A smattering of tiny plays about France:
#367: Mac-DOH ! or, The Precautionary Principle, illustrated
An American girl homes her way to a McDonald's after a long night, seeking only the rarest of boissons in France - a watery fountain soda with many, many icecubes.
"One...large...very large drink, please," she says, clutching the counter like a (drunk) newborn child to its mother's breast.
...oh and could it actually be half Sprite, half Fanta?"
Caissière: [blank stare]
One is never too tipsy for an American can-do attitude.
"So essentially, it would be one large drink, containing half one soda, and half of the other."
The caissière pulls aside her manager. They consult in a scrum by the McFlurry machine.
The blonde looks on, wafting confusion and vodka.
The manager approaches, giving her a grim look.
"I'm sorry, we can't do that."
Pardon?
"You see if something were to happen to you...we would be responsible"
Just to clarify, "Something might happen to me... if you mixed two very similar sodas?"
"I'm sorry mademoiselle, we can't be held responsible."
Mais, bien sûr. Fountain soda machines are the new meth labs. To think that they put these public health menaces in the hands of the public in America.
Thank you France, for keeping us safe.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Mawwage.
The linguistic difference in Paris is both a pro and a con.
The "con" part is obvious. Even 3 years later, getting a verb tense wrong can make you feel like...
un con.
But, on the other hand, being an anglophone here is simply glorious.
English is the worst kept secret in Paris. But you're still in an exclusive club. Every time you pick up a menu, you can proofread the spelling mistakes. You can humble the cockiest banker by pronouncing the "H" in "'edge Fund."
And, there's a whole repertoire of French terms derived from English words, that are endlessly amusing.
For example, the classes at my gym :
"Body Combat"
Is actually : Cardioboxing class
Sounds like : A therapy group for self-harmers
"Body Pump"
Is actually : Weight and aerobics training
Sounds like : A colostomy bag.
There was a particularly awesome moment the other day.
At a recent conference in the presence of multiple American ambassadors, I sat behind two Secret Service agents, and listened to a vice president from a major French energy company give a speech in English on "Green Growss". Not just any English, but an accent that flew past 'th's, ignored every 'h' like a friend from an unpleasant past, and tacked on this weird intonation like Charlie Brown's teacher. (wah woh wonn wohh...)
Actually, imagine the accent from the priest in the Princess Bride, combined with French, and in the body of a petite 35 year old woman.
It was just so extraordinary in its badness. Where could she have concocted such a weird accent ? Was she perhaps part Portuguese, part Lao, part French ?
As I was contemplating this, trying to disguise my laughter with coughs, I looked at the 250 lb, 6'4" security detail in front of me. The two of them were caught in such a vicious giggle loop they were actually turning red.
These men, paid by the American government to be calm and look for security threats, were repressed-giggling like 12 year-old girls.
That, my dear highly-overpaid important French executive, is when you know you just have to give it up.
You'll never be in the club.
The "con" part is obvious. Even 3 years later, getting a verb tense wrong can make you feel like...
un con.
But, on the other hand, being an anglophone here is simply glorious.
English is the worst kept secret in Paris. But you're still in an exclusive club. Every time you pick up a menu, you can proofread the spelling mistakes. You can humble the cockiest banker by pronouncing the "H" in "'edge Fund."
And, there's a whole repertoire of French terms derived from English words, that are endlessly amusing.
For example, the classes at my gym :
"Body Combat"
Is actually : Cardioboxing class
Sounds like : A therapy group for self-harmers
"Body Pump"
Is actually : Weight and aerobics training
Sounds like : A colostomy bag.
There was a particularly awesome moment the other day.
At a recent conference in the presence of multiple American ambassadors, I sat behind two Secret Service agents, and listened to a vice president from a major French energy company give a speech in English on "Green Growss". Not just any English, but an accent that flew past 'th's, ignored every 'h' like a friend from an unpleasant past, and tacked on this weird intonation like Charlie Brown's teacher. (wah woh wonn wohh...)
Actually, imagine the accent from the priest in the Princess Bride, combined with French, and in the body of a petite 35 year old woman.
