La Coquette

Expat Foul!

armature
ballon (d’eau chaude)
devis
dentelle
propriétaire
lettre recommandée

I had lunch with a British friend on Thursday and the words you see above are words I used in conversation instead of underwire, hot-water tank, repair estimate, lace, landlady, and registered letter.

I’m always watching out for stuff like that--the last thing you want to be is that American who goes back to the States and says “Well, if we were in France...” or exclaims that a cake is “Délicieux” or something.  But there’s nothing you can do about technical terms mixing in with your English.  (In this case, I’ve been shopping for lingerie and having a hot-water tank installed.)  They just slip up on you--like sneezing.  You really can’t beat yourself up for it. 

However, I would maybe have to consider ending it all if I ever did this:  I overheard a man at Monoprix the other day telling someone he had bumped into, very seriously,”We’re going to the party at The Reetz tonight.”  It took me a moment to realize he was talking about Hotel Ritz.  This was a Scottish person speaking to another Brit.  Sure, I can see pronouncing Hotel Costes with a French accent (when you're speaking English)--it exists only in a Parisian context--but The Reetz?  What, does he walk around telling people that he writes documents on Microsoft “Poobleesher” and takes his kids to see Mickey at “Euro Deesnay”?

It’s almost as bad as those people who say they like Van Gogh or Bach with some phlemmy attempt at Dutch/German pronunciation.  I just want to give them a good hard slap them on the back and ask “Ya got something in your throat?”

Like taking your yearbook picture with spinach in your teeth

Ever since I signed up for the internet telephone service, Skype, I get random calls from people in India or Africa--all over the world--who want to practice their French.  I’m just like, “Listen Abjal, I feel your pain, but bro, you do NOT want to be practicing your French with someone who just today learned that her voicemail message, her voicemail message of the last eight months, has been informing the world that she is not 'disponsible.'” 

It’s basically as if my recording says, “Sorry folks, I am not AVAILRABLE right now.”

Daughter of Daniel

This morning, reeling in caloric guilt from a weekend of my aunt's cooking, I went for a run in the village and back through the cornfields.  "Le petit tour," it's called 'round these parts.  It's funny being here, because anyone I pass, I'll say "Bonjour!  I am [Coquette], the daughter of Daniel," but they'll know exactly who I am before I open my mouth--the town has 200 citizens.  Why, it doesn't bother them one bit to keep track of Daniel and his little American family.

Taking a left at the big Jesus cross in the village center, I headed toward the cornfields.  It was just between Marthe and Bernard's vegetable garden and their horse pasture that a terrier mutt began chasing me.  And since I don't want to be known as, "Daniel's daughter, the one who swears at dogs in American," I said, "Arrête."

But with Marthe nearby in her cabbage, I was a little shy, and the whole thing lacked conviction.  By now, the dog was close enough to bite at my sneakers, so I turned around and hissed with intensity, "ARRÊTE."

I've mentioned before that my shouting in french, it isn't pretty.  This time, my "r" came out sounding like I was choking on mashed potatoes.

And what you need to know is that the dog stopped dead, cocking its head in the same wide-eyed, mouth-gaping way that french children often do when I part my lips and expel words.  It's a look that says, "Mommy, who is this alien, and what has she done to our pristine language?  My delicate french ears, THEY ARE BLEEDING."

Fish Flippy

I’ve had various odd jobs since moving to France, but one thing I do a lot of is tutoring.  I find it inspires a welcome sense of superiority (see Tuesday’s post), pays 2.5 times as much as baby-sitting or dog-sitting, and best of all, doesn't require me to touch any poop.

Last spring and into the summer, I woke up every Saturday morning at 7 a.m. and went to Joinville-le-Pont for English “play sessions” with three brothers--Victor, Ivan, and Frédéric--working individually, at 45-minute intervals.  They were nice enough boys, but I think it’s no stretch of the imagination to say that they loathed me.  Victor, the oldest at 11, might be listening to the sounds of a neighborhood game of foot wafting through the windows, and there I was grinning at him like a jack-o'-lantern.

Me:  How ‘bout another round of I Spy?
Victor:  Mmmm.  I don’t sink so.

*crickets*

I assure you it wasn’t as merry as it sounds. 

Ivan and Fred were a bit easier--they found my rendition of The Hokey Pokey inspiring, and when I brought over Monopoly, they thought I had invented the game.  But novelty only lasts so long with eight-year-olds until they realize they’re looking at 22 more minutes in lockdown with the crazy singing lady.  In retrospect, it seems unfair that I was the only one getting paid in the situation. 

But adults, adults who actually want to learn?  I can get on board for that.  For an hour a day, their attention is mine, just like a child.  For an hour a day, I can mold them and lord it around.  For an hour a day, I am their superior.  Who’s the lady with all the answers?  Ding, ding, ding.  That would be me.

