Petites Detailes (Little Details)
Note: I believe this is going to be a running subject line, bringing together a bunch of random paragraphs of things I happen to write about in small spirts that lack order and time. I have a running document that I keep open on my computer which I've been writing in at random moments, mostly at night, when I can't fall asleep and don't have the internet to distract me. Hence... the following:
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I need to un-learn the word “Quoi.” Any time anyone asks me a question and I don’t hear them, this seemingly fitting word rolls of my tongue faster than I can catch myself. Direct translation of “Quoi?” = “What?” or “Huh?” but unfortunately it sounds harsh and rude to French ears, which I was warned of my first night here after one of the last-semester Kalamazoo students overheard me say it to my host mom. “It’s considered extremely rude” he explained, as I turned a belated shade of red. Unfortunately, it has slipped out of my mouth at least 3 times since then, one time being only seconds after I was introduced to Mme Reiss’s daughter, Marie, who’s 19 and rarely home (either at the business university, with her boyfriend – whom Mme n’aime pas (does not like) – or at her sister’s, who’s married with a new baby). The proper response is a delightful sounding “Pardon?” much like we have in English, though I’ve never been in the habit of using the word at home, hence the difficulty automatizing the response here. I literally lay in bed for a good five minutes, whispering “Pardon? Pardon? Pardon? Pardon?”, hoping to get it down, and then promply said “Quoi?” the next question I was asked. Oy. I’ll get it down sometime, I swear.
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I like dogs. For the most part. They can be fun, loving, and the like, but for some reason I’ve never really been able to deal with dog-breath and the way petting them leaves a smelly, slightly sticky(?) residue on my hand. Let’s face it, I’m a cat person, through and through. But Mme (short for Madame, by the way) has this small white dog named Molly who simply defies the dog-breath/hand-residue standard I’d become used to with pups back home. Molly’s fur is incredibly soft and fluffy and feels almost like you’re running your hand through a child’s hair. It leaves no residue. In fact, she doesn’t seem to smell at all. Even when she licks me, which she loves more than anything to do, constantly, until I say “Non, Molly, ne me leche pas!”, she just looks up with wide eyes, as if to say “Hey, why not? I’m not like other dogs... I don’t leave a smell... I’m totally cute... and if you don’t do as I like, why, I may just steal your shoe or your stuffed animal and deposit it in Mme’s room!” So far, this threat has not come to volition, although I was warned that this was one of her favorite pasttimes. Hence, I’ve been keeping my door closed when I’m not in it, a very French thing to do anyway. I have yet to meet other French dogs, so I’m not sure if Molly is the rule, or simply a loveable exception. As it is, she is challenging my dog-wary stereotype with adorable expertise.
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I think I’ve figured out why the French have this image of being/staying thin, while jealous Americans try everything to emulate the French diet, pick up smoking, and wonder why it doesn’t work for them. It’s not vanity. It’s necessity. “Quoi?” you say (or perhaps you catch yourself in time and let slide a perfect “Pardon?”). My response stands. Necessity. If the French ran on the large side they would not be able to get anything done. Or else they’d have to rebuild all their cities. They’d have to make the elevators larger, the showers, the toilettes (the tiny rooms where they keep the toilet, different from the “salle de bains” which houses the shower, etc.), the sidewalks, the alleyways. My heart goes out to those who suffer from claustrophobia and yet make their home here. Life must be tough. Or perhaps natural selection has purged such a phobia from the French bloodlines.
Seriously though, I am continually amazed at the small spaces I encounter on a daily basis (okay, so I’ve only really been here for just over 24 hours, but still). I realize that America is known for its urban sprawl, its excess, the extra space it seems to take up without real reason. I also realize that part of what makes much of France so charming, so quaint, filled it with such character, is the proximity of everything, the compactness of it all. I am not praising America, nor knocking France. I am simply musing in amazement at the French ability to fit in some of the smallest elevators/showers/toilettes I have ever encountered. My experience has not been as graceful... both showers I’ve taken so far have consisted of me trying very hard not to accidently knock an elbow against the rattly shower door/walls and failing each time as I try to suds up quickly in order to be able to turn on the hot water quickly.