It was just so extraordinary in its badness. Where could she have concocted such a weird accent ? Was she perhaps part Portuguese, part Lao, part French ?
As I was contemplating this, trying to disguise my laughter with coughs, I looked at the 250 lb, 6'4" security detail in front of me. The two of them were caught in such a vicious giggle loop they were actually turning red.
These men, paid by the American government to be calm and look for security threats, were repressed-giggling like 12 year-old girls.
That, my dear highly-overpaid important French executive, is when you know you just have to give it up.
You'll never be in the club.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Ceci n'est pas du "pop"
Foreword: OLGIP isn't going devolve into a music blog. I'm pretentious, often about music, but I know my limits.
My music taste varies.
From painfully embarrassing screechy Euro technopop (I cannot believe I'm admitting this on my increasingly public blog) :
..to respectable, awesome, Baltimore-based Future Islands, described on their website as "Electro synthpop"
The common tie is "pop". Why does everyone needlessly apply that word to music that I like. Is it just to shame me? I think music journalists just enjoy tacking on as many adjectives as possible before "pop" because it provides a little zazz at the end.
"When I hear your voice I think : 'Nails-on-a-chalkboard-pop"
Even the sonority of the word is annoying. It reminds me of that stupid College game: "What region are you from - what do you call carbonated drinks?" devised to taunt the dweeby kid from the Midwest who inevitably chimes in - "It's POP, man! Pahhhhhp!"
You know what? It's a stupid name for soda, and it's a stupid name to call every artist or song that I like. (This is not my fault, this is a fundamental problem with the music industry)
Still, I think I should try and wean myself off of all of this so-called "pop" music. Here are a few songs that I love that I have discovered or re-discovered in the past 6 months that are NOT pop. But I can't be completely objective here.
Let's play a game, children : Pop or not Pop?
Minimalish beachside pop?
or Not Pop?:
Sobbing over your ex's Facebook page-pop?
or
Not Pop?
EELS - That Look You Give That Guy - from HOMBRE LOBO from EELS on Vimeo.
Tattooed whiny French girl folkpop?
or
Not Pop?
Coeur de Pirate || Comme des enfants from Dare To Care Records on Vimeo.
Ten-to-Fifteen, don't do drugs, kids- pop?
or Not Pop?
Fine, this post had nothing to do with France other than the fact that France has egged on my pop habit. But the title is an over-used Magritte meme in France. That should count for something.
Anyways, help me with my pop habit, please.
My music taste varies.
From painfully embarrassing screechy Euro technopop (I cannot believe I'm admitting this on my increasingly public blog) :
..to respectable, awesome, Baltimore-based Future Islands, described on their website as "Electro synthpop"
The common tie is "pop". Why does everyone needlessly apply that word to music that I like. Is it just to shame me? I think music journalists just enjoy tacking on as many adjectives as possible before "pop" because it provides a little zazz at the end.
"When I hear your voice I think : 'Nails-on-a-chalkboard-pop"
Even the sonority of the word is annoying. It reminds me of that stupid College game: "What region are you from - what do you call carbonated drinks?" devised to taunt the dweeby kid from the Midwest who inevitably chimes in - "It's POP, man! Pahhhhhp!"
You know what? It's a stupid name for soda, and it's a stupid name to call every artist or song that I like. (This is not my fault, this is a fundamental problem with the music industry)
Still, I think I should try and wean myself off of all of this so-called "pop" music. Here are a few songs that I love that I have discovered or re-discovered in the past 6 months that are NOT pop. But I can't be completely objective here.
Let's play a game, children : Pop or not Pop?
Minimalish beachside pop?
or Not Pop?:
Sobbing over your ex's Facebook page-pop?
or
Not Pop?
EELS - That Look You Give That Guy - from HOMBRE LOBO from EELS on Vimeo.
Tattooed whiny French girl folkpop?
or
Not Pop?
Coeur de Pirate || Comme des enfants from Dare To Care Records on Vimeo.
Ten-to-Fifteen, don't do drugs, kids- pop?
or Not Pop?
Fine, this post had nothing to do with France other than the fact that France has egged on my pop habit. But the title is an over-used Magritte meme in France. That should count for something.
