So my new bff in Rouen is a guy from India. We’ll call him PT (perpetual talker). He is mainly my new bff because he possesses a very important quality that nobody else around me possesses. He consumes alcohol (What do you get when you cross a Hindu Brahman Priest, a devote Christian, and an extremely religious Muslim? I don’t know but whatever it is you get, it’s sober).
Being the judger that I am I have already assessed PT for what he is. A high energy alpha male with a borderline obnoxious personality and big heart. Also extremely self-centered.
How do I know this? Through observation and experience. The way that PT operates is not only does he think the world revolves around him, he demands it to. Case in point:
PT: Let’s meet tomorrow at 10am.
Me: No. That’s too early for you. Let’s do later.
PT: No. 10. I’ll be there.
Me: No. You’ll be tired from work and you’ll sleep late because you’ll be up all night drinking or something. Let’s do later.
PT: Kelly, believe me I’ll be there at 10.
Me: Are you sure?
PT: Yes.
Me: [with reluctance] Ok.
Time Kelly arrives 10.
Time PT arrives: 10:30.
One of my pet peeves is waiting for people. It annoys me and I don’t like it and I make sure those around me know this. The occasional tardiness of 5-10 minutes is ok but 30 minutes I feel is a bit much. So I look at PT like, what the hell you said 10.
His excuse? Kelly, I could hardly get up this morning I am so tired from last night. I slept at 4 because they made me drink and I had a really tiring day at work.
Sound familiar? Right.
Lesson Kelly learned: Something stated isn’t true until PT says it.
But he charms his way out of it and it’s the first offense so I let it go and we go and hang out.
Afterwards he tells to me that tomorrow he will come by my apartment at 2. I said fine and that I’ll be there.
He calls me at noon: Sorry Kelly I have to do something for a friend I’ll come by at 8pm. I tell him that’s fine.
So I make sure I’m in my apartment by 8pm because it would be really dick of me to say I’ll be somewhere and then not be there.
This time he’s not late. That’s because he doesn’t show up at all.
Lesson Kelly learned: PT values his time but not the time of others.
The next day he tells me he’s sorry but his friend broke up with his girlfriend and wanted to hang out at the beach because of the beautiful weather that day and they got back really late.
Understandable yes? Do I care at this point? Not really. It’s clear to me that this guy is self centered and all the good intentions in the world isn’t going to change that.
I did, however, lend him my jacket and now I needed it back. So I ask him to bring it to class next time. He tells me to meet him the next day at 2pm. I tell him, flat out, hells to the no.
He looks at me like, why not? So I tell him why not that he doesn’t keep his appointments and I’m tired of waiting for him.
He assures me that he will be there at 2 and requests that I call him when I leave my apartment. I still tell him no. He’s persistent until finally I agree.
I am running a bit late that day and arrive at 2:15. He arrives at 2:35. Not only that but I don’t see my jacket on his possession. So basically I am waiting around for him, AGAIN, for nothing. I am pissed.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me thrice and you better the f duck or something.
Yes I am pissed. I can feel the anger boiling in the pit of my stomach and coming hot out of my face. The feeling is familiar, it’s called my temper which is kind of nasty. I keep quiet because that’s the only way I know how to suppress it.
So I manage to calmly ask for my jacket and he says it’s in his apartment and we can go get it now but can we please have lunch first because he is hungry.
I get even more pissed because I had specifically told him I was going to eat lunch at home to save money and his plan is to eat after we meet and make me wait. Again. His schedule and nobody elses'.
So we’re walking and he’s talking asking me what’s wrong and why aren’t I talking and I just keep quiet because I need to hold it together at least until I can get my jacket.
And then he says something really really stupid. He says: I don’t understand a girl’s mind.
Oh no he didn’t.
Really PT? You want to know a girl’s mind? Well let me tell let you into this girl’s mind.
I completely rip into him. In the middle of the street. People are staring at us but I don’t care because the minute I open my mouth to “help him understand a girl’s mind” my temper comes flying out of my mouth and phrases like and “wasting other people’s time” and “world does not revolve around you” peppered by the word “bullshit” come storming out.