FYI: The French grimace at water wasted, which is defined, according to Beth, by anything more than a five minute shower. Mde specifically asked me to “do it the french way” by dousing oneself briefly, then turning off the water, sudsing up, and finally turning the water back on to rinse off. I guess I’ll have to find another place to take part in my daily reflections, while feeling good that I’m building decent conservation habits.
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Culture Shock is an interesting thing. As Beth described, it’s not being “shocked” at another’s culture... it’s rather the frustration that comes with not being able to do things you’d consider simple back home. Like ordering food at the only café in the neighborhood open on Sunday, when you see no menus, the waitress doesn’t offer you one, but eventually comes around to your table and asks what you want even though you have no idea what they have, and you’re so tired and hungry and flustered all you know how to do is repeat the last thing you heard someone at the next table over order: “Un chocolat chaud, s’il vous plaît.” Hot chocolate. When you haven’t eaten since breakfast, which consists daily of a piece of bread, some jam, and a warm cup of tea. It helped warm me up, but didn’t do much for the growling in my stomach. And I sat for an extra 15 minutes, waiting for the bill instead of looking elsewhere for food (or asking if they were serving any, which I simply couldn’t bring myself to do. Sometimes, you have moments of embarassed flustration and you don’t feel able to risk being misunderstood). In any case, bills are different here, waiters and waitresses don’t really wait on you, but wait for you to ask for the bill. And given, they may not come near enough to see your signal for a good long time if you’re sitting in a little corner, apart from the rest. As the student here before me assured, “You’ll feel like you’re being rude at first, demanding the check so overtly, but then you get used to it. It’s what you have to do.” Oy. Much to get used to.
Another little detail... last time I was in France (5 year ago, with my parents for part of the time), we (being my parents and I) noticed a number of road signs that one might encounter when confronted with a roundabout from which many other roads diverged: Name of Place, followed by “Toutes directions.” Translation? “All directions.” So, if you want to get to the Centre Ville, you can take any one of the 5 streets that branch out in opposite directions? We never managed to get anywhere that easily, and the signs certainly did us no good.
Just tonight, I encountered a new contradictory situation. My lost baggage arrived yesterday night (they delivered it to the door, thank god!), and inside was one of the many things I’d been eagerly awaiting: the cellphone I acquired from Tia, who had it during her stay in Strasbourg a year ago. After charging it up last night, I found a cellphone store with the same service listed on the phone and bought a ticket to add 15 euros to the phone (=30 minutes... phone calls are expensive here! You get a good 150 text messages for that price, though, so everyone just texts each other). When I got home and called the number, from which point I was to type in the given code and thus recharge the phone’s account, I got a nice little message that said something along the lines of “I’m sorry... this phone is past its recharge date, which was the 15th of June, 2005. We invite you to call our customer service line at 9-0-0...” So, somewhat frustrated, I call the other line, expecting to have to speak to a representative on the phone, which is more daunting to understand than french spoken face-to-face. Instead, I get another message “I’m sorry, you’re phone no longer has any minutes. Please call 9-6-5 to recharge your phone via card or special receipt.” Well, wouldn’t you have it, 965 was the first number I called. Just to make sure, I redialed that number. “I’m sorry... this phone is past its recharge date, which was...” Oy.
I guess I’ll have to find another store tomorrow and figure out what’s going on. I feel naked without a cellphone, and really, you need one here so that you don’t impose on your host family (it costs nearly as much to use a landline to make even local calls).
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Food troubles #1...
