Wednesday, March 09, 2011
Tuesday, March 08, 2011
Official Announcement
I keep finding friends that haven't heard about this yet, so here it is:
My wife is having a baby soon!!!
Consider yourself informed.
My wife is having a baby soon!!!
Consider yourself informed.
Differences between Boys and Girls
A boy carries a baguette home and pretends it's a rifle, holding it up, pointing, aiming, and yelling in his 'mean voice,' "Shoot over there!"
(I know from experience.)
A girl carries a baguette home, and well, I don't really actually know. Carries it gingerly and daintily, imagining its perfect display for the evening meal?
(I'm guessing.)
A father finds the baguette-rifle hilariously inventive and giggles repetitively at the sight. He doesn't notice the perfect display at the evening meal; let's eat.
(I know from experience.)
A mother finds the baguette-rifle completely appalling and is concerned for the psychological well-being of her son. She takes pride in the perfect display at the evening meal and is crushed when no one notices.
(I'm guessing.)
(I know from experience.)
A girl carries a baguette home, and well, I don't really actually know. Carries it gingerly and daintily, imagining its perfect display for the evening meal?
(I'm guessing.)
A father finds the baguette-rifle hilariously inventive and giggles repetitively at the sight. He doesn't notice the perfect display at the evening meal; let's eat.
(I know from experience.)
A mother finds the baguette-rifle completely appalling and is concerned for the psychological well-being of her son. She takes pride in the perfect display at the evening meal and is crushed when no one notices.
(I'm guessing.)
Monday, March 07, 2011
Saturday, March 05, 2011
un quiet
The French word for the verb "to worry" is s'inquiéter.
So that makes me look up the English word "inquietude" which my dictionary defines as "physical or mental restlessness or disturbance," sure enough taken from Old French or Late Latin for a lack of quiet.
When I first saw it I got really excited, because have you ever heard a more perfectly beautiful and truthful description of worry? It's something that disrupts our sense of peace, rest, stillness, quiet.
And that, in my mind, immediately registers a whole list of scriptures based on those words---being still to know that He is God or God is in his holy temple let us all be silent or Peace I leave with you, peace I give you---and compare that with Christ's blunt questioning:
"Qui de vous, par ses inquiétudes, peut ajouter une coudée à la durée de sa vie?"
Who of you, by his inquietude, can add a cubit to the duration of his life?
We make a lot of noise on our own, in our worries, with our anxieties, and what good does it do us?
So that makes me look up the English word "inquietude" which my dictionary defines as "physical or mental restlessness or disturbance," sure enough taken from Old French or Late Latin for a lack of quiet.
When I first saw it I got really excited, because have you ever heard a more perfectly beautiful and truthful description of worry? It's something that disrupts our sense of peace, rest, stillness, quiet.
And that, in my mind, immediately registers a whole list of scriptures based on those words---being still to know that He is God or God is in his holy temple let us all be silent or Peace I leave with you, peace I give you---and compare that with Christ's blunt questioning:
"Qui de vous, par ses inquiétudes, peut ajouter une coudée à la durée de sa vie?"
Who of you, by his inquietude, can add a cubit to the duration of his life?
We make a lot of noise on our own, in our worries, with our anxieties, and what good does it do us?
Tuesday, March 01, 2011
PS
Our new washing machine was delivered on Thursday. No hitches. The kid, upon seeing their tools, pulled one of the delivery men into his room to show him his tools. They sat and played for a little while and the other guy did all the work.
It has successfully washed more than two loads of laundry.
We're allowed to be excited about it now.
It has successfully washed more than two loads of laundry.
We're allowed to be excited about it now.
Joking in French
We spent probably about one hour of class time recognizing and practicing the extremely subtle difference between the sounds [e] and [ɛ]. It’s the sort of discussion that, just when you thought your pronunciation was doing pretty well, reduces you to a frustrated, hopeless, blabbering, stammering mess, wondering if you actually really in fact say anything correctly.
So, appropriately, it ended with an introduction to the words encouragé and découragé. We were each asked to tell if we were in that moment encouragé or découragé. Next, when asked if the word découragement was masculine or feminine (because every noun in the French language is assigned a gender) my wife quickly gave the answer. “Masculine, of course…” She not only made the professor chuckle, she was right in her answer.
This led to a conversation with our professor over the coffee break.
Prof: “Why did your wife say discouragement was masculine?”
Me: (Nervous laughter.) “Maybe because I am often discouraged.”
Prof: “Ah ha! I understand.”
Me: “Not always, but often.”
Erica joined.
Prof: “Is Nathan often discouraged?”
Me: “You can tell the truth.”