He looks at me bewildered. I look back at him like “What do you have to say for yourself?”
So he starts splaining himself and I systematically pick apart his excuses making he himself come to the logically conclusion that he is the scum of the earth.
It is after I get my apology a long with admission of fault signed and sealed by his genuine remorse and regret over his actions that he says to me: “This is the first time I got dominated by a girl in a conversation. I am scared of you.”
Even after this he requests to come by my apartment at 2pm the next day. I look at him like he’s someone who has a death wish or something but I say whatever he can come over and maybe I’ll be there, maybe I won’t.
At exactly 2pm the next day my doorbell rings. I am pleasantly surprised that perhaps from our confrontation yesterday will come a mutually understanding that will better our relationship. I open the door.
It’s the devote Christian coming over to give me next week’s class schedule. As I close the door I kick myself for even entertaining the possibility that PT will do as he said he would.
At 2:05 my doorbell rings again. It’s PT. He looks like death and smells like Johnny Walker.
Apparently the night before he got dragged to the disco and ended up downing two beers, a bottle of wine, and a bottle of Johnny Walker which lead to him punching a brick wall and busting up his right hand. Just got back to his friend’s apartment (same apartment complex as mine) to sleep at 9am and woke up in a panic when his alarm went off at 1:45 to meet Kelly.
And there he was. Looking and smelling like death with a swollen right hand but at my door like he said he would be.
But alas he was still 5 minutes late so I kicked him the balls and slammed the door in his face.
Just kidding. I sent him back to bed. I’m not unreasonable. Just apparently a little scary…
Monday, October 20, 2008
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
The future chef of a village in Cameroon made me a dinner of chicken and potatoes
So being the half functional, partially retarded adult that I am there is a bus that runs from my apartment complex to the nearest metro station but I don’t know quite how to read the bus schedule and I am running late (it’s a 20 minute walk) so I was asked the guy standing there. A quelle heure le bus arrive?
He looks at me confused (as most people do when I speak French) and I repeat myself only this time with monkey gestures that I hope illustrate “What time is the bus coming.” This works and he tells me “9:30”. So we stand there and wait and the bus still does not arrive at 9:45. He invites me to walk with him to the bus station.
His name is Moisse (pronounced like Maurice but with no ‘r’) and he’s from Cameroon, Africa (so he speaks French fluently and a little English) and it’s his first year at the engineering school. He has a very kind way about him and an infectious laugh so we continuing chatting on the metro. Before he departs he asks me if I had plans later on that night. I told him I did not and we make plans to meet in my apartment later that evening.
I’m running really late that night but I make it back to my apartment at 7:30 so I have just enough time to make a small dinner and eat before he arrives.
During our conversation earlier in the day I thought he told me he was making me dinner but the problem with conversing with someone of a different native tongue is that you never know if you have mis-understood them so it’s never wise to bank on important things like dinner. I wanted to have a little something in my stomach in the case he wasn’t making me dinner but I also didn’t want him to come and see me eating dinner if he has made me something. C’est difficile.
Anywho I rush and finish dinner before he comes by and we sit and chat for a while about our day and about the difficulties of French and English. And then a very odd thing happens. I teach him French.
We are talking about liaisons. See the French are really lazy and don’t pronounce the last letter of words. Like in the word ‘et’ you don’t pronounce the ‘t’. But there is an exception. You pronounce the t if the first letter of the next word is a vowel. The example I use is vingt et un (21). Because of the ‘u’ in ‘un’ you pronounce the ‘t’ in et. So actually it sounds like vin(gt) e tun. So I tell him this and he looks at me like I’m on crack.
Moisee: It’s vingt un, not vingt et un. No ‘et’.
Now I know I don’t now French from Adam but I remember that French numbers are funny. I remember you have to do a little math with them (80 is quatre vingt – 4 x 20 and 90 is quatre vingt dix – 4 x 20 + 10) and that the first number of each set (21, 31, 41, etc.) has ‘and’ in it (20 and 1 –vingt et un, 30 and 1, trente et un).
He looks at me like I am silly American girl and that he comes from a French speaking province in Africa and it's vingt un but I remain confident. so we look it up in his dictionary. Voila. Vingt et un.