(This would be a good time for the gods to begin peeling that banana.  Also, I like my cream pies with just a hint of vanilla, thanks.)

One woman I tutor, Caroline, is trying to get ahead in the business world by working on her English.  She’s a lovely woman whose beauty and demeanor belie her actual age.  (There is a sixteen-year-old son.)  Most importantly, Caroline has several Oxford Business English books, and we’re not expected to play Simon Says.

Tuesday night, I was defining something for her in French--a practice that the Alliance Française might not endorse, but Caroline has requested in order to save time.  I started to explain, in French, “imagine if you,” and the informal “tu” just slipped out.   And sat there like a floundering, flippy fish on the table.  Uncomfortable.  Obvious.  Wrong. 

Allow me to interject that, for the six months I worked at the magazine, I was the nerd using “vous” with all the hip fashion assistants on the phone (my age), until I heard them “tu” me first.  And then I still usually stuck with “vous.”  But with a woman of Caroline's age, well, there should be no question. 

“Imagine si tu...” 

Flip flip.  Flip flip.   

I felt like Ralphie just after he’s muttered the “F” word.

What do you do at this point?  Once you’ve left a nice, fat, third-trimester pause?  Do you clear your throat, smile, and say “VOUS” meaningfully?  That seems so fey.  Do you simply excuse yourself, or do you carry on like it never happened? 

Me?  I excused myself, then carried on, as one must when one is being paid by the hour.

I might as well have been wearing a sign saying, "Deport me, I'm a schlubby American."

Seeing as today was cloudy and cold and generally disgusting, I didn’t make my usual run in the park.  Ditto for the standing Sunday movie date with my friend Erin.  In fact, I didn’t leave the apartment until just now to buy some milk and Country Crisp cereal at the grocery store.

Maybe it was the lack of oxygen to my brain after a day spent in idleness, but I stepped outside wearing my hair in a ponytail, Converse sneakers, and a hooded sweatshirt advertising an American state university.  Someone please alert the fashion police.  Oh wait, THAT WOULD BE ME. 

To arrive at a grocery store in Paris on a Sunday evening at 7 p.m., to do so in my neighborhood at least, is to walk amongst scores of happy young couples wearing Italian leather shoes and French perfume as they buy a bottle of Sancerre, or perhaps a jar of paté, before dinner with the in-laws.

I am immune to the staring at this point.  IMMUNE.

Having The Cockroach

About The Job.  You don’t know the one I mean?  No, of course you don’t know the one I mean, because I didn't mention it to anyone (sorry, but that means the Internet, too), on account of the Jinx Gods.  Oh, and P.S., IT'S THE ONLY POTENTIAL JOB I'VE BEEN EXCITED ABOUT SINCE MOVING TO FRANCE.  Yes, that job.  Can you see where this is going?

Last Friday, I inquired as to my application status for The Job, only to hear via email, just now, that THEY HAVE COMPLETED A ROUND OF INTERVIEWS AND ARE NOW FILING APPLICATIONS.  Are you kidding me?  I didn’t even qualify FOR AN INTERVIEW?   Why is there no chocolate in my apartment?  Why is there no chocolate in Jeanne’s apartment?  Why is that rug I need to buy not buying itself and climbing up the stairs?  And what’s up with the title of this post?*  Nothing. makes. any. sense.

*The French expression for "having the blues" is avoir le cafard--literally, “to have the cockroach.”  Now that, I may have to concede, makes some sense. 

Hypothetically speaking, if I were to buy you a sound machine, would you prefer Seaside Breezes or Amazon Rainforest?

Chère Madame L,

It’s me, the loud American who lives upstairs.

I hope that you enjoyed the peace and quiet what with my being in the United States for so long.  C’etait calme, non?

I’m writing to you because I’ve been thinking about that evening in November when we ran into each other by the boites aux lettres.  I knew something was wrong, not because you TOLD me something was wrong, but because you looked like you had just sucked on a lemon with a mouth full of canker sores.  Which, as far as facial expressions go, speaks pretty clearly.

Remember?  I said, “Bonsoir, Madame L.  Are you doing well?”  I stared, waiting for your response.  You stared back, sucking on a lemon.  I was starting to get the idea you weren’t doing well.  Then you lowered your chin and said, “What kind of shoes do you wear around your apartment?”  It was like blurting out to the stinky guy pressed next to you on the metro, “What kind of deodorant do you use?”  I felt like a perpetrator charged with criminal intent. 

OKAY, IT’S TRUE. YOU CAUGHT ME--sometimes I do actually wear shoes in my own apartment.  And sometimes, I have a few friends over, and they wear shoes, too.  So that, on occasion, I have been known to have maybe 22-26 individual shoed feet going ALL AT ONCE.  But have you noticed that since the night of our chat I have developed mad skills for TIPTOEING IN HEELS BEFORE I GO OUT THE DOOR?  (Which, for the record, is no easy task).