Upon arrival Mme kindly asked me what I ate and didn’t eat so as to get an idea of any restriction I had. I explained my situation with meat, that I’d recently started eating red meat again, but that I’m still not totally used to it, etc. She assuaged my worries by expaining that they were not big meat eaters and their favorite thing – until publicity surrounding the avian flu, of course – was a good breast of white chicken meat. Perfect, I thought. Me too. She then asked if I ate fish and I said “Oui, oui” because hey, I like salmon, tuna, some other kinds, and I was simply relieved to hear it was highly unlikely that I’d be served blood sausage within these walls. It briefly crossed my mind, as we moved on to discussion of other food groups, that perhaps I should have specified that, while I enjoyed fish, on the whole, this did not necessarily mean I was a big seafood person. But considering I couldn’t think of the word for “seafood” in French (still can’t, as a matter of fact), and we were already discussing the merits of fruits and vegetables, I decided not to bring it up. And tonight, it arrived on my plate.
Not much, not noticeably. Mixed in with Spanish “paella,” a rice dish, I spied a couple small shrimp. No problem, I thought, though my stomach did a miniture flop. I eat shrimp accidently when they’re mixed into sweet and sour soup, and I barely notice. So I took a bite. Fine. Didn’t taste it that much, no problems there. It was only after a couple more bites that I spied my true adversary. Small and squiggly and slightly brownish around the edges, I couldn’t fully tell what it was, but I had a feeling came in some sort of shell. And, besides pearls, the inner contents of shells simply don’t sit well with me.
I sighed. I had promised myself I would try to eat new things I encountered, and, while I hadn’t exactly prepared for meat of the sea, I figured it wasn’t much different from anything. So, forking the little squiggle, I took a bite.
Within seconds, I could taste the entirity of the sea, in all its salty, strong, and seemingly spoiled glory. With one, wide-eyed gulp, I tried to get the entire forkfull down as fast as possible. But man, it fought back. The taste overpowered my mouth... small, shell-fishy hands seemed to wrap themselves around my throat in an attempt to asphixiate their purpatrator. I was afraid to breathe (because everyone knows half of tasting is done through the nose) and my throat seemed to constrict in ardent protest, trying to appease the shellfish gods, assuring them that they had truly not meant to disturb their shellfish peace. It took everything I had, as Mme talked on about something I simply did not have the attention to follow, to not twist my face into an evil grimace and launch the remaining mouthful into a ready napkin. Internally plugging my nose and reaching for my (ever-so-small) glass, I chugged down three gulps, hoping to down the ugly beast. It took another glassful before my throat stopped its involuntary spasms (which I tried as best I could to keep subtle and unnoticed), and finally I was able to once again focus on the conversation at hand, which had seemingly gone on for the duration of the 30 second crisis without noticing that one of its participants was momentarily detained.
Mme later offered me more “meat” and luckily placed more of the fish on my plate. She then spooned up another squiggly bit and asked “Tu aimes des moules?”... ah, so they were mussels. Good to know. I quickly responded with an understated “Non, pas vraiment” (“No, not really”) and she willingly backed the spoon away. A few minutes passed and then she herself made a somewhat ill face (though very subtle compared to what I had gone through) and agreed that these were somewhat “bizarre.” She picked hers out too, and I didn’t feel nearly as bad for having a small pile of squiggles at the edge of my plate.
Hopefully this means I will not have this particular encounter again. But now, I’m on the lookout... it is not the blood sausage that will get me, after all. No doubt it’ll be something I least expect.
Moral of the story: Melia doesn’t like mussels. Nor other types of shellfish. It is not a choice, it is simply the way she was born. Perhaps one day she’ll start a civil rights movement with others like herself. For now, she will continue the trend of piling any dark little squiggles in a far-off corner of her plate, hoping to avoid their wrathful spirit.
The End.
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I need to un-learn the word “Quoi.” Any time anyone asks me a question and I don’t hear them, this seemingly fitting word rolls of my tongue faster than I can catch myself. Direct translation of “Quoi?” = “What?” or “Huh?” but unfortunately it sounds harsh and rude to French ears, which I was warned of my first night here after one of the last-semester Kalamazoo students overheard me say it to my host mom. “It’s considered extremely rude” he explained, as I turned a belated shade of red. Unfortunately, it has slipped out of my mouth at least 3 times since then, one time being only seconds after I was introduced to Mme Reiss’s daughter, Marie, who’s 19 and rarely home (either at the business university, with her boyfriend – whom Mme n’aime pas (does not like) – or at her sister’s, who’s married with a new baby). The proper response is a delightful sounding “Pardon?” much like we have in English, though I’ve never been in the habit of using the word at home, hence the difficulty automatizing the response here. I literally lay in bed for a good five minutes, whispering “Pardon? Pardon? Pardon? Pardon?”, hoping to get it down, and then promply said “Quoi?” the next question I was asked. Oy. I’ll get it down sometime, I swear.
