The Road to Domestic Bliss Is Paved With Dealing (and Some Dessert)

I’d be remiss not to share some of our weekend adventures with Nicole and Mark, our second guests in the new place. As Candice was truly here at the beginning, she had only seen the apartment’s true form begin to take shape. In the weeks between her departure and N’s parents’ arrival, we’d set up the majority of our space, but still had a laundry list of finishing touches to apply. N+M were more than happy to help with the final phases of home improvement, as they’re practically pros – they redecorate, rearrange, and embellish their space more frequently than one changes a Brita filter. And as many of you know, their taste is unconventional and totally killer.

N+M had generously offered to have curtains and pillowcases made for us in Indonesia, as fabric and labor costs are “la rupee de sonsonnet” (a lovely idiom which roughly translates to a drop in the bucket) compared to retail prices in France. The silk pillowcases slid onto our couch pillows perfectly and are now awaiting their new home on our recently purchased sofa, which won’t arrive until January. The curtains, as beautiful as they are to behold, were not as much of a cinch to set up. The velvet fabric was too heavy for the curtain rod holders we’d already taken great pains to screw into the walls. After a failed attempt at hanging them – which nearly resulted in ripping all the hanging apparatuses out of the walls – Nate, Nic, and Mark spent the better part of Friday marching back and forth between our place and the nearest hardware store in order to implement the sturdiest solution. I arrived home (after my traumatic Metro experience) to discover that they’d just finally succeeded. Phase one of home improvement was complete.

Creaky floorboards and an irritable downstairs neighbor spurred the next phase on. The first night of N+M’s visit was spent quietly schmoozing, dining, and otherwise chillin’. As we got up to begin bedtime prep, we were surprised to hear a knock on the door. It was the downstairs neighbor, with semi-crazed desperation in her eyes. “Have you been moving furniture?” I was flabbergasted. We’d already realized that the floorboards were old and noisy, but we’d barely moved an inch for the past couple hours. After calming her down, we resolved to get some wall-to-wall carpet for our living room, the most used room in the apartment. We planned to go to a nearby store, where we could find carpeting in bulk, on Saturday morning. Cut to me, Nate, and Mark hoisting a 15’ roll of carpeting on our shoulders for the 10-minute walk home through narrow streets and raucous crosswalks.

If only that were the hardest part of Operation Carpet. Nate and I braced ourselves for the subsequent task – taking apart all of our carefully constructed work in the living room. Bookshelves were emptied, electronics were unplugged (and obviously there were more than a few cables what with N’s monstrous computer center), and nearly all the furniture was removed from the room so the carpet could be unrolled, cut, and installed. Nate and Mark expertly took care of business, and now we can proudly say that it really ties the room together.

While the gentlemen worked on Operation Carpet, the ladies concentrated on decoration. We spent quite a while finding the perfect spots for our masks, puppets, artwork, and other bric-a-brac. Nic’s stylish eye and my laser-sharp focus were whipped up into a frenzy that eventually consumed Mark (we had lost Nate to a nearly catastrophic reassembly of his computer scene, as one of his machines wouldn’t power up again for hours). After lots of tweaks, we had produced a chic and definitively bobo ambience throughout the apartment. Home improvement was more or less complete! Exhausted, we four sat down for dinner at 11pm and while extremely satisfied with all our hard work, we vowed to relax and enjoy Paris on Sunday.

And so, on a brisk yet gorgeous afternoon, we braved the Metro (almost fully back to normal) and headed to St-Germain, the heart of the Left Bank and an area that I’ve barely explored since our arrival in August. Mark’s lovely sister, Pat, and brother-in-law, Howard, were visiting Paris, so we met for brunch at one of Paris’s most elegant and legendary tearooms, Ladurée. It’s a Paris institution, and while the restaurant is nothing to shake a stick at, Ladurée is more widely known for its pastries and chocolates. These confections are so preciously packaged and branded that we felt we’d wandered into Willy Wonka’s factory by way of Tiffany’s. We were seated in an airy room with murals of 18th-century garden scenes and feasted on some heavenly delights. My salad was comprised of ingredients so fresh they were virtually straight out of the veggie patch…soooooooo good, but merely foreplay for the food-gasmic desserts that followed. As Ladurée prides itself on its macarons, I had to try the mini-macaron sampler plate. These are NOT your bubbe’s kosher-for-Passover variety of macaroons. On the contrary, they are little sandwiches of sweet, airy coconut-infused pastry with a cream center. They come in an array of dazzling flavors and colors; I had chocolate with fruits rouge, rose petal, cassis-and-violet, and crème de caramel. I don’t even remember what everyone else ordered for dessert, so good were these dainty little treats.
We recovered from our decadent brunch wandering through the streets and hidden courtyards of St-Germain, soaking up the autumn sun and live jazz wafting through the streets.

La Grève Strikes Back

The official day of the transportation strike was sunny and carefree, and not much of an obstacle. The population expected the disruption of transportation services and could thus plan accordingly. However, the following day was overcast and dismal – in more ways than one. Services were expected to resume and so things would be back to normal…or so I, in true expat naïveté, thought.