Anyways, help me with my pop habit, please.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Melamine & melancholy
Thinking about Paris and eventual repatriation, I've decided to put the decision process into a mega 'pro' and 'con' list. Like my friends' binary rating system for women: ("She's either a '1' or a '0', man") most large decisions are just the result of a series of 'Yea's and 'Nay's. Here goes:
Pro:
I found myself at 148 Rue de la Roquette (site of a former huge prison, La Grande Roquette) waiting for my government-appointed medical visit to get my residence permit.
Much like prison, this involves large women undressing you, shoving your bare breasts against the wall and screaming, "GONFLEZ!"... then they take an X-Ray. Unlike prison.
In the waiting room, I found myself next to a Chinese man. Long hair, steel-heeled ankle-high boots, reading a long book. On my right, two American girls were complaining about their upcoming French Lit exam, and how hard AUP is (oh, bite me, seriously). But I couldn't figure out what my Eastern neighbor to the left (heh) was doing in the country.
Then I saw that the title of his book was in English: "P.S. I Love You".
...Apparently, China will soon be beating France at everything, including the "Men crying about their emotions" market. (They will cry harder and longer, but their tears may contain carcinogens).
I finally get called in by the doctor who tells me I don't have tuberculosis !
She takes my blood pressure, and I mutter something about eating too much salt and is my blood pressure normal. She responds,
"Bof, they say, 'Don't eat salt, don't eat butter, don't eat sugar, and then wonder why everyone is anorexic.'
10 POINTS TO THE GOVERNMENT APPOINTED DOCTOR!
I almost gave her an "Amen sistah," but then figured she would yell at me about not being secular, and not give me my residence permit.
So, pro: France, French butter, that Doctor, and being allowed to work legally.
Con:
I was running an errand on a Sunday, and decided to take the long route along the river. Going down a set of narrow steps down to the quay, I cross a decently well-dressed woman. She passes me and says:
"Vous avez une odeur de cul!"
(You smell like ass)
I had to stop myself from bursting out into tears, and decided to run home and take a shower instead. Luckily I turned around to see that she was saying this to other hapless passers-by in the street. She either has a very keen sense of smell, is completely insane, or both.
Con: Parisians, People who smell like ass.
Let's see how long I can keep this pro/con list going.
Pro:
I found myself at 148 Rue de la Roquette (site of a former huge prison, La Grande Roquette) waiting for my government-appointed medical visit to get my residence permit.
Much like prison, this involves large women undressing you, shoving your bare breasts against the wall and screaming, "GONFLEZ!"... then they take an X-Ray. Unlike prison.
In the waiting room, I found myself next to a Chinese man. Long hair, steel-heeled ankle-high boots, reading a long book. On my right, two American girls were complaining about their upcoming French Lit exam, and how hard AUP is (oh, bite me, seriously). But I couldn't figure out what my Eastern neighbor to the left (heh) was doing in the country.
Then I saw that the title of his book was in English: "P.S. I Love You".
...Apparently, China will soon be beating France at everything, including the "Men crying about their emotions" market. (They will cry harder and longer, but their tears may contain carcinogens).
I finally get called in by the doctor who tells me I don't have tuberculosis !
She takes my blood pressure, and I mutter something about eating too much salt and is my blood pressure normal. She responds,
"Bof, they say, 'Don't eat salt, don't eat butter, don't eat sugar, and then wonder why everyone is anorexic.'
10 POINTS TO THE GOVERNMENT APPOINTED DOCTOR!
I almost gave her an "Amen sistah," but then figured she would yell at me about not being secular, and not give me my residence permit.
So, pro: France, French butter, that Doctor, and being allowed to work legally.
Con:
I was running an errand on a Sunday, and decided to take the long route along the river. Going down a set of narrow steps down to the quay, I cross a decently well-dressed woman. She passes me and says:
"Vous avez une odeur de cul!"
(You smell like ass)
I had to stop myself from bursting out into tears, and decided to run home and take a shower instead. Luckily I turned around to see that she was saying this to other hapless passers-by in the street. She either has a very keen sense of smell, is completely insane, or both.
