1. Wing things more often. IE: just buy a ticket to go somewhere and figure the rest out later
2. Concentrate on remembering the details, so later I can think about how awesome everything is.
3. Know French more, speak with my French family more, and not be afraid of my new conversation partner.
So far, that's it.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
France & it's Effects
So, I've been in France now for a little over two weeks. Hard to believe it. I've been taking a Travel Writing class as part of my requirements at the University of Pau. Here's a story I wrote about one of my experiences thus far.
So, here we are:
To say that France is on the other side of the world is geographically incorrect, but to say that it's barely, mildly, minute detail-y correct with regard to cultural differences, Fine.
But that's it.
__________
Something like Wal-mart should have been familiar, but then again, it was just something like Wal-mart. And France's chain super store, "LeClair" isn't Wal-mart.
Yeah, it's got Neutrogena body products, back packs and a fruit section, but it's also got an unrefrigerated milk section and security guards prepared for those inevitable thieves: French masterminds and foreigners alike.
Fifteen minutes until class was certainly enough to scour the store for delicious French pastries and delicious French pop, soda, coke, you know, with delicious French sweets practically popping off the shelves every which way.
Hypothetically, fifteen minutes is enough time for everything including the trudge across what often feels like a super highway spanning two directions and a grassy island in between, but is really just Alles Condorcet. Hypothetically.
But it's not as if you've got a French mindset telling you otherwise, meaning the truth that fifteen minutes is not enough time.
So I took my chances in search of that delectable delight of a Fruit tart a friend and I had for the last two days. Who am I to break my new found tradition. Three's a charm right? Or is that just a phrase fitting in the United States (Aux Etats-Unis, I mean.)
Friend in tote, the two of us paraded down the stretch of side walk separating the French version of Walmart and the French version of college.
It's not like we looked suspicious, no, we didn't look suspicious at all. So, we were matching. It's not like we had planned it. There were no calls made: white "T" with jeans, gym shoes, yeah, any color.
We were in a rush, but honestly, we were American, and looked it. They don't make short red-heads in France.
Marching toward the back wall, nothing but an aisle of diapers between us and les sucres, we eyed the lower shelf. Yes, it's us again our faces said to the French women who now recognized our salivating mouths.
"Oui, bonjour! Je voudrais un tartilles, oui, un euro, quarant centiemes. Oui, merci."
I had barely noticed my friend announce her choice, reoccupied with my pending joy.
"Oui, moi aussi, mais je voudrais un tartilles, un euro. Merci beaucoup!"
In unison: "Je paye ici."
"D'accord," they said in return.
"Merci!"
We needed to get back though, we had learning to do. Oh, no, 4:20, I mean, seize heures, vente.
Glancing at the pastry box in my friend's grip, we walked out through a non-exit. She bustled through without a hitch. She didn't look like a thief, but neither did I. Beep, Beep, Beep. Three seconds later my small orange bag was shuffled through as if I was a common criminal by the security guard.
Taking each item out one by one and starring suspiciously at that MADE IN AMERICA SPF 55 Neutragena sunscreen. I could tell he thought, that pale skin doesn't fool me Miss USA. No one in France ever carries sunscreen apparently, only if they've thrown it in their bag without paying at LeClair.
"Come with me" he said in French. This is the most action he's gotten all week. No, my friend couldn't come in the back room to get searched like me. Padded down at a grocery store, LeClair doesn't fool around. No, definitely not.
He left me alone for about ten seconds and eyed me as I attempted to sit down. Five seconds after that a smiling blond French woman came toward me with a metal detector. "You can have the sunscreen!" I said in my mind. "You don't need sunscreen, get burnt!"
"Where did you get your pants mademoiselle" she said in French.
I panicked, "H et M." That was a lie! They're American made, GAP.
My mind flashed questions: Do they have firing squads in France? Did that door lead to their secret shotgun room?
"When did you get those pants?" she followed up.
"Yesterday," another lie. I got them two months ago.
Apparently I hadn't cut off the metal security protector mischievously hidden on the left inside pant leg. That GAP employee is laughing now as they think of their customers pent up in bag rooms at French super stores.
"You can go," I heard them mutter in disappointment.
"I can have my sunscreen?"
"Yes."
Exiting the death chamber the color in my face returned.
Is it warmer out here? My breath wasn't white as it left the confines of my lungs.