Moisee: [laughs] I really did not know. I will ask the other people from my town if they know. And I will tell them I have a new French teacher. Her name is Kelly.
So we have a good laugh about and he tells me he has food waiting for me in his apartment.
We move to his apartment and I have my first authentic African meal of chicken in a bean/carrot sauce and potatoes. It was really good (J’ai tres bien mange). He tells me he learned from his mom who is a home economics teacher in Cameroon. He asks me if I want to see her picture and he takes out numerous pictures of his life in Cameroon.
So he shows me pictures of his father, his mother, his cousins, and his grandfather, the chef of his village. So I jokingly ask: So does this mean you will be chef?
He replies with all seriousness: It’s very possible.
Turns out the guy who just made me dinner in a dormitory in France could very well be the future chef of his village back in Africa. The way it works is that when the chef dies he can leave an attestation paper stating who he wants to be the new chef or a recommendation. In the case of no attestation or a recommendation the village than votes on who will be the new chef. Generally they vote for someone who is very educated (which he is) and the new chef has to be in the same family as chefs before him (which he also is). Currently his uncle is the chef but when his grandfather died people from his village started calling him chef because they knew in about a decade’s time he will be the new chef.
I ask him if he wants to be chef. He responds no. I ask him why not and he tells me he wants to be free.
The chef has a lot of power and money but he is bond to the village and its people. The chef has to marry a girl from the village and has to have a minimum of 3 wives (polygamy is widely practiced throughout the village). When the chef eats he finishes his meal first before anyone else can eat. When his wife serves him food she must place the plate down and then back out of the room backwards with her head bowed down. When someone comes to talk to the chef they must stand a distance away from the house and clap their hands where someone will then greet them (not the chef) and they must present their case for the chef’s time. Before someone becomes chef they are taken into “the bush” with the village elders and have some sort of an inauguration with spirits of dead chefs.
I find this all really wild. It’s so far removed from anything I’ve ever known that I’m hugely fascinated with it.
So as he is talking about life in Africa and how I couldn’t image such poverty, that I realize. This man is African.
A little background. During my travels my friends and I had a game in which we called the Around the World Race. Basically whoever kissed someone from all continents (excluding Antarctica), wins.
So far nobody has gotten all 5 (two of the girls got 4/5 each missing either African or South America) and I’m down by 2 (Africa and South America). I could put the race into a 3 way tie if in kiss this man. A man who could be potential chef of his village. And that’s gotta count for extra bonus points or something.
But alas I don’t play to win and decide to be culturally sensitive and refrain for exploiting my new friend. We ended the evening with Bises.
A very lovely and bizarre evening where I taught a potential future chef of a village in Cameroon French.
He looks at me confused (as most people do when I speak French) and I repeat myself only this time with monkey gestures that I hope illustrate “What time is the bus coming.” This works and he tells me “9:30”. So we stand there and wait and the bus still does not arrive at 9:45. He invites me to walk with him to the bus station.
His name is Moisse (pronounced like Maurice but with no ‘r’) and he’s from Cameroon, Africa (so he speaks French fluently and a little English) and it’s his first year at the engineering school. He has a very kind way about him and an infectious laugh so we continuing chatting on the metro. Before he departs he asks me if I had plans later on that night. I told him I did not and we make plans to meet in my apartment later that evening.
I’m running really late that night but I make it back to my apartment at 7:30 so I have just enough time to make a small dinner and eat before he arrives.
During our conversation earlier in the day I thought he told me he was making me dinner but the problem with conversing with someone of a different native tongue is that you never know if you have mis-understood them so it’s never wise to bank on important things like dinner. I wanted to have a little something in my stomach in the case he wasn’t making me dinner but I also didn’t want him to come and see me eating dinner if he has made me something. C’est difficile.
Anywho I rush and finish dinner before he comes by and we sit and chat for a while about our day and about the difficulties of French and English. And then a very odd thing happens. I teach him French.