Con: Parisians, People who smell like ass.
Let's see how long I can keep this pro/con list going.
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
UPDATE: Tanguons le bateau.
Just how loud could those ducks have been, you say?
How ridiculously, impossibly loud?
The little fat, feathered chieurs were at it again. Shot from my window:
(on my cell phone - but the audio speaks for itself)
I rest my case. But still love my boat.
How ridiculously, impossibly loud?
The little fat, feathered chieurs were at it again. Shot from my window:
(on my cell phone - but the audio speaks for itself)
I rest my case. But still love my boat.
Thursday, February 04, 2010
"Oh. Mon. Dieu. Becky. Regarde son cul..."
The rumours are true. I had heard a lot of things about French gyms/the French gym-going population. So far belonging to a gym has not been a disappointment.
The anthropological study began in the changing room.
I'm not particularly shy, but the French have fewer cultural boundaries about staring, and apparently this rule still applies without clothes.
Like a boring remake of the opening scene of Carrie, I found myself in a sea of skinny white French women. They all have one distinguishing feature. Apologies in advance, but I don't know else to put this...They all have Really. Flat. Asses.
A North American friend had mentioned this, but I didn't believe it until I saw it with my own scornful eyes.
I spent 30 seconds enjoying a newly-found, round-bum superiority complex. But then, a Twilight Zone-esque realisation: In the land of flat-assed woman, she with the curves is the freak (or the pig under the operating mask, as it were).
Humbled, I limp over to the cardio machines, subtly trying to make my T shirt into a dress.
Now, the configuration of the cardio room must be inspired by an Eastern German psychological experiment. The ellipticals (dominated by women) are lined up so that you are head-to-head with a line of treadmills (dominated by soft-bellied men)
For 45 minutes or more, you can elliptical-run through the air, hurtling faster and faster toward a balding Frenchman. Not exactly as pleasant as watching TV, but it's definitely motivating. (Keep running, chubbykins, this could be you...)
I take my place in the trenches of the sweaty, never-ending war of the sexes.
Luckily, some of the treadmills face the dance room.
I slot on my headphones and watch the cardio boxing class. Those impossibly thin, un-bummed women are now screaming and punching the air, more or less in synch. It's just as hilarious as you could imagine.
Hitting a fast pace on the treadmill, beating the flubby cadre next to me, my gym ego gets a boost. Comparatively freakish ass, maybe. But look at me! I can Run and Run and Run.
But just then, my iPod takes a nosedive off the shelf, flying on the treadmill carpet into the wall.
In what may be the first sign of budding maternal instinct, I dive after my iPod, falling onto the treadmill, and crashing onto the floor.
Quietly squeaking with pain, I pick up my iPod, get back on the treadmill, and notice that noone has even flinched at the sight of the sweaty blonde flying into a wall.
Well, apparently that doesn't just happen in movies.
Please stop calling me Bridget Jones, though. Really.
The anthropological study began in the changing room.
I'm not particularly shy, but the French have fewer cultural boundaries about staring, and apparently this rule still applies without clothes.
Like a boring remake of the opening scene of Carrie, I found myself in a sea of skinny white French women. They all have one distinguishing feature. Apologies in advance, but I don't know else to put this...They all have Really. Flat. Asses.
A North American friend had mentioned this, but I didn't believe it until I saw it with my own scornful eyes.
I spent 30 seconds enjoying a newly-found, round-bum superiority complex. But then, a Twilight Zone-esque realisation: In the land of flat-assed woman, she with the curves is the freak (or the pig under the operating mask, as it were).
Humbled, I limp over to the cardio machines, subtly trying to make my T shirt into a dress.
Now, the configuration of the cardio room must be inspired by an Eastern German psychological experiment. The ellipticals (dominated by women) are lined up so that you are head-to-head with a line of treadmills (dominated by soft-bellied men)
For 45 minutes or more, you can elliptical-run through the air, hurtling faster and faster toward a balding Frenchman. Not exactly as pleasant as watching TV, but it's definitely motivating. (Keep running, chubbykins, this could be you...)