"What happened?" Concerned friend.
She hadn't eaten her tart. I wouldn't have blamed her if she had.
Placing the crumbling crust, melting custard and sugar coated fruits onto my tongue, I thought, "French pastries are worth the interrogation."
So, here we are:
To say that France is on the other side of the world is geographically incorrect, but to say that it's barely, mildly, minute detail-y correct with regard to cultural differences, Fine.
But that's it.
__________
Something like Wal-mart should have been familiar, but then again, it was just something like Wal-mart. And France's chain super store, "LeClair" isn't Wal-mart.
Yeah, it's got Neutrogena body products, back packs and a fruit section, but it's also got an unrefrigerated milk section and security guards prepared for those inevitable thieves: French masterminds and foreigners alike.
Fifteen minutes until class was certainly enough to scour the store for delicious French pastries and delicious French pop, soda, coke, you know, with delicious French sweets practically popping off the shelves every which way.
Hypothetically, fifteen minutes is enough time for everything including the trudge across what often feels like a super highway spanning two directions and a grassy island in between, but is really just Alles Condorcet. Hypothetically.
But it's not as if you've got a French mindset telling you otherwise, meaning the truth that fifteen minutes is not enough time.
So I took my chances in search of that delectable delight of a Fruit tart a friend and I had for the last two days. Who am I to break my new found tradition. Three's a charm right? Or is that just a phrase fitting in the United States (Aux Etats-Unis, I mean.)
Friend in tote, the two of us paraded down the stretch of side walk separating the French version of Walmart and the French version of college.
It's not like we looked suspicious, no, we didn't look suspicious at all. So, we were matching. It's not like we had planned it. There were no calls made: white "T" with jeans, gym shoes, yeah, any color.
We were in a rush, but honestly, we were American, and looked it. They don't make short red-heads in France.
Marching toward the back wall, nothing but an aisle of diapers between us and les sucres, we eyed the lower shelf. Yes, it's us again our faces said to the French women who now recognized our salivating mouths.
"Oui, bonjour! Je voudrais un tartilles, oui, un euro, quarant centiemes. Oui, merci."
I had barely noticed my friend announce her choice, reoccupied with my pending joy.
"Oui, moi aussi, mais je voudrais un tartilles, un euro. Merci beaucoup!"
In unison: "Je paye ici."
"D'accord," they said in return.
"Merci!"
We needed to get back though, we had learning to do. Oh, no, 4:20, I mean, seize heures, vente.
Glancing at the pastry box in my friend's grip, we walked out through a non-exit. She bustled through without a hitch. She didn't look like a thief, but neither did I. Beep, Beep, Beep. Three seconds later my small orange bag was shuffled through as if I was a common criminal by the security guard.
Taking each item out one by one and starring suspiciously at that MADE IN AMERICA SPF 55 Neutragena sunscreen. I could tell he thought, that pale skin doesn't fool me Miss USA. No one in France ever carries sunscreen apparently, only if they've thrown it in their bag without paying at LeClair.
"Come with me" he said in French. This is the most action he's gotten all week. No, my friend couldn't come in the back room to get searched like me. Padded down at a grocery store, LeClair doesn't fool around. No, definitely not.
He left me alone for about ten seconds and eyed me as I attempted to sit down. Five seconds after that a smiling blond French woman came toward me with a metal detector. "You can have the sunscreen!" I said in my mind. "You don't need sunscreen, get burnt!"
"Where did you get your pants mademoiselle" she said in French.
I panicked, "H et M." That was a lie! They're American made, GAP.
My mind flashed questions: Do they have firing squads in France? Did that door lead to their secret shotgun room?
"When did you get those pants?" she followed up.
"Yesterday," another lie. I got them two months ago.
Apparently I hadn't cut off the metal security protector mischievously hidden on the left inside pant leg. That GAP employee is laughing now as they think of their customers pent up in bag rooms at French super stores.
"You can go," I heard them mutter in disappointment.
"I can have my sunscreen?"
"Yes."
Exiting the death chamber the color in my face returned.
Is it warmer out here? My breath wasn't white as it left the confines of my lungs.
"What happened?" Concerned friend.
She hadn't eaten her tart. I wouldn't have blamed her if she had.
Placing the crumbling crust, melting custard and sugar coated fruits onto my tongue, I thought, "French pastries are worth the interrogation."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)