On to (what I think are) whimsical observations of life in Pa-ree, fun stories and little things I’ve learned this past week.
This past week, a bunch of us decided to go out to Barrio Latino and do some salsa dancing. It helps that this place is literally right across the street from our house, but we were sad to find out that the cover is 20 euros (though this does include a drink and is actually worth it for the fun dancing). However, since my roomie is wonderful with bouncers and seems to know how to charm them, I (literally) pushed her to the front of the line to make friends and try to get us in for free. According to Olivia, the following morning, as a way of making friends with him (or maybe a form of blackmail), she was trying to tell the bouncer that she can see him changing from our 5th floor apartment! (More on this in a minute). However, from my understanding of the conversation (in broken French and English), what she actually said to him, was that since we live on the top floor, across the street, he could watch her change… not a bad deal for him with such a bribe, me thinks? All for just letting us in! Then again, by this point of the evening, I had downed ¾ of a bottle of red wine, and maybe, just maybe, my French understanding was slightly impaired.
As for being able to watch us change… so the very first day we moved into our apartment, we had an agent come with the contract and while we were talking to said little old lady, I glanced across the street, and what did I see, but two large windows into a locker room. It can’t possibly be a locker room, I thought to myself. But alas, it was (and is). So while signing the contract, I was thoroughly distracted when there was a half naked man in the window across. Yes, from our living room, we can, apparently, see the changing room for the male staff of Barrio Latino. And every day, we get a show (if we choose to watch). Hence why Olivia’s story that she can watch him change makes sense, but I think that her offering to let him watch her change is simply funnier and thus what my brain decided she was offering in exchange for his help.
What would my blog be without a complaint? Afterall, I am in Paris (according to our tour guide from Saturday, the French like to complain), so when in France… I bought a lovely going out dress on Wednesday (the first time I actually bothered to go out shopping). Now, this is week 4 or 5 of the soldes, so in other words, very few good things can actually still be found. Thus, I bought boots (on sale, go me!) and a dress (not on sale, but it was hung on a redheaded mannequin and I figured it was a sign and fell in love!) I decided to wear said dress on Friday night, but when I went to look in the mirror, I realized there was a little hole. Not the type of hole that appeared because the stitching ripped, but the type of hole that was likely made by moths. So I decided that I would go to the store and try to exchange the dress. I worked through the words in French and how I would explain that I did not make the hole, but that it was already there and while I love the dress, I should get a new one that is not quite as hole-y. Well, having practiced the phrases over and over in my head, I arrived at the mall. On a Sunday. Yeah… while this is a big shopping day in the US (since, you know, people aren’t working on Sundays, and it makes sense for them to shop), this does not hold true on Sunday. So of course, the mall was closed. As my friend Alex would say, *le sigh*. Oh well, it’s not like I have classes on Tuesday, so I will try my luck then.
Speaking of practicing my French. I think it’s getting worse if that’s possible? I’m sure I look like a deer caught in headlights every time someone tries to talk to me. The week started off well. I was stopped by a young man on a motorcycle who asked me for directions and I was actually able to help him and formulate coherent sentences. The following day, a woman asked me how to get from one side of a platform to the other, and again not only did I understand what she wanted, I was able to explain to her where she should go. I was able to converse with the falafel man and explain what I did and didn’t want on my falafel and I was able to talk to the woman in the shoe store about the boots I bought (though then I realized she was Russian, and we switched over to that…). But then there was Friday night when every single guy I talked to and every single conversation that was started in French, ended with “D’ou est-tu?” (Where are you from?), followed by “Tu parle francais?” And upon my answer of “un peu” switched over to English. My ego was not helped, when on Saturday night, at the chanson place, I could not understand a word that the grandpa next to us was saying. Maybe it was the fact that he was slurring his speech? Or maybe my French is just that crummy. Yeah, I’ll go with the latter and maybe it’s time for me to bust out the Rosetta Stone again and practice my French some more.
And now for a moment of – did that really just happen and me being too shocked to even respond (which appears to be a big theme in my world). I was at the gym on Sunday morning (yes, I know, only losers go to the gym on Sunday mornings and Friday nights, but at least I wasn’t there Friday night so that should count for something). And since 2 of the 5 treadmills at the gym are broken, I had to wait in line to get on. Well, I noticed a man who came up and talked to his friend (who was on a treadmill) right before I got in line. While I was doing the perfectly American thing of waiting patiently on the side, he came back over to his friend, who proceeded to get off the treadmill and yield her spot to her friend, who happily got on and began to run. I must have looked like a sad lost puppy because I honestly had no idea what to say other than “qu’est-ce que vous faites? J’etais ici…” but then I held back because God-forbid he do something other than simply get off and agree that I was right. Luckily, about seven minutes later (yes, I did count out of bitterness), I got a treadmill. Unluckily for me though, this treadmill did not have a working incline. Oh well. You win some, you lose some.
That is all for this edition of random stories and complaints, though I am in Paris for another 10 days before heading to Portugal and Spain, so do not despair, as I’m sure that I will have plenty more thoughts on my love of most things French!
And a quick disclaimer for those concerned, I may have overestimated my love for London. Well rather, I did love London immensely, but Paris has this “je ne sais quoi” that was unquantifiable in my comparative analysis and I guess it’s enough to say that you have to embrace all things French and just say, when in France…
No comments:
Post a Comment