We are talking about liaisons. See the French are really lazy and don’t pronounce the last letter of words. Like in the word ‘et’ you don’t pronounce the ‘t’. But there is an exception. You pronounce the t if the first letter of the next word is a vowel. The example I use is vingt et un (21). Because of the ‘u’ in ‘un’ you pronounce the ‘t’ in et. So actually it sounds like vin(gt) e tun. So I tell him this and he looks at me like I’m on crack.
Moisee: It’s vingt un, not vingt et un. No ‘et’.
Now I know I don’t now French from Adam but I remember that French numbers are funny. I remember you have to do a little math with them (80 is quatre vingt – 4 x 20 and 90 is quatre vingt dix – 4 x 20 + 10) and that the first number of each set (21, 31, 41, etc.) has ‘and’ in it (20 and 1 –vingt et un, 30 and 1, trente et un).
He looks at me like I am silly American girl and that he comes from a French speaking province in Africa and it's vingt un but I remain confident. so we look it up in his dictionary. Voila. Vingt et un.
Moisee: [laughs] I really did not know. I will ask the other people from my town if they know. And I will tell them I have a new French teacher. Her name is Kelly.
So we have a good laugh about and he tells me he has food waiting for me in his apartment.
We move to his apartment and I have my first authentic African meal of chicken in a bean/carrot sauce and potatoes. It was really good (J’ai tres bien mange). He tells me he learned from his mom who is a home economics teacher in Cameroon. He asks me if I want to see her picture and he takes out numerous pictures of his life in Cameroon.
So he shows me pictures of his father, his mother, his cousins, and his grandfather, the chef of his village. So I jokingly ask: So does this mean you will be chef?
He replies with all seriousness: It’s very possible.
Turns out the guy who just made me dinner in a dormitory in France could very well be the future chef of his village back in Africa. The way it works is that when the chef dies he can leave an attestation paper stating who he wants to be the new chef or a recommendation. In the case of no attestation or a recommendation the village than votes on who will be the new chef. Generally they vote for someone who is very educated (which he is) and the new chef has to be in the same family as chefs before him (which he also is). Currently his uncle is the chef but when his grandfather died people from his village started calling him chef because they knew in about a decade’s time he will be the new chef.
I ask him if he wants to be chef. He responds no. I ask him why not and he tells me he wants to be free.
The chef has a lot of power and money but he is bond to the village and its people. The chef has to marry a girl from the village and has to have a minimum of 3 wives (polygamy is widely practiced throughout the village). When the chef eats he finishes his meal first before anyone else can eat. When his wife serves him food she must place the plate down and then back out of the room backwards with her head bowed down. When someone comes to talk to the chef they must stand a distance away from the house and clap their hands where someone will then greet them (not the chef) and they must present their case for the chef’s time. Before someone becomes chef they are taken into “the bush” with the village elders and have some sort of an inauguration with spirits of dead chefs.
I find this all really wild. It’s so far removed from anything I’ve ever known that I’m hugely fascinated with it.
So as he is talking about life in Africa and how I couldn’t image such poverty, that I realize. This man is African.
A little background. During my travels my friends and I had a game in which we called the Around the World Race. Basically whoever kissed someone from all continents (excluding Antarctica), wins.
So far nobody has gotten all 5 (two of the girls got 4/5 each missing either African or South America) and I’m down by 2 (Africa and South America). I could put the race into a 3 way tie if in kiss this man. A man who could be potential chef of his village. And that’s gotta count for extra bonus points or something.
But alas I don’t play to win and decide to be culturally sensitive and refrain for exploiting my new friend. We ended the evening with Bises.
A very lovely and bizarre evening where I taught a potential future chef of a village in Cameroon French.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Friday, October 10, 2008
le cheval saute
So I get asked a lot: Do you speak French?
Answer: Non. Jamais.
Well, that’s not particularly true. For about 3 months before I left for France I religiously studied French via my free version of Rosetta Stone (I have shady Asian friends).
Rosetta stone is divided into 5 parts. Listening, speaking, reading, writing, and a general introduction part where they introduce you to the new lesson. The philosophy behind Rosetta stone is to bombard you of images while saying particular words or sentences. You are meant to figure out what the words mean through the images. Eventually you will have successfully mapped the meaning of words to its image thus helping you learn the language.
It’s good in theory. There are, however, a few problems.