I take my place in the trenches of the sweaty, never-ending war of the sexes.
Luckily, some of the treadmills face the dance room.
I slot on my headphones and watch the cardio boxing class. Those impossibly thin, un-bummed women are now screaming and punching the air, more or less in synch. It's just as hilarious as you could imagine.
Hitting a fast pace on the treadmill, beating the flubby cadre next to me, my gym ego gets a boost. Comparatively freakish ass, maybe. But look at me! I can Run and Run and Run.
But just then, my iPod takes a nosedive off the shelf, flying on the treadmill carpet into the wall.
In what may be the first sign of budding maternal instinct, I dive after my iPod, falling onto the treadmill, and crashing onto the floor.
Quietly squeaking with pain, I pick up my iPod, get back on the treadmill, and notice that noone has even flinched at the sight of the sweaty blonde flying into a wall.
Well, apparently that doesn't just happen in movies.
Please stop calling me Bridget Jones, though. Really.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Tanguons le bateau.
"Just think of Natalie Wood," my dad kept insisting.
Yes, mon père was referring to the movie star who drowned by falling off a boat, out of her mind on drugs and booze. Thanks, Dad. Luckily, I'm fairly sure my dad was referring to the "boat" danger, rather than anything else.
Less than a week ago, I moved onto a boat. A house boat. It is single-handedly the greatest thing I have ever experienced. No, I am not exaggerating.
Yet, while it's chock full of charm, but it does pose certain marine-related problems.
For starters, in French.
They never covered how to say, "Unfortunately, the porthole in my shower doesn't close entirely," in French class. (Malheureusement, l'hublot dans la douche ne se ferme pas entièrement)
or
"When barges pass by too quickly, my entire apartment rocks back and forth rather violently"
(Quand les grandes péniches passent, tout mon appartement tangue assez violemment)
But, I'm learning.
And the neighbors are great, but I'm still getting to know them:
First night, 21:00: Hear a duck quacking, swimming just outside my window. Quietly die from cuteness.
21:01: From the other end of the Seine, hear another duck respond. There is hope for romance, I think...two little feathery things, searching for each other blindly in the night. The image makes me giddy.
21:03: Call-and-respond carries on. Still cute, but surely ducks have a better sense of orientation than this? Don't the spend all of their time on water? Why haven't they found each other yet?
21:05: DIE. DIE YOU STUPID DUCKS. Start screaming at ducks. Annoyingly, ducks have a slightly weaker understanding of quiet than my Tamil neighbors. (But only just).
Ducks aside, something tells me this is going to be great.
Come visit!
Yes, mon père was referring to the movie star who drowned by falling off a boat, out of her mind on drugs and booze. Thanks, Dad. Luckily, I'm fairly sure my dad was referring to the "boat" danger, rather than anything else.
Less than a week ago, I moved onto a boat. A house boat. It is single-handedly the greatest thing I have ever experienced. No, I am not exaggerating.
Yet, while it's chock full of charm, but it does pose certain marine-related problems.
For starters, in French.
They never covered how to say, "Unfortunately, the porthole in my shower doesn't close entirely," in French class. (Malheureusement, l'hublot dans la douche ne se ferme pas entièrement)
or
"When barges pass by too quickly, my entire apartment rocks back and forth rather violently"
(Quand les grandes péniches passent, tout mon appartement tangue assez violemment)
But, I'm learning.
And the neighbors are great, but I'm still getting to know them:
First night, 21:00: Hear a duck quacking, swimming just outside my window. Quietly die from cuteness.
21:01: From the other end of the Seine, hear another duck respond. There is hope for romance, I think...two little feathery things, searching for each other blindly in the night. The image makes me giddy.
21:03: Call-and-respond carries on. Still cute, but surely ducks have a better sense of orientation than this? Don't the spend all of their time on water? Why haven't they found each other yet?
21:05: DIE. DIE YOU STUPID DUCKS. Start screaming at ducks. Annoyingly, ducks have a slightly weaker understanding of quiet than my Tamil neighbors. (But only just).
Ducks aside, something tells me this is going to be great.
Come visit!
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