Then, you mentioned that, come to think of it, you don’t enjoy hearing the noise made by my chairs sliding on my floor, either. Ça gratte, you said, squinting your eyes and rubbing your palms together, one on top of the other, to demonstrate.  And I was thrown for a second, because, gosh, am I supposed to rig up a pulley that will allow me to lower my body into my chair without moving it?  Or perhaps I should fix the chairs to the ground permanently, at  full arm's-length distance from the table, therein rendering sliding unnecessary?  It was a little bit tricky, this problem, but I am glad you brought it up because WE CAN DEFINITELY SOLVE IT AND I WILL TELL YOU HOW IN JUST ONE SEC.

Now, we’re getting to the real purpose of this letter, which is to share a few points in my defense that I would have expressed on that night in November if it weren’t for my tendency to lose all reason when under critical attack for shoe-wearing:

1.  Do you know that I whisper on the phone if I receive a call after 11pm--I’m sure you didn’t know that because I'm so quiet NOT EVEN THE PERSON WHO’S PAYING 15 CENTS A MINUTE TO CALL ME FROM THE US CAN HEAR ME.

2.  I like to watch T.V. late at night when I can’t sleep, keeping the volume so low, I have to sit all the way down at the foot of my bed (at a proximity that I can only assume is damaging to my vision).

3.  I only play music in the following circumstances: 
    A.  You are watching T.V.
    B.  You are not home.
    C.  I think it’s something you would like, and it’s nowhere near bedtime.  (I would really love to expose you to The Flaming Lips and Interpol, but I just don't think we're there yet).

4.  You are pretty lucky that I have Jeanne's apartment next door for entertaining, because game night can get ROWDY.  That's all I'm saying. 

Okay, I feel better now. 

Oh yes, my genius chair-sliding solution.  In the spirit of communication, mutual-sympathy, and starting the year off on the right foot, I’m buying a rug.  (This, even though, A. I’m poor, and B. it will mean hauling it up FIVE FLIGHTS OF STAIRS). 

You see, I want things back where they were when I first moved into the building and you used to smile at me in the stairwell and tell me I had du courage when I went out to jog in the cold morning.   It was nice to see you smile.

Or maybe you were just happy I was getting out of the apartment.

At any rate, hate to break it to you, but, I’M BAAAAAACK.  Although I guess you already heard.

Yours,
Coquette

I'm okay, Eurotrash

In the cafeteria of the public junior high school I attended, there was a nook called the Red Room, decorated with images of our mascot and painted a scarlet red, meant to reflect spirit and school pride.  Everyone from a certain crowd--the cheerleaders, the jocks--ate in the Red Room.  Junior high school was the pinnacle of stardom for most of them, and this figurative velvet rope only made their glow of popularity burn brighter to those on the outside--you wanted to follow their every move, but first, you had to get past the door.

There is a hotel in Paris so fabulous, just seeing the name in print prickles the very hairs on my neck--Hotel Costes.  Wait, the hairs on the back of your neck didn’t stand up?  Perhaps you pronounced it wrong in your head the first time.  Try saying “OH-tel CUST." Bien.

The hotel is tony, gorgeous, and doting, yes.  But other hotels in Paris do it better.  It is also exclusive terrain for stars, fashion and music people, and those who are exceedingly rich and beautiful.  And nobody does it better.

I mean there is nothing mock-worthy when it comes to The Costes.

This place just rocks (pretentiously).  From the gorgeous (infamously rude) staff, to the elite (eurotrashy) clientele, to the pool that plays music underwater (allegedly, because who actually swims laps at The Costes?), to the somber lighting that pervades the space (all the better to savor narcotics, my dear).

I seem bitter you say?  I have got my reasons, can’t we just leave it at that?   

KIDDING!  Of course we can’t leave it at that.  

Humiliation à la Costes

We’d started at the Opéra Garnier on a crisp Saturday night in November.  I was taking Kathleen to see Katia Kabanova for her birthday.  We were having a tra la la night in Paris, so we thought, "Let us end with drinks at the Costes!"

10:30 pm I call Hotel Costes to reserve a table.  "We only take reservations for dinner," the hostess tells us.  I ask if there are still tables available at the bar.  "Yes," she responds, "we still have room at the bar."

11:00 pm Our taxi arrives at rue Saint Honoré, a man in a black leather coat walks up to my side of the cab.  Thinking he’s trying to get into the cab with us,  I start to shake my head, “Huh, uh Buster.”  Then I look up and see that we are, in fact, just in front of the hotel (the entrance is quite hush hush, you see); I realize the man is, in fact, the valet. 