Firstly they are assuming that the image and the meaning are obvious. Sometimes, they are not. For example when I first started there was a series of sentences with their accompanying pictures:
La fille porte de lunettes. (image of girl standing on the beach)
La fille ne porte pas de lunettes. (image of girl standing on a hammock)
L’homme porte de lunettes. (full body image of man leaning against a tree)
L’homme ne porte pas de lunettes. (full body image of a man in a jumpsuit in mid-air jump)
At this point in the game the only word I had successfully mapped were ‘la fille’ and ‘l’homme’ (girl and man). I had not yet been shown what ‘porte’ was, nor ‘lunettes’.
Kelly’s conclusion after looking at said pictures for a while: Porte = stand. De lunettes = ground. (The man/girl is/is not standing on the ground.)
Real meaning: the man/girl is wearing/is not wearing glasses.
Oh, they’re wearing glasses/not wearing glasses… I missed that what with all the beaches and trees and jumping and hammocks. Why they didn’t just put faces of a girl/man wearing/not wearing glasses, I’ll never know.
It was only until much later that I realized I had it all wrong when they eventually had a whole lesson on wearing things. Otherwise I would’ve gone around not making any sense at all when it comes to ground standing.
That’s another thing with Rosetta Stone. The practically of what they teach you is a bit questionable. Like they had some weird fascination with horses. And jumping.
I had many a lessons involving jumping horses. The horse jumps. The horse did jump. The horse will jump.
Why would Rosetta stone focus on such a thing? At the time I assumed there are a lot of horses in France. And they are all jumping.
So far I haven’t seen any horses jumping. But when I do, you can bet your sweet ass I’ll be ready with my ‘Le cheval saute.’
So yeah. Parlez vous le francais?
Non, jamais.
Answer: Non. Jamais.
Well, that’s not particularly true. For about 3 months before I left for France I religiously studied French via my free version of Rosetta Stone (I have shady Asian friends).
Rosetta stone is divided into 5 parts. Listening, speaking, reading, writing, and a general introduction part where they introduce you to the new lesson. The philosophy behind Rosetta stone is to bombard you of images while saying particular words or sentences. You are meant to figure out what the words mean through the images. Eventually you will have successfully mapped the meaning of words to its image thus helping you learn the language.
It’s good in theory. There are, however, a few problems.
Firstly they are assuming that the image and the meaning are obvious. Sometimes, they are not. For example when I first started there was a series of sentences with their accompanying pictures:
La fille porte de lunettes. (image of girl standing on the beach)
La fille ne porte pas de lunettes. (image of girl standing on a hammock)
L’homme porte de lunettes. (full body image of man leaning against a tree)
L’homme ne porte pas de lunettes. (full body image of a man in a jumpsuit in mid-air jump)
At this point in the game the only word I had successfully mapped were ‘la fille’ and ‘l’homme’ (girl and man). I had not yet been shown what ‘porte’ was, nor ‘lunettes’.
Kelly’s conclusion after looking at said pictures for a while: Porte = stand. De lunettes = ground. (The man/girl is/is not standing on the ground.)
Real meaning: the man/girl is wearing/is not wearing glasses.
Oh, they’re wearing glasses/not wearing glasses… I missed that what with all the beaches and trees and jumping and hammocks. Why they didn’t just put faces of a girl/man wearing/not wearing glasses, I’ll never know.
It was only until much later that I realized I had it all wrong when they eventually had a whole lesson on wearing things. Otherwise I would’ve gone around not making any sense at all when it comes to ground standing.
That’s another thing with Rosetta Stone. The practically of what they teach you is a bit questionable. Like they had some weird fascination with horses. And jumping.
I had many a lessons involving jumping horses. The horse jumps. The horse did jump. The horse will jump.
Why would Rosetta stone focus on such a thing? At the time I assumed there are a lot of horses in France. And they are all jumping.
So far I haven’t seen any horses jumping. But when I do, you can bet your sweet ass I’ll be ready with my ‘Le cheval saute.’
So yeah. Parlez vous le francais?
