Détrompez-vous!

Le Pacha just called to talk to me about visiting the US next summer.

Le Pacha: "I'll be on vacation, and I'll bring my friend Manou! I told him that he could see some hot girls in the States."

Me: "Oh really!"

Le Pacha: "Yeah, that's right! Everyone thinks that the girls in the US are fat because they eat at McDonald's all the time. But there are skinny girls, for sure!"

Me: "And you tell your friends?"

Le Pacha: "Yeah, I tell all of them, 'Open your eyes, guys! [Détrompez-vous!] I went to America and there are definitely skinny girls there!' I show them pictures, and they all say, 'Well, they must not eat at MacDo.' I even tell them about your brother's girlfriend, that she's vegan or vegetarian, I don't know which, but that she definitely doesn't eat there."

Me: "You know she isn't vegan anymore, she eats cheese and eggs."

Le Pacha: "That must be because she visited France and tried all the good cheese!"

Me: "Yeah, that must be it. And what do you say about your belle-soeur, do you say she's fat because she eats at MacDo?"

Le Pacha: "No, you're skinny! But I can't tell my friends that you're hot, you're my sister now!"

Me: "Okay. You can come visit us in the US."

Weekend Dining

Our weekend went very well, after a shaky start. I finish relatively late on Fridays, but my last student had to leave 45 minutes early, so I missed a lot of rush hour and got home in time to help Jube clean the apartment. Then, as I began to make our samosa, I realized that he had only bought 10 feuilles de brick, or thin springroll covers. I jumped in the car and drove to the nearest Asian food store, getting out 5 minutes before they closed. Then I ran to another supermarket and bought bread and orange juice before racing back home, hoping that our guests hadn't yet arrived. Very luckily, they hadn't, since Jube had forgotten to put away the mop and bucket, which were still occupying the middle of the floor. I hurriedly filled the feuilles de brick while Jube made the chicken. As soon as I finished the last samosa, we heard a car honk outside. Jube went to check that it was our company arriving, and ushered them into our backyard. The weather was very nice and warm, so we were even able to eat outside (the first time this year!).

We talked about lots of different things, many having to do with high school gossip, since over half of us work at the same high school. We also found out about les Couilleres, a very strange and absurd club that revolves around pairs (or trios, or groups) of spoons. Jube took out my American table- and teaspoons, and the Couilleres were amazed and took plenty of pictures. Everyone was dutifully impressed by our samosa, balti chicken, and fruit salad.

On Saturday, the weather was gray and rainy. We went to the supermarket to buy food for the rest of the week, and to the English/American library for new books. When we got home, le Pacha had called us 6 times. The first message was very calm and collected: "Jube, please call me when you get home. I hope everything is well with you." The second message was a bit more harried: "Be sure to call me as soon as you get home!" The third message was completely off the wall: "I need you to call! Where are you? I need to talk to you, Jube!" The last 3 messages were just quick calls to make sure we weren't home; our message service lets us know which numbers call us, and when. When we hung up the telephone to call le Pacha, the phone rang. "Hi Gem. How are you? Fine? Good. Is Jube there?" I passed him the phone. Le Pacha couldn't save his game on the PS2, and hoped (was certain, in fact) that Jube could help him. Unfortunately we don't know anything about memory cards or PlayStations, so he was disappointed.

Today we woke up late and were invited at the last minute to picnic on the beach with the same group who had eaten at our house on Friday. We went with another batch of samosa and ate fougasse, quiche, and olives on the pebbles of the beach. We left early because Jube had (still has) a lot of papers to grade. I have to get up early tomorrow, so I'm happy for the relaxing afternoon at home, too.

Ah, mince!

Last weekend, Jube and I visited his family in Gallargues. We had a relaxing time, visiting Montpellier and celebrating my birthday with a low-key family dinner. Le Pacha played me his new copy of Le Roi Soleil. He went to see the musical about Louis XIV about a month ago and fell in love with all of the actors. Beau-papa was really impressed too, although he downplayed his enthusiasm a bit when he described it to me and Jube. We talked about how I like to watch detective series on television, like "Law and Order" (Police Judiciaire) and CSI (Les Experts). Jube told the family that my cousin is studying to be one of les experts, which is true. I'm not sure of the exact name of the degree, or when she'll be finished, but it has something to do with forensics.

Le Pacha looked at us incredulously. "But your cousin can't be un expert! She's too fat!" he said.

At the time, it was really hilarious, but I really got to thinking about it when one of my students told me she prefers American series to French ones because "French TV series have lots of old actors, and in American ones everyone is always good-looking."