11:02 pm Instead of entering a spacious, light-filled lobby (The Costes is all about dark, dark, dark), you begin by passing through a tight corridor.  In the corridor, I keep hearing voices just next to me, talking and laughing.  The voices come from left and right, causing me to jerk my head around, only there’s no one else in the hallway.  I realize THEY ARE PLAYING A RECORDING OF PEOPLE AT A COCKTAIL PARTY.

11:03 pm We see the hostess--petite, dressed in black, exquisitely, no cruelly beautiful.  She is the most popular girl in school, just daring you to talk to her.  I swear that she actually looks us up and down.  THANK GOD I WAS WEARING MY GOLD JEAN-MICHEL CAZABATS, (you know the ones I mean), PHEW! 

Me:  Table for two, please?
Hostess:  Sorry, we are complet right now.

Her cheekbones are so chiseled, you get the idea they could cut you.  I give her a huge smile. 

Me:  On n’est pas difficile, on peut attendre.  (We’re not fussy, we can wait).

This was my first big mistake:  I told her we weren’t fussy.  If there’s one thing understood by those who spend time around velvet ropes--NEVER UNDERMINE ONE’S OWN IMPORTANCE IN THE TIME-SPACE CONTINUUM.  “We’re not fussy!”  Jeez.  I might as well have offered to massage the hostess’s scalp and give her a facial, too. 

Hostess:  You can’t wait here.
Me:  Oh, okay.  Can we wait at the bar?
Hostess:  The bar is full too.
Me:  Okay, we’ll just stand at the bar then.

Second Big Mistake:  The Costes is not a standing kind of place.  You lounge.  You sit.  We had betrayed ourselves as amateurs.  Costian newbies. 

Hostess:  I’m sorry, you need to leave. 
Me:  What?
Hostess: sighing Fine, you can come back at midnight. 
Me:  WHAT! 

I started to say something about my call earlier, but the decision was made--she began pointedly ignoring us and ushering in the important looking couple who had just arrived.   

This is where people who have pride would have left. 
 
This is when Kathleen and I decided to use the bathroom.  And all you really need to know is that Kathleen and I stayed in the bathroom a long time, BECAUSE WE HAD A POW-WOW IN WHICH WE EXCHANGED BLOOD AND DECIDED THAT THERE WAS NO WAY EITHER OF US WAS LEAVING THIS HOTEL.  We wore them down.  WE. WON. 

Next time you go to The Costes, notice the mirrored wall just to the right of the bar.  While waiting for our table, I kept catching my reflection, and I wasn’t sure I liked this person I saw.  It didn’t bother me that they hadn’t let us right in.  What concerned me was this:  For someone who claimed not to be fussy, why did I make all that fuss?  Do we never grow out of that junior high school desire to belong?  Once we are on the inside, why does it suddenly seem less important? 

Luckily, I didn’t have to look at myself for long, within a few minutes, we had a table, and then there were other things to look at.  The velvet banquettes, my mojito--the powdered sugar swirling, then settling like flakes in a snow-globe--all the beautiful people.  Who maybe were watching us, too. 

Franglish

Recent comments about my father’s lack of a French accent notwithstanding, there’s something about having to shout in another language. It’s like taking those scarcely foreign vowels and holding them up to a magnifying glass so you can suddenly see all the weird hairy bits. 

Going through a drive-through window with my father today, I took note of this.  Not enough “h” in his “hamburger.”  Something a little too nasal in the word “fries,” like someone impersonating an American accent. 

I found myself teasing him, which is just asking for trouble, being that my French accent is light years from his American one.  He then kindly brought up the time when I was locked in the gym bathroom in Paris and forced to shout, “Aidez-moi!  Je suis bloqué!”  Help!  I’m stuck.  (This is something I prefer to forget, not because I was fearful of being stuck, but because I was fearful of my own horrid accent, all the hairy bits magnified).

In situations such as this, (and especially whenever he corrects my French), I retaliate in the only way I can, which is to remind him that ONLY HE CAN BE BLAMED FOR ROBBING ME OF THE OPPORTUNITY TO SPEAK FRENCH AS A CHILD. 

Of course, that would have been too easy.  You don't think I ever would have really said that, do you?

How to Sound Like a Stupid Foreigner

Ask your friend if she wants to go window shopping, lecher les fenetres, with you this week. Ask loudly, because your drunk, and with pride, because you think you’ve impressively (considering the drinkage factor) remembered the French expression for window shopping--literally to LICK WINDOWS.

There will be silence, as wheels in drunken brains are turning, and then a collective “Aaah! Lecher les vitrines!”

Because, while you used the proper word for window the first time, there’s a whole other word for store windows, and it ain’t fenetre.