Non, jamais.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
bon anniversaire
So faced with the prospect of sitting alone and friendless in my room for my birthday drinking cheap wine, singing ‘All by myself’ and getting that much closer to alcoholism fueled by depression I decided to send Alex an email last minute asking him if he was busy for the weekend and that it was my birthday on Sunday. The guilt worked and I got myself invited to a party at the Bear’s Saturday night.
Unforch Alex had plans all Saturday so I had to find a way to entertain myself until then. I decided to head into Paris early and check out some of the sights. Which sights I wasn’t quite sure because the day before, just as I was about to do some internet research at the school I got kicked out of the cafeteria by some dude. The odd part about that was that after he told me to leave I packed up my stuff and when I tried the door I realized that he had, in fact, locked me in.
So the timeline goes: He sees me in the cafeteria. He asks me to leave. He knows I haven’t left. He locks the door anyways. I don’t know how that’s suppose to work but luckily he sees me frantically try to break myself out of the cafeteria, comes over, and lets me out.
Anywho armed with my dictionary and metro map of Paris I got on the train went into the city, solo. Still I had to decide where to go.
Being a cultured person only through mass media the only three things I could recall from the top of my head about Paris were the Eiffel Tower (as seen on many keychains and t-shirts), the Louvre (Da Vinci Code) and Notre Dame (of Hunchback, Disney fame). Having seen two out of the three already, Notre Dame it was.
So I use all of my life skills and bad French to traverse Paris’ extensive weblike metro system and get to the Saint Micheal stop. Tired from so much thinking I decided to sit for a while in front of the Notre Dame and take in the view.
That’s when I noticed the Birdman.
At first I thought it was common scene of a father and son feeding the birds but then I realized something peculiar. I started to notice that the boy could not feed the birds by himself. He needed the birdman’s assistance.
As in without the birdman, the boy would put out his hand full of food and the birds would ignore him. The birdman would then grab the boy’s hand, lift it up and the birds would come and eat out of his hand. If the boy should lift up his hand in the same manner as the birdman did before by himself, the birds would not come. Once the birdman touched the boy’s hand with his hand, the birds would come.
It was really odd. People would see them feeding the birds and come over and try to feed the birds themselves but they just wouldn’t eat from anyone but the birdman. I watched as person after person, standing right next to the birdman would try to feed the birds without any success.
He noticed me staring at him and beckoned me over. And with his help I got an amazing shot of the Notre Dame:
After my encounter with the birdman I got into the long line for entry into the Notre Dame.
So I’m waiting in line and halfway through I notice the sensation one should not have if one is traveling by oneself. It is the sensation of having the small of one’s back rubbed. I quickly look over to see who the hell is rubbing my back and see an older gentleman looking away from me and happily rubbing away at my back. He turns to me with a smile on his face. The smile quickly fades followed by a look of shock, and utters “You’re not my wife.”
So I look at him like "duh" and we both turn around and I see an older woman staring at us with the justifiable look of “what the fuck” on her face.
I guess when everyone was moving up in the line he must’ve taken a couple more steps more than his wife and landed next to me and decided to show his affection to the person next to him whom he thought was his wife but wasn’t and it lead to a very awkward and uncomfortable situation. Luckily we realized what had happened and were all good humored about it and laughed it off. I chatted with them a bit. They were a nice Australian couple.
Anywho the rest of the Notre Dame line moved along without incident and I got in and saw the magnificent church:
After Notre Dame I met up with Alex for a dinner of savory and sweet crepes washed down with apple cider. I told him about my Notre Dame experience (birdman, backrubbing, and all) and he told me some important information as well:
Alex: Kelly, there’s something I should tell you.
Me: Yes? Sound serious.
Alex: Well I read your blog and you spelled Baise wrong. You should drop the ‘a’.
Me: Really?
Alex: Yeah. Actually you meant Bise which is the cheek to cheek kiss. Baise means something different.
Me: What does it mean?
Alex: It means to sleep with someone.
Me: …
Alex: …
Me: So basically you’re telling me I told everyone who reads my blog that I slept with all your friends and it made me feel happy and accepted.
Alex: Well , yes.
Me: Awesome.
Ah language learning. I should stick with what I know. (Le cheval saute.)