That's basically true, except for the fat men who manage to be wonderful (and hilarious) fathers alongside their beautiful, skinny wives. And when I REALLY thought about it, I realized that the only program that shows the whole gamme of human bodies, from skinny to morbidly obese, is also the most vulgar show in the world: "Jerry Springer." That's not to say that women in French shows aren't gorgeous and sexy (and sometimes show off their bare breasts, too!), but there are almost no middle-aged or old people in American shows who look their age--unless they are annoying people out for laughs. There are often older characters in French series who don't have flat stomachs or no wrinkles (although they are nearly always elegant).

And that's why I entitled my post "Ah mince!" It's a way of swearing without saying "merde," but it literally means "oh, thin!"

(I'm reading The Beauty Myth right now, can you tell? Thanks, Mom, for bringing it all the way to Norway for me!)

Beer Flu

The threat of bird flu has been a popular subject on the French news for months now (as I imagine it has in America and the UK as well). Every night the anchorpeople talk about how many cases there are, how close they are to France, and what the risk is of getting it. We hear the words "grippe aviaire" repeated at least 15 times a day.

Le Pacha doesn't believe it.

"Listen to them!" he said. "They're not saying grippe aviaire, they're saying grippe à bière." The whole family laughed and told him that they're not saying beer flu! He refused to believe us. We searched for references in the paper--"grippe aviaire," it said it right there in black and white.

"Well, maybe in the paper they say bird flu. But listen closely--all of the newspeople say beer flu."

Ever since then, when I talk about bird flu, I call it grippe à bière. No one has ever corrected my pronunciation, or even looked at me strangely.

EDIT: I just used an online translator for grippe à bière, and it came back as "seize up with beer." Isn't that great?

Was he really only talking about skiing?

Time for another anecdote about le Pacha!

The last time the belle-famille came to visit, it was for Thanksgiving. On our drive down to the city, we can just see the snow-capped peaks of the Alps. (The region where we live is called les Alpes-Maritimes, or the Maritime Alps--we have the mountains and the sea all in the same place.) Beau-père absolutely loves skiing, as do his sons, and Belle-mère puts up with it tolerably well--she also enjoys skiing, but she takes time to visit the restaurants and shopping in the resorts.

Beau-père hadn't started his annual obsessive checking of the weather at their favorite resort, Pralognan la Vanoise, but when he saw the snow, he hopped right online. The conversation at the dinner table was centered around skiing, about which slopes (pistes) they wanted to ski, what classes they wanted to take, and what they wanted to eat at the different restaurants. Le Pacha was particularly excited about retaking a class with a particular instructor who taught with a particular brand of Système D, or the school of hard knocks.

"You start off on a red slope, and by the end of the day, you're on a black one!" he enthusiastically told us. "J'ai vraiment envie de me taper la noire!"

Jube, Belle-mère and Beau-père burst out laughing, and I joined in a few seconds later as his unintentional double entendre registered in my mind.

He had just said, "I can't wait to do the black diamond," or, "I can't wait to get a piece of the black girl!"

Nice Saturday

Jube and I woke up early yesterday and ventured into town to find a butcher. Why did we need to find a butcher? Because I am going to introduce Thanksgiving to his family, and turkeys are not easy to find at the supermarket in November. We found a butcher's and ordered a turkey (minimum 3 kilos--6.5lbs) for next Friday. The butcher couldn't tell us how much it would cost until he got in touch with his "suppliers." He'll call and leave a message tomorrow. Let's hope it's not too expensive . . .

On to Thanksgiving for a moment. It is a holiday that is relatively difficult for the French to understand and relatively hard for an American to explain [e.g. "It's not a religious holiday," I say; response: "Then whom are you thanking?" Good question!]. Added to that is their inability to pronounce Thanksgiving: it ends up something like Sahnsgeeveen. Since "saint" is pronounced (something like) "sahn," and saints' days are celebrated here (think of Toussaint--All Saints' Day), le Pacha asked which saint's day it was--Gavin, perhaps? So la belle-famille is coming to Nice to celebrate Saint Gavin with me by eating a turkey. I'm sure we will all enjoy it very much. Jube even bought a "spice bread" scented candle to make the apartment smell like America.

We also headed out to Cap 3000 yesterday. Cap 3000 is a shopping center on the outskirts of Nice. We bought a gift for the wedding, and I found my belt! Here is a sneak preview:



I know you can't see either the belt in its full glory or the dress, but it gives you an idea of my outfit. (Add in the earrings and a pair of black slouchy boots and you have the whole picture!) When I bought the belt, I spoke to the saleswoman in French (of course!), and Jube talked to me in English the whole time, making fun of me "pretending to be French." He said the words "French" and "American" so much that as we were leaving, the saleswoman asked if I were French. I was forced to answer negatively, which cracked Jube up for the rest of the night. "Even if you don't have an accent, I manage to give you away!"

The Last Day of Vacation . . .

