Tu veux boire un verre?

In France, it is perfectly acceptable to sit outside a café at four o’clock in the afternoon and order nothing but a Coke.  Granted, this Coke-drinking is generally accompanied by smoking perhaps one, but often three, cigarettes – depending on the amount of time one sits – which can be quite a long time. 

For some reason, in America it is not socially acceptable to simply sit and drink a Coke at four o’clock in the afternoon.  Now, if you are drinking a latte, or even a beer, that’s ok, but just a Coke?  Or – God forbid – an Orangina?  Cokes and Orangina’s are the types of beverages that Americans drink while shopping, driving, or walking to our various destinations.  We see no need to sit down to drink them. 

But every time I take a walk with a French friend, our little promenade inevitably ends in the question, “Tu veux boire un verre?”   This means, in a slightly loose translation, “Do you want to have a drink?” When uttered in English, this lovely little phrase almost always means, “Would you like to drink an alcoholic beverage with me?”

This question is sometimes asked in the context of ‘Happy Hour,’ a most curious ritual in which uptight urban professionals drink beers on the cheap after work while continuing to discuss their jobs and their co-workers. 

Or this question can be a casual way to ask someone on a date if you haven’t quite plucked up the courage to ask him or her to dinner.  If you just “have a drink” with your crush,  you can always deny your romantic intentions later in case of rejection. 

Finally “having a drink” can be used when you are awkwardly meeting someone for the first time- like your brother’s roommate’s mother’s friend’s son who happens to be living in the same city as you at the moment.  (Yes, this did actually happen to me once, and fortunately, I can report it was much less bizarre than it sounds.)

Alternatively there is the question, “Do you want to get coffee with me?”  

This question can be used to facilitate a meeting about professional relationships, i.e. “Let’s have coffee and discuss the possibility of you interning with us this summer.”

“Getting coffee” can be a pretext for seeing friends with whom you’ve fallen out of touch, i.e. “I know we haven’t seen each other since I stole your boyfriend, but let’s “get coffee” and try to patch things up.”

And of course “getting coffee,” “like “having a drink” can also be used for pseudo-dates: “Hey, I really enjoyed meeting you the other night at that art opening.  Let’s have coffee to…uh…discuss the works further…”

If I am hanging out with my sister or a close friend and we get a hankerin’ for some caffeine, we will simply walk into a coffee shop, order our coffee (or Coke or whatever) in a nice “to-go” cup and continue on our way.  We would not waste our time sitting down to drink this beverage unless we had some sort of “business” to conduct.  

The point of all this is to show that American’s aren’t in the habit of just chilling out with their beverages.  We always have some reason for sitting down to quench our thirst.  What’s more: the beverage with which we sit cannot be just any beverage, but must be a) alcoholic or b) expensive, frothy, and caffeinated. 

But “Tu veux boire un verre?” means something very different than “Do you want to have a drink?” or  “Do you want to get coffee with me?” (Which can both be loaded questions.) 

“Tu veux boire un verre?”  just means:  “Do you want to sit outside this café with me, at four o’clock in the afternoon and sip on a Coke while we talk about nothing and watch the people walking by?  Heck, we don’t even have to talk.  We can just sit there enjoying our Cokes if you want.  For as long as we please.”

“Oh, and by the way, it’s ok that you stole my boyfriend.  I was getting tired of his snoring.” 

Stuck on the Train: A Reality TV Show

The first friends I made in France this trip were pretty much forced to befriend me.  That’s because my train from the Gare de Lyon to Besançon, which was supposed to take about two hours, broke down and we ended up stranded in the train for 6 hours!  Yikes.

When I first got on the train, I tried really hard not to seem foreign.  I smiled and nodded when people spoke to me, trying to avoidsaying anything but, “Merci” or “Pardon” so that no one would notice my accent.

The first 45 minutes on the train went according to plan.  I listened to my Ipod and hid my face by pretending to read a French newspaper; the other people in my compartment were doing pretty much the same.  But all that calm, normal (but depressingly anti-social) behavior was about to seem silly and useless.   The train stopped short and all the lights went out.  There were cries of “Merd” and “Putain” left and right (neither of which I will translate here.)  Eventually the lights came back on but the train remained where it was.  The conductor came around to each car and explained in rapid-fire French what the problem was. I, of course, was lost. So.  I had to suck it up and speak to someone.  I looked at the man sitting across from me: “Excuse me, would you mind telling me again what he just said?  I’m a foreigner and I didn’t catch some of it.”  (That was a lie, I didn’t catch any of it.)   He smiled and said slowly in French, “the engine is broken, so we are going to have to wait here for a new part.” 

