)

Before I could open my mouth, the eleven year old jumped in. She apparently, had this all sussed out.

Because it’s not your fault if you get sick.

It isn’t like I haven’t heard this argument before, but every time I hear it, I’m amazed by it’s simplicity and truth. What followed, however, demonstrates the kind of thinking that has become familiar to me as ‘typically French.’

C’est la faute de l’etat. (It’s the government’s fault).

She went on to explain how certain governmental policies could lead to illness (precocious 11 year old, I know). Pollution, for example, a general lack of cleanliness etc. Impressed as I was by her reasoning skills, I couldn’t help but sense that she was reciting something that she had been told over, by parents, teachers, television, newspapers. It amazed me because never in my life have I blamed the state for getting ill. If I’ve blamed anyone, it’s been myself—I assume I haven’t been taking care of myself properly, that I haven’t been conscientious enough of my germ-infested environment, that I haven’t dressed warmly enough etc. And though I was baffled by Appolline’s unwavering certainly that the government was to be blamed for our illnesses, I realized later that it was just as unwavering as my previous assumption that it wasn’t. Such is the radical difference between us socialists and capitalists, I suppose.

And that I suppose, is why I see passing the blame on to something else as typically French. I have to admit, I get a little fed up with the way they always seem to turn and point their finger at the government when things are not to their liking—all the strikes seem like a political manifestation of the passive-aggressive silent treatment- a tactic of avoidance rather than confrontation. But I should probably shutup. After all, they live until 84! That means, no matter, what, they’ll be getting the last word.