-------------------------------------------------------
I like dogs. For the most part. They can be fun, loving, and the like, but for some reason I’ve never really been able to deal with dog-breath and the way petting them leaves a smelly, slightly sticky(?) residue on my hand. Let’s face it, I’m a cat person, through and through. But Mme (short for Madame, by the way) has this small white dog named Molly who simply defies the dog-breath/hand-residue standard I’d become used to with pups back home. Molly’s fur is incredibly soft and fluffy and feels almost like you’re running your hand through a child’s hair. It leaves no residue. In fact, she doesn’t seem to smell at all. Even when she licks me, which she loves more than anything to do, constantly, until I say “Non, Molly, ne me leche pas!”, she just looks up with wide eyes, as if to say “Hey, why not? I’m not like other dogs... I don’t leave a smell... I’m totally cute... and if you don’t do as I like, why, I may just steal your shoe or your stuffed animal and deposit it in Mme’s room!” So far, this threat has not come to volition, although I was warned that this was one of her favorite pasttimes. Hence, I’ve been keeping my door closed when I’m not in it, a very French thing to do anyway. I have yet to meet other French dogs, so I’m not sure if Molly is the rule, or simply a loveable exception. As it is, she is challenging my dog-wary stereotype with adorable expertise.
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I think I’ve figured out why the French have this image of being/staying thin, while jealous Americans try everything to emulate the French diet, pick up smoking, and wonder why it doesn’t work for them. It’s not vanity. It’s necessity. “Quoi?” you say (or perhaps you catch yourself in time and let slide a perfect “Pardon?”). My response stands. Necessity. If the French ran on the large side they would not be able to get anything done. Or else they’d have to rebuild all their cities. They’d have to make the elevators larger, the showers, the toilettes (the tiny rooms where they keep the toilet, different from the “salle de bains” which houses the shower, etc.), the sidewalks, the alleyways. My heart goes out to those who suffer from claustrophobia and yet make their home here. Life must be tough. Or perhaps natural selection has purged such a phobia from the French bloodlines.
Seriously though, I am continually amazed at the small spaces I encounter on a daily basis (okay, so I’ve only really been here for just over 24 hours, but still). I realize that America is known for its urban sprawl, its excess, the extra space it seems to take up without real reason. I also realize that part of what makes much of France so charming, so quaint, filled it with such character, is the proximity of everything, the compactness of it all. I am not praising America, nor knocking France. I am simply musing in amazement at the French ability to fit in some of the smallest elevators/showers/toilettes I have ever encountered. My experience has not been as graceful... both showers I’ve taken so far have consisted of me trying very hard not to accidently knock an elbow against the rattly shower door/walls and failing each time as I try to suds up quickly in order to be able to turn on the hot water quickly.
FYI: The French grimace at water wasted, which is defined, according to Beth, by anything more than a five minute shower. Mde specifically asked me to “do it the french way” by dousing oneself briefly, then turning off the water, sudsing up, and finally turning the water back on to rinse off. I guess I’ll have to find another place to take part in my daily reflections, while feeling good that I’m building decent conservation habits.