Oh, ok.  I can deal with that. 

My friend Laura, who I met on a previous trip to France, is from Besançon (the town where I was headed and where I will be living this year).  Laura lives in Paris where she works for a company that buys the rights to foreign films, but she was planning to go home to Besançon that weekend to see her family.  We took different trains from Paris because my plane got in before she was going to get off work, and I didn’t want to sit around the train station with all my luggage.  But Laura’s mom (a lovely, generous woman) had offered to pick me up at the train station.

I sent Laura’s mom a text to let her know that my train would not be on time.  

Timidly, the people in my compartment started chatting. 

“Where are you headed?”

“Oh no, this delay will cause me to miss the play I was going to see with my husband.”  “My son just texted me a picture of the delicious dinner I am missing right now!” 

Everyone was also curious about who I was and what the heck I was doing here on this train with enough luggage for six months.  I told them I was American and heading to Besançon to teach at Lycée Louis Pasteur this school year.  They all knew Besançon and assured me that the students would be nice to me.  Mathilde, a beautiful young woman in her early thirties who was originally from Besançon (and went to “Pasteur” during her high school years), told me an amusing story about how she had a crush on her English Assistant when she was in high school.  “He was a tall, blond, British guy, and I used to always see him drink beer in a nearby bar after school,” she explained. 

In the compartment there was also, Matthieu, a fourteen-year-old boy who lived in Paris but was visiting his grandparents in Besançon for the weekend; and Nicolas, a suited-up business man who had been in Paris for work, but was returning home to his family in Dijon. 

The conversation mostly consisted of Mathilde and Nicolas telling Mathieu (who was also unsure about Besançon) and me all about the city.  

“There are lots of cool music and arts festivals at the ‘Citadel.’” 

“There is a special kind of cheese that comes from the Besançon region.  You can’t find it anywhere in the United States or anywhere else, I hear. But you have to taste it. I think it’s the best in France!” 

“Did you know that Besançon used to be an old Roman city?  There are Roman ruins that still stand near the center of town.” 

“Victor Hugo was born in Besançon.”

“Also, the Lumière brothers, who invented cinematography, were born there.” 

“Isn’t it funny that their name was ‘Lumière’ (which means light), Ha Ha Ha!”

“There is a really cool art museum in the center of town called the Musée des Beaux Arts.  You should definitely pay a visit since you are interested in art!” 

“There is lots of good skiing nearby – I’m sure it’s much better than whatever you have done in Virginia (it doesn’t snow much there, right?) …”

After we sat for nearly three hours, the conductor announced that we would be turning around and heading back towards Paris to get some part repaired.  Then we would head towards Dijon, stop for a few minutes, and continue on to Besançon.   Ugh. This was going to take a while, to say the least.

Nicolas went to the dining car and returned with a bottle of wine, a corkscrew, and four plastic cups.  “I think this might help,” he said.  “Chin!” (which means “Cheers”)

Two hours and another bottle of wine later, we had decided that this situation would be a great premise for a reality TV show: Stuck on the train: two French professionals, a fourteen-year-old-boy, and a random American chic are forced to entertain one another for six hours in a small enclosed space. 

Fortunately, our reality TV show was more like fiction than “Keeping Up With the Kardashians.”  When we stopped at Dijon, the loss of Nicolas left a hole in our little group, but we gained Benoit, a chubby, jolly man, who was also on his way to Besançon. 

We finally arrived in Besançon around midnight.  Laura, whose train left two hours after mine, arrived two hours before me.  Her train had also experienced a delay because some other train (mine) had been blocking the tracks.  Since it was so late, Mathilde offered to give me a ride to my new apartment, rather than have Laura’s mom meet me at the station.  Matthieu and Mathilde’s husband helped me carry my bags to the car.  We all got to meet Matthieu’s grandfather, who thanked us profusely for “watching out for Matthieu.”

What did I learn from my experience on a reality TV show?  Well, I learned that people in Besançon are wonderful and welcoming – nothing like the actual characters on reality TV.  And I learned that there is nothing like wine to give me a little confidence in my French-speaking-abilities. 

Just a Little Icelandic Detour

 

So. It has happened.  My flight took off 2 nights ago at 8:40 pm from Dulles Airport. Right now I am sitting in a “Te and Kaffi” shop called Stofan in Reykjavik, Iceland.  Perhaps I forgot to mention in my earlier posts, that I decided to take a two-day solo journey to Iceland on my way to France.  Hey why not start this whole thing off with a bang, right?   Icelandair is a relatively cheap way to get to Europe and they make it easy for you to stop in Iceland for a few days, which I am now very glad I decided to do!

