I just bought a freaking washing machine. By myself. In French. And it was somehow an easier task than mailing two certified letters at the post office.
This is a task that I’ve never done in English, nor would I have wanted to. The wife (and kid) and I went together over lunch break to attempt to purchase the machine, but when not a single employee seemed to be present in that department of the store for well over 45 minutes, we gave up, not know who or where or how to ask for help.
Instead of making the kid go to this stupid store for the seventy-ninth time in two and a half weeks, and instead of making my pregnant wife walk yet another mile in one day, I was left to do the job alone.
It was a thrilling success really, but since I have already insisted on telling you every single embarrassing detail of every other venture of mine so that you can laugh at my expense, here we go:
#1: Of course it took some getting up the nerve for me to actually inquire about purchasing the machine. It didn’t help that the only employee in the department at the time was a tres chic young female. (I don’t know yet if that adjective is actually used, or actually used to describe people, so don’t treat that as a language lesson.) So I stalled for a while by pretending to look at the machines with great discretion.
#2: But when I actually looked at the information on the machine, I got concerned about our circuit board actually having enough power to run this thing. The last thing I wanted was to pay all this money, have it delivered to my house, and have it not work. So I got cold feet. I sent an SOS text to two friends here and wandered elsewhere in the store for a good twenty minutes or more. Finally got a vote of confidence from one.
“Excusez-moi.” Here we go, this time with an older man. I admitted from the start I don’t speak much French. I would assume it’s fairly obvious, but by some people’s interactions (AKA: Quick Mumbler) maybe it’s not as obvious as I think. Seemed to help, I understood…eh…90% of what he said. I laughed earlier today realizing that “Pardon my French” has taken on a new meaning here, a much more useful saying for me now.
#3: Only real mistake: I thought he told me the guarantee extension was 49 Euros. Seemed like a no brainer. When I got to the cash register, I discovered it was 89 Euros, a number at which I would have hesitated a bit more. I always mix up quarante and quatrevingt. (Quatrevingt literally means four twenties, which, logically enough adds up to and means eighty. But I hear quatre and automatically think forty.)
#4: He gave me instructions on where to pay. I’ll be honest, I didn’t understand most of what he said. I asked him to repeat more slowly. Still didn’t, just pretended. Had to turn around once, but found it eventually.
#5: As with most experiences like this one, I was so focused on the task at hand that I left immediately, leaving the DVD cord I needed to buy lying on the counter. I was almost out of the store when I remembered and had to go back in. (K is happily watching a DVD on the TV as I type.)
So, five blunders, but hey, all in all? I was quite excited and came home smiling.
Not only that, in the mailbox, I found two receipts from those certified letters I sent. Turns out a certified letter gives you confirmation of when the letters are received, which they have been. Brilliant. Good to know.
Also in the mailbox? A letter from our building’s guardian, whom Erica met last night on her very own, a night when I insisted on staying inside my shell. Though she suspected he was a bit drunk, he gave us the help we were looking for. Next day service! Not only that, the letter was written in perfect English. How considerate!
Now before I go and get too excited, I’ve learned very quickly in the past six weeks never to get one’s hopes up too high. When the washer actually gets through the door, actually works, and actually works more than two times, that’s when we’ll celebrate.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Tuesday, February 08, 2011
The New Guy, 2
Imagine, in your homeland, walking into the post office to mail some letters. No big deal. Naturally.
This afternoon I had to mail some forms for the next step in making us “legal” residents in France. The secretary at our school helped with the initial steps—this was more complicated than the usual letter, being a certified letter, though I’m still not sure what exactly that means—but she left out a few pieces of key information when she said, “Just go to La Poste and send it.”
The United States Post Office is a dying institution. You can see its impending death on the faces of its downtrodden employees, and hear it in the echoes of stillness in its lobbies. But La Poste, on the other hand, is alive and well. An ongoing love of red-tape paperwork on one hand and postcards, stationery, and stamps on the other keeps the mail system busy enough. But when the post office is also a bank, a place to pay your bills, a photo copy center, a phone card dealer, and a few more things I’m sure, it becomes one of the most vital institutions in any French community.