-------------------------------------------------------
Culture Shock is an interesting thing. As Beth described, it’s not being “shocked” at another’s culture... it’s rather the frustration that comes with not being able to do things you’d consider simple back home. Like ordering food at the only café in the neighborhood open on Sunday, when you see no menus, the waitress doesn’t offer you one, but eventually comes around to your table and asks what you want even though you have no idea what they have, and you’re so tired and hungry and flustered all you know how to do is repeat the last thing you heard someone at the next table over order: “Un chocolat chaud, s’il vous plaît.” Hot chocolate. When you haven’t eaten since breakfast, which consists daily of a piece of bread, some jam, and a warm cup of tea. It helped warm me up, but didn’t do much for the growling in my stomach. And I sat for an extra 15 minutes, waiting for the bill instead of looking elsewhere for food (or asking if they were serving any, which I simply couldn’t bring myself to do. Sometimes, you have moments of embarassed flustration and you don’t feel able to risk being misunderstood). In any case, bills are different here, waiters and waitresses don’t really wait on you, but wait for you to ask for the bill. And given, they may not come near enough to see your signal for a good long time if you’re sitting in a little corner, apart from the rest. As the student here before me assured, “You’ll feel like you’re being rude at first, demanding the check so overtly, but then you get used to it. It’s what you have to do.” Oy. Much to get used to.
Another little detail... last time I was in France (5 year ago, with my parents for part of the time), we (being my parents and I) noticed a number of road signs that one might encounter when confronted with a roundabout from which many other roads diverged: Name of Place, followed by “Toutes directions.” Translation? “All directions.” So, if you want to get to the Centre Ville, you can take any one of the 5 streets that branch out in opposite directions? We never managed to get anywhere that easily, and the signs certainly did us no good.
Just tonight, I encountered a new contradictory situation. My lost baggage arrived yesterday night (they delivered it to the door, thank god!), and inside was one of the many things I’d been eagerly awaiting: the cellphone I acquired from Tia, who had it during her stay in Strasbourg a year ago. After charging it up last night, I found a cellphone store with the same service listed on the phone and bought a ticket to add 15 euros to the phone (=30 minutes... phone calls are expensive here! You get a good 150 text messages for that price, though, so everyone just texts each other). When I got home and called the number, from which point I was to type in the given code and thus recharge the phone’s account, I got a nice little message that said something along the lines of “I’m sorry... this phone is past its recharge date, which was the 15th of June, 2005. We invite you to call our customer service line at 9-0-0...” So, somewhat frustrated, I call the other line, expecting to have to speak to a representative on the phone, which is more daunting to understand than french spoken face-to-face. Instead, I get another message “I’m sorry, you’re phone no longer has any minutes. Please call 9-6-5 to recharge your phone via card or special receipt.” Well, wouldn’t you have it, 965 was the first number I called. Just to make sure, I redialed that number. “I’m sorry... this phone is past its recharge date, which was...” Oy.
I guess I’ll have to find another store tomorrow and figure out what’s going on. I feel naked without a cellphone, and really, you need one here so that you don’t impose on your host family (it costs nearly as much to use a landline to make even local calls).
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Food troubles #1...
Upon arrival Mme kindly asked me what I ate and didn’t eat so as to get an idea of any restriction I had. I explained my situation with meat, that I’d recently started eating red meat again, but that I’m still not totally used to it, etc. She assuaged my worries by expaining that they were not big meat eaters and their favorite thing – until publicity surrounding the avian flu, of course – was a good breast of white chicken meat. Perfect, I thought. Me too. She then asked if I ate fish and I said “Oui, oui” because hey, I like salmon, tuna, some other kinds, and I was simply relieved to hear it was highly unlikely that I’d be served blood sausage within these walls. It briefly crossed my mind, as we moved on to discussion of other food groups, that perhaps I should have specified that, while I enjoyed fish, on the whole, this did not necessarily mean I was a big seafood person. But considering I couldn’t think of the word for “seafood” in French (still can’t, as a matter of fact), and we were already discussing the merits of fruits and vegetables, I decided not to bring it up. And tonight, it arrived on my plate.