Erica: “Yes, he is often discouraged. I have known him for 13 years…and he is often discouraged.”
Prof: “So, you have known him for 13 years, and for a total of 12 years he has been discouraged?”
Me: “Yes. It was the first year that I was happy, when I was young.”
Prof: “Are you a pessimist?”
Me: “Maybe.”
Erica: “He is a realist.”
Me: “Yes, I prefer realist.”
Prof: “Ah! A realist. And you Erica, are you an optimist?”
Erica: “Yes.”
Nathan: “She has a lot of ideas, and she tells them to me, and I say, ‘Maybe...but no.’”
Erica: “It’s true.”
Prof: “She has lots of ideas, huh?”
Erica: “And because I am an optimist, I think Nathan is a realist.”
Me: “Yes, if she were a realist, I would be a pessimist.”
And we laughed together.
It took me a second to realize the whole conversation happened in French. It felt good to laugh in French. It made me feel a bit encouragé.
(Back in class after the break, all of this led to an interesting conversation, maybe even a debate, on whether or not Jesus was ever discouraged. I pulled up my Louis Segond Bible app to give some textual evidence. If you want to know my answer, I guess it all depends on your definition of the word discouraged. But when a man says, “My soul is very sorrowful, even to death,” it sounds a bit like discouragement to me.)
On a different but still humorous topic, we later came across a new adjective, “doux.” The prof asked me if my wife was “doux.” I didn’t really know what it meant, but it seemed like the kind of adjective to which I should say yes, so I said, “Yes, my wife is doux.”
Erica and I looked it up together and laughed, discovering the real answer.
Mellow, soft, mild, gentle, tender, sweet.
“Excuse me,” I interrupted the prof. “I must correct my answer. I have looked at the word in the dictionary, and my wife is not doux.”
That was in French too.
So, appropriately, it ended with an introduction to the words encouragé and découragé. We were each asked to tell if we were in that moment encouragé or découragé. Next, when asked if the word découragement was masculine or feminine (because every noun in the French language is assigned a gender) my wife quickly gave the answer. “Masculine, of course…” She not only made the professor chuckle, she was right in her answer.
This led to a conversation with our professor over the coffee break.
Prof: “Why did your wife say discouragement was masculine?”
Me: (Nervous laughter.) “Maybe because I am often discouraged.”
Prof: “Ah ha! I understand.”
Me: “Not always, but often.”
Erica joined.
Prof: “Is Nathan often discouraged?”
Me: “You can tell the truth.”
Erica: “Yes, he is often discouraged. I have known him for 13 years…and he is often discouraged.”
Prof: “So, you have known him for 13 years, and for a total of 12 years he has been discouraged?”
Me: “Yes. It was the first year that I was happy, when I was young.”
Prof: “Are you a pessimist?”
Me: “Maybe.”
Erica: “He is a realist.”
Me: “Yes, I prefer realist.”
Prof: “Ah! A realist. And you Erica, are you an optimist?”
Erica: “Yes.”
Nathan: “She has a lot of ideas, and she tells them to me, and I say, ‘Maybe...but no.’”
Erica: “It’s true.”
Prof: “She has lots of ideas, huh?”
Erica: “And because I am an optimist, I think Nathan is a realist.”
Me: “Yes, if she were a realist, I would be a pessimist.”
And we laughed together.
It took me a second to realize the whole conversation happened in French. It felt good to laugh in French. It made me feel a bit encouragé.
(Back in class after the break, all of this led to an interesting conversation, maybe even a debate, on whether or not Jesus was ever discouraged. I pulled up my Louis Segond Bible app to give some textual evidence. If you want to know my answer, I guess it all depends on your definition of the word discouraged. But when a man says, “My soul is very sorrowful, even to death,” it sounds a bit like discouragement to me.)
On a different but still humorous topic, we later came across a new adjective, “doux.” The prof asked me if my wife was “doux.” I didn’t really know what it meant, but it seemed like the kind of adjective to which I should say yes, so I said, “Yes, my wife is doux.”
Erica and I looked it up together and laughed, discovering the real answer.
Mellow, soft, mild, gentle, tender, sweet.
“Excuse me,” I interrupted the prof. “I must correct my answer. I have looked at the word in the dictionary, and my wife is not doux.”
That was in French too.
Wandering in French
[I wrote this the other day.]
I woke up hating French. The poor night’s sleep had something to do with it. But it was mostly the line from a song we sang in church yesterday morning ringing in my head incessantly.
“Comme un soufflé fragile…”
Why would we be singing about soufflés in church, I wondered. I know the French love their food, but how could that really make for a compelling spiritual metaphor? I cooked my first soufflé last week—with bleu cheese—and the experience taught me enough to know that they are in fact a bit fragile, but seriously.