All that to say, it’s 1) a busy place and 2) a complex place.
But all I have to do is “just send it.” No big deal. Naturally.
I walk in and am immediately faced with way too many options and people walking or standing everywhere. Probably at least eight different counters to choose from, each with their own sign containing vocabulary I have not yet learned.
One sign with a long line says something like “envoyer” which I recognize as the verb “to send” which sounds about right. And it seems common sense that, being a post office, the line to mail things is the longest.
I see a machine that seems to say something about “taking a number” like at the deli counter in the grocery stores we used to shop in, but I’m not sure if that’s a valid option for my case or not.
Then there are the self-service kiosks and one extra counter located fairly close to them.
Doesn’t take long for the heart to start pounding. Hard swallow. Quick pep talk.
As I’m about to panic and run back out to where it’s safe, the man at the closest counter gives me the sort of look I was hoping for that says something to the effect of “I can help you here.” I feebly lay my two letters and two certified letter forms on the counter and do my best to mutter the little bit of a phrase I had thought up and practiced beforehand. “Je…..voudrais…” But he interrupts. That’s just as well because I really didn’t know what I was supposed to do with these forms let alone how to say what I was supposed to do with these forms.
The problem was he interrupted by mumbling quickly. Mumbling is one problem. Talking quickly is another. Mumbling quickly is a death sentence.
I will spoil the plot here and tell you I successfully sent these letters, but I can honestly say I did not understand one.single.word. this man said to me. Not one. Like most employees in any busy government-run businesses, his focus was on getting the job done, not on helping a newcomer A) practice his French or B) learn more about this fine institution.
So he mumbled quickly, grabbed my letters, and marched out to the front entrance where the self-service kiosks were. I assumed I was supposed to follow. He used the touch screen at an insanely rapid pace pressing each consecutive button before the entire page had even loaded. I had no idea what he was doing. He kept mumbling quickly, but again, nothing. He pointed to where my stamps would spit out and left me with the payment screen up.
Fine and good, but the machine only takes coins or bank cards. I have no coins with me, I have no bank card.
I stared, bewildered.
Tried to look like I was busy when really I was just helpless. Looked at the screen, looked back to the man. He was helping other customers. Looked at the screen, looked back at the man. Swiped my credit card as an act of desperation, knowing it wouldn’t work, and it didn’t.
Do I leave my letters where they are with the payment screen where it is and go “explain” to the man my predicament? Do I ask someone close by if they have change for my ten? Do I cancel the transaction and run away?
After a few more minutes of stalling, I decide to bother the guy using the machine next to me. “Excusez-moi, Monsieur. Vous avez les pieces pour ca?” (You have change for this?) Not the best way to ask, but not the worst way either. “Oui,” he said with confidence. He marched me back into the main room and showed me a change machine. “Ah!! Merci!!” A little embarrassed, but mostly glad to learn about such a useful machine.
Pay. Get my stickers. Get my change. Back in line with Mr. Quick Mumbler.
After helping a few people, he swipes the things in my hand with some more quick and completely incoherent mumbling, sticks this on that, rips this from that, sticks that on this, stamps this and hands me the leftovers. And all I could do was assume that A) that was that and B) my letters would hopefully arrive at their destination in a few days.
“Merci, Monsieur. Au Revoir.”
I meant to look around the store a bit, trying to find the fancy pre-paid envelopes I’ve heard about. Wanted to buy a book of stamps for future use. Wanted to do a whole lot of things. But after all this, the only thing I could do was march out like I at least knew where the exit was,
as quickly as possible, a bit flustered, a bit relieved, mostly just thankful to be able to scratch this off my to do list, thankful for the few things I did learn, and eager to have someone else show me the ropes next time, if not in English, at least in French that is spoken slowly and clearly.
This afternoon I had to mail some forms for the next step in making us “legal” residents in France. The secretary at our school helped with the initial steps—this was more complicated than the usual letter, being a certified letter, though I’m still not sure what exactly that means—but she left out a few pieces of key information when she said, “Just go to La Poste and send it.”