After dinner we went to the Bear’s apartment for some drinks and good conversation. I met a very nice Swedish couple who just moved to Paris and talked their ear off because that’s what I do nowadays anytime I’m near an English speaker.
The next day I left Alex’s apartment and headed to the Musee d’Orsay as part of my brilliant plan because 1. I had a lot of time to kill since trains from Paris to Rouen run infrequently on Sundays 2. it was on the same metro line from Alex’s apartment to my train station and 3. many of Paris’ museums are free the first Sunday of every month (a fact I learned from Lonely Planet’s “Europe on a shoestring” – my birthday present to myself).
Unforch when I got there I realized that the either this museum is extremely popular or that many people know about the first Sunday of every month free thing. Oh and it was raining:
Still it was not a bad way to spend one's birthday surrounded by the great works of Manet, Monet, and lots, and lots of nudity.
Afterwards I headed back to Rouen. As soon as I got back my doorbell rang and it was my school mates coming by to wish me a happy birthday (apparently they had been waiting for me all day). One guy brought Indian wine so we opened it and we sat around for a while drinking and chatting.
I may have gotten a bit tipsy due to the fact that only 2 people drank (me and they guy who brought the wine) and I hadn’t had dinner yet when they came by.
Laurel and Justin, I don’t really remember what we talked about, but I do remembered that you called and I was really happy to talk to you and thanks for the birthday wishes. I feel the love (I just wish I felt it a little more sober). Pardon.
Friday, October 3, 2008
il pleut et pleut et pleut
So I had the following conversation with Julien the other day:
Me: How was your weekend?
Julien: It was great. Ze weaza was sunny.
Me: Is that, uncommon?
Julien: Yes. I hope you did not come to Normandy for ze weaza.
Apparently I lucked out when I first came to Rouen because the weather was uncommonly unrainy and uncrappy.
I still maintain that these galoshes are the best shoe decision of my life.
Me: How was your weekend?
Julien: It was great. Ze weaza was sunny.
Me: Is that, uncommon?
Julien: Yes. I hope you did not come to Normandy for ze weaza.
Apparently I lucked out when I first came to Rouen because the weather was uncommonly unrainy and uncrappy.
I still maintain that these galoshes are the best shoe decision of my life.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
the director of the residence hall almost saw me in my underwear
So the other night I awoke in the middle of the night to Chinese water torture. Administered by my ceiling. I told Mme Aonne the next morning about it and she told he she’d call whomever it is that people like her call for situations like this. It’s not a big deal since I moved my bed out of the way of the drip (I think real good) and ran off to do my errands and kind of forgot about it.
This morning I’m awoken by my doorbell. Half asleep and wearing no pants I looked through the peephole and see the director of the residence hall (it’s a dude). Quickly I scrambled for my keys.
See the thing is, the door in my apartment locks with a key from both in inside and outside. In a world where e=mc2 this meant I also had to use the key to unlock my door from the inside.
But I couldn’t find my keys. So I’m looking around the room for my damn keys half functional because I just woke up and the clock is ticking when somewhere in the important information part of my brain I realize that these people have keys to my apartment. And if I don’t open the door, they will assume I am not there and come in (they’ve done this before). And I am sans pants.
Shit. So I shift my eyes from key-seeking mode to pants-seeking mode, find them, and put them on (inside out, backwards, whatever) just as they open the door.
I turn around and am so flustered and still discombobulated by having just woken up that no French registers whatsoever and I can’t even manage a ‘Parlez vous l’anglias?” as they talk to me in French. I just stare at them like an idiot and since they have no idea what just transpired in the last 2 minutes they stare at me like I’m an idiot but I’m ok with that because at least I am an idiot wearing pants.
Anywho the director finally speaks to me in English and turns out the “water” dripping from my ceiling isn’t in fact from the rain but rather from the shower of my upstairs neighbor. Ew.
The guy did something and now we “have to test” meaning I have to lay there and wait to see if shower water drips on me.
So until I figure out how to “test” this without getting any shower water on me, my bed remains moved awkwardly in the center of the room.
A room fit for an idiot (wearing pants).