Not much, not noticeably. Mixed in with Spanish “paella,” a rice dish, I spied a couple small shrimp. No problem, I thought, though my stomach did a miniture flop. I eat shrimp accidently when they’re mixed into sweet and sour soup, and I barely notice. So I took a bite. Fine. Didn’t taste it that much, no problems there. It was only after a couple more bites that I spied my true adversary. Small and squiggly and slightly brownish around the edges, I couldn’t fully tell what it was, but I had a feeling came in some sort of shell. And, besides pearls, the inner contents of shells simply don’t sit well with me.
I sighed. I had promised myself I would try to eat new things I encountered, and, while I hadn’t exactly prepared for meat of the sea, I figured it wasn’t much different from anything. So, forking the little squiggle, I took a bite.
Within seconds, I could taste the entirity of the sea, in all its salty, strong, and seemingly spoiled glory. With one, wide-eyed gulp, I tried to get the entire forkfull down as fast as possible. But man, it fought back. The taste overpowered my mouth... small, shell-fishy hands seemed to wrap themselves around my throat in an attempt to asphixiate their purpatrator. I was afraid to breathe (because everyone knows half of tasting is done through the nose) and my throat seemed to constrict in ardent protest, trying to appease the shellfish gods, assuring them that they had truly not meant to disturb their shellfish peace. It took everything I had, as Mme talked on about something I simply did not have the attention to follow, to not twist my face into an evil grimace and launch the remaining mouthful into a ready napkin. Internally plugging my nose and reaching for my (ever-so-small) glass, I chugged down three gulps, hoping to down the ugly beast. It took another glassful before my throat stopped its involuntary spasms (which I tried as best I could to keep subtle and unnoticed), and finally I was able to once again focus on the conversation at hand, which had seemingly gone on for the duration of the 30 second crisis without noticing that one of its participants was momentarily detained.
Mme later offered me more “meat” and luckily placed more of the fish on my plate. She then spooned up another squiggly bit and asked “Tu aimes des moules?”... ah, so they were mussels. Good to know. I quickly responded with an understated “Non, pas vraiment” (“No, not really”) and she willingly backed the spoon away. A few minutes passed and then she herself made a somewhat ill face (though very subtle compared to what I had gone through) and agreed that these were somewhat “bizarre.” She picked hers out too, and I didn’t feel nearly as bad for having a small pile of squiggles at the edge of my plate.
Hopefully this means I will not have this particular encounter again. But now, I’m on the lookout... it is not the blood sausage that will get me, after all. No doubt it’ll be something I least expect.
Moral of the story: Melia doesn’t like mussels. Nor other types of shellfish. It is not a choice, it is simply the way she was born. Perhaps one day she’ll start a civil rights movement with others like herself. For now, she will continue the trend of piling any dark little squiggles in a far-off corner of her plate, hoping to avoid their wrathful spirit.
The End.
posted by Melia at 9:14 AM
4 Comments:
Much fun: Melia in Wonderland! Fascinating experiences and the commentary is a great read.
Whether unconscious or not, getting in the 10:30 class was briliant, (speaking as one who had to endure 8:30am Greek; think I remember four or five words.) Love,
What great, descriptive blogs! Wow, Melia, your love of good writing is back, and you get to express yourself freely (with a lot of tongue-in-cheek humor) without having to worry about essay form.
You and Mme will soon get on a clear communication regarding food. It takes a wh ile for both of you to adapt to the other person's tastes. Maybe you can write down a list of foods you like, and ones that you really have trouble with, and give it to her. Things written down often stick, whereas a word here and there can fly right out the window.
Keep up the good work, and much love,
Maman
What great, descriptive blogs! Wow, Melia, your love of good writing is back, and you get to express yourself freely (with a lot of tongue-in-cheek humor) without having to worry about essay form.
You and Mme will soon get on a clear communication regarding food. It takes a wh ile for both of you to adapt to the other person's tastes. Maybe you can write down a list of foods you like, and ones that you really have trouble with, and give it to her. Things written down often stick, whereas a word here and there can fly right out the window.
Keep up the good work, and much love,
Maman
P.S.
To replace some of the meat-centered diet, could you buy some of your own cheese (goat, etc.) and use it to supplement both breakfast and dinner? And how about eggs?
Maman (who else)
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