Looked it up in the dictionary, at 7:45 AM mind you. If the song won’t go away might as well learn something from it. Souffle without the accent is a wind or a breeze. OK, but what is a fragile wind and why are we singing about it? I have to go back to the song to figure it out, I guess, don’t remember the other words.
In class Erica and I discovered all that we missed in our absence the day before vacation. We had learned a rule for conjugating verbs in the past tense several weeks back. This morning we learned the exceptions. As is frequently the case, just when you feel comfortable with a concept, you are told that, sorry, you actually only know the half of it.
In the afternoon, my teacher told me I was saying l’aéroport incorrectly. She’d say “Non!” and repeat it. I would say it in what seemed to be (and some classmates agreed) in the same exact way and she’d still say “Non!” and repeat it. Finally I changed something (I’m still not sure what) and she said simply, “Voila,” and I breathed a confused sigh of relief.
Somewhere along the line things turned. I left school and went back to the post office for the second time. I almost chickened out and handled all the matters with the self-service machine. Pathetic, I know, but I finally forced myself to go to the desk. The clerk was a girl who seemed about 10 years younger than me. Am I really old enough to be ten years older than a person employed by the postal service? She smirked at my question as if question was odd or my accent was amusing or the fact that I was an American sending postcards was either cute or laughable. She seemed new at the job, asked for help. I got cool looking Marie Curie stamps. The kind you lick.
It seems an odd thing to get excited about, but I like that this country still uses stamps that must be torn apart carefully and licked. Something tactile, something aesthetic.
I took the long way home through centre ville, dropping the cards in a mailbox next to the brasserie through the slot marked “etranger,” walking past the only remaining column of a church bombed out in WWII, spying on the French men smoking outside the bureau de tabac, weaving my way through the children and their parents who were heading home from school.
French children are mostly the same as kids everywhere else, but just different enough in a way that makes them a curious, intriguing species.
Somewhere in that walk I started smiling, liking this place where I can currently be found, reciting a few new French words under my breath without really knowing it, and still kind of singing that one line over and over again about fragile soufflés.
I woke up hating French. The poor night’s sleep had something to do with it. But it was mostly the line from a song we sang in church yesterday morning ringing in my head incessantly.
“Comme un soufflé fragile…”
Why would we be singing about soufflés in church, I wondered. I know the French love their food, but how could that really make for a compelling spiritual metaphor? I cooked my first soufflé last week—with bleu cheese—and the experience taught me enough to know that they are in fact a bit fragile, but seriously.
Looked it up in the dictionary, at 7:45 AM mind you. If the song won’t go away might as well learn something from it. Souffle without the accent is a wind or a breeze. OK, but what is a fragile wind and why are we singing about it? I have to go back to the song to figure it out, I guess, don’t remember the other words.
In class Erica and I discovered all that we missed in our absence the day before vacation. We had learned a rule for conjugating verbs in the past tense several weeks back. This morning we learned the exceptions. As is frequently the case, just when you feel comfortable with a concept, you are told that, sorry, you actually only know the half of it.
In the afternoon, my teacher told me I was saying l’aéroport incorrectly. She’d say “Non!” and repeat it. I would say it in what seemed to be (and some classmates agreed) in the same exact way and she’d still say “Non!” and repeat it. Finally I changed something (I’m still not sure what) and she said simply, “Voila,” and I breathed a confused sigh of relief.
Somewhere along the line things turned. I left school and went back to the post office for the second time. I almost chickened out and handled all the matters with the self-service machine. Pathetic, I know, but I finally forced myself to go to the desk. The clerk was a girl who seemed about 10 years younger than me. Am I really old enough to be ten years older than a person employed by the postal service? She smirked at my question as if question was odd or my accent was amusing or the fact that I was an American sending postcards was either cute or laughable. She seemed new at the job, asked for help. I got cool looking Marie Curie stamps. The kind you lick.
It seems an odd thing to get excited about, but I like that this country still uses stamps that must be torn apart carefully and licked. Something tactile, something aesthetic.
I took the long way home through centre ville, dropping the cards in a mailbox next to the brasserie through the slot marked “etranger,” walking past the only remaining column of a church bombed out in WWII, spying on the French men smoking outside the bureau de tabac, weaving my way through the children and their parents who were heading home from school.
French children are mostly the same as kids everywhere else, but just different enough in a way that makes them a curious, intriguing species.
Somewhere in that walk I started smiling, liking this place where I can currently be found, reciting a few new French words under my breath without really knowing it, and still kind of singing that one line over and over again about fragile soufflés.
Friday, February 11, 2011
The New Guy, 3
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.
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.
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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