Last night Jube and I went out with Popo and her man. We met at one of the nicest Irish pubs in Montpellier, Fitzpatrick's, whose sign you can see (if you look closely) in the above picture. We sat and talked for awhile, about vacation, work, visiting, de tout et de rien. We stayed in the pub for about an hour and a half while it rained heavily outside. After the storm had passed, we headed back to the belle-famille's house, where they had been waiting up anxiously for us. Le Pacha called me into his room, and whispered to me, "Je t'adore! I'm glad you got home safely!" Unfortunately, his adoration was not to last long. This morning at 8:30, while Jube and I were trying to enjoy our last opportunity to sleep in, he burst into our room.

"Did you have an accident last night? Your bumper is totally ripped off! What did you do?"

Now, it was bad enough that he woke us up by accusing us of reckless driving. The worst part is that I was sleeping without a shirt on. I swear that this is normal behavior, since the new comforters that Belle-mère bought are extremely hot. I was rather groggy and didn't grasp what was happening, but Jube started screaming at le Pacha about knocking on the door.

Well! That is the way to end family harmony! I got up and got dressed, while Jube checked his car for damage (nothing a serious bricoleur like Beau-père can't fix) and Belle-mère yelled at le Pacha for not knocking. He insisted that he had knocked, which changed the tone of the conversation.

"Well, did they say 'entre'?"

"No, but I knocked!"

"You have to wait until they tell you to come in!"

"BUT I KNOCKED!"

Ater that, le Pacha wouldn't talk to any of us for about two hours, until we started making a lemon meringue pie. "If Gem loved me, she would make another pumpkin pie."

At least he likes my food!

The Dream

The other night I had a dream. I was at a soccer match, a match between the French national team and some other country. It must not have been very important or popular, because hardly anyone was in the stands. In fact, at first I thought it was a practice! I somehow was seated right next to the soccer field. There I was, rooting for France*, when what should happen? Coupet**, the goalie, was injured! Since Barthez**, the original goalie, is still suspended for spitting on a referee, there was no backup! What could la France do?

Thank goodness for Zinedine Zidane**! The captain of the team knew exactly how to solve the no-goalie problem: Call on Gem! That’s right. Zizou looked up in the stands and saw the American answer to his prayers. I was rather flustered at first, since the last time I played goalie was as the counselor of a summer camp (I totally blew those 10-year-olds out of the water!), but I was up to the task. I entered the game hesitantly, and managed to save quite a few attempts to score. Since (even in my dreams) I am not a very experienced player, I let three balls escape me. But the rest of the team supported me and we still won!

At the end of the match, Zidane approached me, shook my hand, and congratulated me. He announced over the stadium microphone that I deserved the most praise of all the players since I was very inexperienced. The crowd cheered me and the team lifted me onto their shoulders! As I was carried around the field, I couldn’t help thinking, “Le Pacha will be so jealous! He will be so surprised to see me on television!” And then . . . I woke up.

This was the dream that made me realize just how immersed I am in French culture.

*Thanks to le Pacha I know lots of soccer cheers:
Allez les bleus!
Et un! Et deux! Et trois zéro!
Allez Paillade!

**I remember the days when I didn’t know who they were . . . ahhh, quelle naïveté!

Villeneuve les Maguelone

This past week, Jube, le Pacha and I all went to Villeneuve les Maguelone, a small island near Montpellier. It is bordered on one side by the Mediterranean and on the other by les etangs. Jube swears there is a word for “etang” in English, and in fact is used by Edgar Allan Poe in “The Fall of the House of Usher” to describe the terrain upon which the house is located… This may be true, but when I think of that story I think of something scary, and there is absolutely nothing scary about les etangs. They are home to pink flamingoes and are very pretty.

The island of Villeneuve les Maguelone boasts the restored ruins of a medieval cathedral, a small community that grows grapes, makes wine, and takes care of a fishery, and some very nice beaches. The three of us parked the car and then hiked for two miles to see the cathedral. On the way, we passed the beach—and realized that there are, in fact, two beaches. One is the normal Mediterranean beach, with sand, blue water, parents and children. The other is home to “naturists.” We were very surprised to see about three naked couples during our hike, including one woman who ran the length of the beach and back again. Ironically for a naturist, she seemed not to have breasts au naturel. The cathedral was very peaceful, and we took lots of pictures around it. Instead of walking back to the car, we took the petit train, which was free for us since we had paid 4€00 for the parking lot.

On the way home we stopped at Palavas to get some ice cream. France has the best soft serve ice cream ever, called “Italian ice cream.” I had a pistachio and chocolate cone and Jube enjoyed a banana cone. Le Pacha, on the other hand, would not be contented until he found his particular favorite, double chocolat. It’s even more than brand loyalty—he refused three different vendors because they didn’t carry the exact kind he wanted. Luckily on the way home we found one stand that sold the double chocolat, and we drove home with a brown-lipped Pacha.