What I have to say about Iceland is this: Whoa!  What an efficient country! Iceland rivals Switzerland with its pure ease of living.  There is a bus that takes all passengers from the airport directly to their hotels. My check-in time wasn’t until 3pm, but when I asked my hotel, the City Center Hotel,  if I could store my bags until check-in time, they kindly responded that I could check in immediately.  (at 7 am!)

Reykjavik at first seemed like a little toy city to me, with shops where you can buy hand-knitted wool hats and earrings made from volcanic ash.  The restaurants are big on whale, puffin, and pickled shark.  I just strolling around taking in the smiling people, crime-free streets, and charming little buildings, until I first saw Hallgrimskirkja from the end of a long, uphill street.  My friend Altaire sent me some info about this humongous Lutheran church right before my trip, so I knew it existed, but still wasn’t prepared for what I like to call the “Lord of the Rings Effect.”   This church looks like Gandalf’s stomping ground!  As I was walking around Reykjavik at 8 am, (3 am for my body!) I was deliriously noting all the cuteness of the city, when all of a sudden I see this giant, hulking Lord-of-the-Rings-like church right there in front of me!   I felt an immediate compulsion to walk toward the towering edifice, touch the stone, go inside, and sit in a pew. The organist was practicing some very Icelandic-sounding hymn, or should I say elfin-sounding? (no, that's probably too much..)   I took the elevator to the top of the tower and had an amazing view of the entire city and the surrounding country! (photos coming soon!)  

Ok, then I felt awake. 

After my trip to the top of  Hallgrímskirkja,  I took a (very efficient and timely) bus to The Blue Lagoon.  Believe it or not, this place is actually cooler than it looks on the website.  I felt like I was at some kind of bizarre volcano theme park.  It was forty degrees outside and we were surrounded by volcanic ash, but my Bulgarian bus mates and I were swimming and relaxing in the sky-blue hot-tub-like geothermal pool.  People all around me were rubbing mud from the bottom of the pool onto their faces and bodies. (It is supposed to have powerful anti-aging effects because of all the minerals.)  I found out this morning from my bike-tour guide that the Blue Lagoon was actually an industrial accident.  It was first a geothermal energy plant.  They couldn’t use the water from below the volcano because it was too mineral-rich, so they just used the volcanic water to heat the regular water.  Then they just poured the volcanic water back onto the ash, thinking it would seep back under the rocks.  But because of all the minerals, it stayed on top, forming this weird and wonderful pool!  A bunch of Icelandic locals found out about the pool and started swimming there.  Eventually the geothermal company decided to build a fence around the pool and charge an entrance fee.  Go Capitalism!

After relaxing at the Blue Lagoon for a bit, I took the bus back to Reykjavik, went up to my hotel room and passed out asleep for about 4 hours (hey! I didn’t sleep at all the night before….)  When I woke up my stomach was growling and it was 7 pm – time for dinner!

Now let me just make a confession here.  Maybe it’s a function of growing up in a large family, with a house that was more like a pub than a private residence, or maybe it’s just a personality flaw.  But I have always been uncomfortable by myself.  I am in my element when I am surrounded by a lot of people I know, and I usually avoid situations where I might need to, say- eat at a restaurant alone. 

Now my first thought on waking up from my nap with hunger pangs was- ugh I’ll just roll over and go back to sleep until tomorrow (hey! I was exhausted ok?)  But then a little voice said to me: “Ann Marshall, you only have 2 days in Iceland!  You can’t spend one of your evenings sleeping in the hotel!”  So then I thought- I am going to go to the nearby supermarket and grad some bread and deli meat and bring it up to the room, then I’ll go walk around. 

When I walked downstairs, the hotel concierge (who I was now bff’s with after having asked her a ton of questions about the coolest things to do in Reykjavik) said, “Are you going to dinner? I can recommend some good, affordable places near here.”  I decided I’d listen politely to her suggestions, then head to the supermarket anyways.  She told me about places where I could get whale sushi, fresh halibut, sea snails, and cheap but delicious steaks.  Suddenly my mouth was watering. 

Was it time to face my fear of going out to dinner- ALONE?  This year should be about challenging myself, about learning to savor the moments I am alone rather than fear them.  Yes, I decided to do it.  I must have walked around for at least an hour trying to find a restaurant that was not too crowded but not too empty, had good ambiance, reasonable prices, and menu items that appealed to me.  Hey- my first solo meal should be perfect right?  I finally decided on a little bistro called Geysir.  The waitress seated me a table for two, but took away one of the place settings, which made me cringe.  I immediately took out my copy of Scientific American (a magazine I had strategically chosen just before going into the restaurant to make me look semi-intelligent and sophisticated.  Plus!  There was an article in there about multiple universe theories! Cool!)