The United States Post Office is a dying institution. You can see its impending death on the faces of its downtrodden employees, and hear it in the echoes of stillness in its lobbies. But La Poste, on the other hand, is alive and well. An ongoing love of red-tape paperwork on one hand and postcards, stationery, and stamps on the other keeps the mail system busy enough. But when the post office is also a bank, a place to pay your bills, a photo copy center, a phone card dealer, and a few more things I’m sure, it becomes one of the most vital institutions in any French community.
All that to say, it’s 1) a busy place and 2) a complex place.
But all I have to do is “just send it.” No big deal. Naturally.
I walk in and am immediately faced with way too many options and people walking or standing everywhere. Probably at least eight different counters to choose from, each with their own sign containing vocabulary I have not yet learned.
One sign with a long line says something like “envoyer” which I recognize as the verb “to send” which sounds about right. And it seems common sense that, being a post office, the line to mail things is the longest.
I see a machine that seems to say something about “taking a number” like at the deli counter in the grocery stores we used to shop in, but I’m not sure if that’s a valid option for my case or not.
Then there are the self-service kiosks and one extra counter located fairly close to them.
Doesn’t take long for the heart to start pounding. Hard swallow. Quick pep talk.
As I’m about to panic and run back out to where it’s safe, the man at the closest counter gives me the sort of look I was hoping for that says something to the effect of “I can help you here.” I feebly lay my two letters and two certified letter forms on the counter and do my best to mutter the little bit of a phrase I had thought up and practiced beforehand. “Je…..voudrais…” But he interrupts. That’s just as well because I really didn’t know what I was supposed to do with these forms let alone how to say what I was supposed to do with these forms.
The problem was he interrupted by mumbling quickly. Mumbling is one problem. Talking quickly is another. Mumbling quickly is a death sentence.
I will spoil the plot here and tell you I successfully sent these letters, but I can honestly say I did not understand one.single.word. this man said to me. Not one. Like most employees in any busy government-run businesses, his focus was on getting the job done, not on helping a newcomer A) practice his French or B) learn more about this fine institution.
So he mumbled quickly, grabbed my letters, and marched out to the front entrance where the self-service kiosks were. I assumed I was supposed to follow. He used the touch screen at an insanely rapid pace pressing each consecutive button before the entire page had even loaded. I had no idea what he was doing. He kept mumbling quickly, but again, nothing. He pointed to where my stamps would spit out and left me with the payment screen up.
Fine and good, but the machine only takes coins or bank cards. I have no coins with me, I have no bank card.
I stared, bewildered.
Tried to look like I was busy when really I was just helpless. Looked at the screen, looked back to the man. He was helping other customers. Looked at the screen, looked back at the man. Swiped my credit card as an act of desperation, knowing it wouldn’t work, and it didn’t.
Do I leave my letters where they are with the payment screen where it is and go “explain” to the man my predicament? Do I ask someone close by if they have change for my ten? Do I cancel the transaction and run away?
After a few more minutes of stalling, I decide to bother the guy using the machine next to me. “Excusez-moi, Monsieur. Vous avez les pieces pour ca?” (You have change for this?) Not the best way to ask, but not the worst way either. “Oui,” he said with confidence. He marched me back into the main room and showed me a change machine. “Ah!! Merci!!” A little embarrassed, but mostly glad to learn about such a useful machine.
Pay. Get my stickers. Get my change. Back in line with Mr. Quick Mumbler.
After helping a few people, he swipes the things in my hand with some more quick and completely incoherent mumbling, sticks this on that, rips this from that, sticks that on this, stamps this and hands me the leftovers. And all I could do was assume that A) that was that and B) my letters would hopefully arrive at their destination in a few days.
“Merci, Monsieur. Au Revoir.”
I meant to look around the store a bit, trying to find the fancy pre-paid envelopes I’ve heard about. Wanted to buy a book of stamps for future use. Wanted to do a whole lot of things. But after all this, the only thing I could do was march out like I at least knew where the exit was,
as quickly as possible, a bit flustered, a bit relieved, mostly just thankful to be able to scratch this off my to do list, thankful for the few things I did learn, and eager to have someone else show me the ropes next time, if not in English, at least in French that is spoken slowly and clearly.
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