This morning I’m awoken by my doorbell. Half asleep and wearing no pants I looked through the peephole and see the director of the residence hall (it’s a dude). Quickly I scrambled for my keys.
See the thing is, the door in my apartment locks with a key from both in inside and outside. In a world where e=mc2 this meant I also had to use the key to unlock my door from the inside.
But I couldn’t find my keys. So I’m looking around the room for my damn keys half functional because I just woke up and the clock is ticking when somewhere in the important information part of my brain I realize that these people have keys to my apartment. And if I don’t open the door, they will assume I am not there and come in (they’ve done this before). And I am sans pants.
Shit. So I shift my eyes from key-seeking mode to pants-seeking mode, find them, and put them on (inside out, backwards, whatever) just as they open the door.
I turn around and am so flustered and still discombobulated by having just woken up that no French registers whatsoever and I can’t even manage a ‘Parlez vous l’anglias?” as they talk to me in French. I just stare at them like an idiot and since they have no idea what just transpired in the last 2 minutes they stare at me like I’m an idiot but I’m ok with that because at least I am an idiot wearing pants.
Anywho the director finally speaks to me in English and turns out the “water” dripping from my ceiling isn’t in fact from the rain but rather from the shower of my upstairs neighbor. Ew.
The guy did something and now we “have to test” meaning I have to lay there and wait to see if shower water drips on me.
So until I figure out how to “test” this without getting any shower water on me, my bed remains moved awkwardly in the center of the room.
A room fit for an idiot (wearing pants).
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
dinner x 2
His name is Irfan (to my non-Indian ears it sounds like Earphone) and he was actually in process of moving out of the student residence and to an apartment closer into the center of Rouen. Unfortunately something went wrong and he wasn’t able to move out. He knocked on my door looking depressed about the whole thing but I was in the middle of dinner so I told him I’d drop by his room later.
I found him in his half moved in/half moved out room later. He offered me a drink and we watched Cold Case together in French. It was in his room that I met another person from my program. He’s also from India and his name is Gobi.
He came by wondering why Irfan hadn’t come by his room for dinner (it was almost 10pm at this point – I guess the Europeans aren’t the only ones that eat late). Despite my protests that I’d already eaten dinner they insisted that I come along. Who knew it’d be in France that’d I’d have my first homemade Indian food?
Dinner was delicious if not a bit spicy (apparently my face turned bright red) and I learned more about them. Irfan’s background is in Electrical Engineering and Gobi’s is in English and law. I checked out some of his reading material and realized his vocabulary is probably better than mine (I kept that fact to myself).
And now it’s 1am and I’m half way between food coma (having had two dinners) and caffeine rush (they kept filling up my glass of coke and I was too polite to refuse). I guess it was worth it in the end to get to know them a bit. Irfan’s a very happy go lucky type and Gobi’s older and more serious. Both are extremely kind and generous.
Turns out there are only 6 students in the program. Three Indians, one Indonesian, one Canadian, and me. Oh yeah, and I’m the only girl.
Should be interesting.
I found him in his half moved in/half moved out room later. He offered me a drink and we watched Cold Case together in French. It was in his room that I met another person from my program. He’s also from India and his name is Gobi.
He came by wondering why Irfan hadn’t come by his room for dinner (it was almost 10pm at this point – I guess the Europeans aren’t the only ones that eat late). Despite my protests that I’d already eaten dinner they insisted that I come along. Who knew it’d be in France that’d I’d have my first homemade Indian food?
Dinner was delicious if not a bit spicy (apparently my face turned bright red) and I learned more about them. Irfan’s background is in Electrical Engineering and Gobi’s is in English and law. I checked out some of his reading material and realized his vocabulary is probably better than mine (I kept that fact to myself).
And now it’s 1am and I’m half way between food coma (having had two dinners) and caffeine rush (they kept filling up my glass of coke and I was too polite to refuse). I guess it was worth it in the end to get to know them a bit. Irfan’s a very happy go lucky type and Gobi’s older and more serious. Both are extremely kind and generous.
Turns out there are only 6 students in the program. Three Indians, one Indonesian, one Canadian, and me. Oh yeah, and I’m the only girl.
Should be interesting.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)