Once I had a glass of wine in my hand I felt better.  I put down the magazine and started to look around the room.  I noticed a man at the next table eating something that looked amazing, so when my waitress came, I pointed and said, “I want what he has.”  It was halibut with mango and red onions.  Mmmmm.  I don’t know if I have ever savored something so much in my life.  Eating without the distractions of conversation or a book really lets you taste and enjoy your food. After I was finished, I even ordered a coffee and a slice of cake.  I am already scheming about my next solo dining experience.   This time, I'm getting whale! (though not the kind that has been illegally or cruelly hunted...) 

Not to sound bizarre, but I think last night may be a metaphor for what I want this year to be, though I am not going to say what that is just yet. 

Onward to France!

All The French Things

I always knew I would take French when the time came to choose a foreign language in seventh grade.  

In those days, I was on the fast track to becoming a professional ballerina with the Paris Opera Ballet.  So I was already practically fluent, thank you very much! I so closely associated French with ballet that I assumed most French people were ballet dancers.   They were all obviously sophisticated and otherworldly just like me. Only after I thought about things more logically did I realize that when a French person says glissade jeté, it actually isn’t some code language for the more chic among us – it really just means “slide and throw.” 

During my high school years, I attended the (University) of North Carolina School of the Arts in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, a town where the most recognizable building is affectionately called “The Penis Building.”  There, I was able to hone my ballet skills and (of course) my French skills.  My French classes were mostly filled with 90 pound ballet devotées like myself, and this only furthered my conviction that most French people are ballet enthusiasts. 

But at the end of my junior year of high school, I got the chance to actually go to France- a beach city on the Atlantic called Royan.  For a whole month. Whoa. 

To my surprise, none of the French people I met gave a hoot about ballet.  During my summer program, I stayed with a woman about my Mom’s age named Dom (short for Dominique).  She was a big woman who lived in an apartment above her boutique where she sold overpriced handbags to unsuspecting tourists.  She enjoyed sitting on her balcony in the evening, drinking sweet white wine, and making fun of the cops who sped down the street on mopeds every couple minutes.  Not entirely unlike my own dear old mom!  The month I spent with her gave me a taste of the rush that comes from truly communicating in a new language.  Not to mention I got to learn all the derogatory terms for “police officer” that exist in French.  I was hooked. 

Soon after I got back from first summer in France, Dom called my cell phone (just to say Salut!) while I was with a group of high school friends.  I told them to “please hold on a minute,” while I yapped away in French on the phone with Dom.  Wow.  I have never (to this day) felt so cool. 

So while I am finding myself (and stuff) in France this year, I will also secretly be reliving that moment.  (One week till I leave!!) 

In This Economy, Laissez-Faire!

My flight to Paris is not leaving until September 20^th.  I wanted to go sooner (obviously) but airline prices, living arrangements, and the proverbial work visa threw a teensy wrench in those plans.  On the bright side, I get to spend a little bit of time laying on my parents’ leather couch watching TV.  I am supposed to be thinking up “lesson plans” for my first few days of English class, but let me get to that after the Star Wars marathon, k?

I graduated from the University of Virginia in May with a complicated sounding (and consequently impractical) liberal arts major and a minor in French.  Like most college students, I was perplexed by the “real word,” a place where one presumably must do something one does not particularly enjoy in exchange for money.   What is even more perplexing (and disturbing!) is that it turns out there are already enough people out there doing just that!  Although, my parents tell stories of the mythical signing bonuses of the eighties, we all know that liberal arts grads today are pretty much out of luck. 

With my family in New Orleans over Christmas, after a few glasses of eggnog, I declared to everyone that I was moving to France when I graduated, like I had always wanted. Cheers! Take that economy! On Christmas day I wrote out my application to the TAPIF program and clicked send. 

Right after graduation I drove back down to New Orleans to start an internship with The NOCCA Institute.  I had such a rewarding and stimulating summer in my semi-“real world” job that I almost started to question my decision to go to France.  Maybe I should stay.  Maybe I should get serious and get a job and stay in one place.  My college buds now have jobs at places like Google and the World Bank.  Should I try for the same thing?

But then I see the look in the eyes of middle-aged professionals when I tell them about my plans to be French for eight months.  “Do it now!” They say, almost desperately.  “Do it now before you have a career and a family and responsibilities.  Do it while you are young and open and adventurous. If you don't do it now, you will never do it!” 

So I’m doing it, goddamnit, I’m doing it!  In fact, I have never been so sure about anything.