I have a very full schedule that day: an 8-9:30 class in the 9th, followed by a 10-12 in the 15th, and finally a 1:30-4:30 back in the 9th. Metro services are therefore key, as I have to traverse almost the entire length of the city throughout the day. I first descend to the Metro at 7:40, expecting the normal 15-minute door-to-door commute to my early class. The LED arrival sign for the next two trains reads 17 minutes and 30 minutes. Uh oh. I text my student that I’d arrive a bit late; he kindly responds that I shouldn’t worry. It’s unusually cold in the Metro and I’m not dressed for 17 minutes of standing still, so I burrow deeper into my coat and pray the train will come faster. I’m already growing wary of the probable crowdedness of the train when the platform becomes increasingly populated. Lo and behold, the train pulls in, completely packed. I try to get inside, but there’s so little space the oxygen levels are probably running dangerously low. I decide to pass.

14 minutes later, the next train arrives, just as – if not more – crammed than the last. Again, I contemplate squeezing in, but the prospect of sardine-ifying myself to the point of breaking leaves a lot to be desired. I resign myself to not making my 8am class at all (after relating my fate to my student, he blithely texts back, “Welcome to France!”) and after another long wait (35 minutes this time), I figure I can comfortably (overstatement of the year!) get to my 10am class with time to spare. Train #3 arrives and I’m ready to crowd-surf my way in if I have to. I make it, my coat barely escaping getting stuck in the closing door. It’s so friggin’ packed, you can’t distinguish one body from another – the train car is a tangle of heads, limbs, scraps of clothing. A mood of grim resolve hangs over us. We’d just have to bear it for the length of our commutes. It sucks, but what can you do?

Luckily the windows in the train car are open to slightly relieve the stifling atmosphere. It also enables us to hear the reactions of the crowds waiting on each station’s platform. A chorus of groans, gasps, merde’s, and oh-la-la’s evoke some chuckles and knowing looks among those of us fortunate enough to be inside. Everyone is more than ready for a quick laugh – everyone except the one schmuck who has to get agro and start yelling at no one in particular to stop pushing him. Um, right buddy, they’re pushing. You.

Eventually I reach my stop. I’m shocked to notice that it’s 10:00 sharp. So much for an early arrival – it had taken me double the time to get to my destination than it should have. I figure my students have probably been experiencing the same transportation pains as me. Yes, indeed. Their office mates inform me that one has abandoned his commute altogether after being stuck in traffic for over an hour; the other is supposedly on his way. So I wait. And wait. And wait. Just after 11:00, I’m getting ready to leave, when he walks in, flustered, but willing to have his lesson.

An hour later, on my way to my school’s office site, I walk to the Metro hoping the train delays have eased up a bit. Surely, all it would take was a morning to get the massive urban underground rail network back up and running. Ha. I enter the Ecole Militaire station only to hear the station agent say, “Pas des trains.” (No trains.) “Pas des trains?” I reply weakly, unable to fathom that the situation had gone from terrible to incomprehensibly worse since the morning. A nearby youngish guy must think I don’t understand, because he says, “Madame, no trains – no trains!” I told him I understand…it’s just that I’m not too happy about the news. “Alors, c’est la grève,” he responds wryly. [His cynicism aside, most Parisians seem to accept the inconvenient, the inefficient, and the undeniably frustrating ramifications of the strike simply as an inevitability not worth whining about. In the States, people demand a supervisor at the drop of a hat. Here, the system is so large and cumbersome that people don’t even know how to ask for the supervisor.] With no other Metro lines close enough to take me to my destination (are they even working anyway?) I have no other choice but to share in the collective resignation and walk to my next teaching engagement.

It’s not such a bad walk. Sure, it takes me an hour, amid brisk winds and gray skies. Plus I have to literally eat on the go and wind up with crumbs all over me – as more couth Parisians no doubt note in passing, I ain’t a pretty sight. But I manage to catch some pretty city sites en route: the massive lawn and classic dome-topped façade of Hotel des Invalides, the romantically picturesque Pont Alexandre III replete with golden winged statues flanking the bridge spanning the Seine, two grand palaces on the Right Bank gracing the horizon. I take a less scenic bridge across the river, but it dumps me off at the hardly dumpy Place de la Concorde. I glance at he obelisque encrusted with hieroglyphs and cheery carousel overloaded with tourists and families. But I have no time to stop and really take it in – I’m danger of being late (again), and I’m paid by the hour, so on I trudge until I finally reach the office, with eight minutes to make copies and get a glass of water before jumping into my three-hour workshop on structuring discourse. Amazingly, half of the attendees actually show up, all on time.

Finally quittin’ time comes and I leave the office, spent and dreading the fiasco no doubt awaiting me in the Opéra Metro. And sure enough, the 8 line – the one that stops right around the corner from my home – is no longer running. Fabulous! I weigh my options: try the other metro stations nearby whose lines go even remotely close to home, or hit the streets for 50 minutes in less-than-desirable walking shoes. Cabs will be impossible to come by, and traffic is basically a parking lot all over the city anyway. It’s clear: I have to go on a trial-and-error Metro line recon mission.

I immediately strike gold with line 9. When I walk onto the platform, the LED arrival board reads 11 minutes. Not bad. I don’t even contemplate taking one of the available seats. I’m waiting on the edge of the platform and preparing myself to get on that train, whatever it takes. I am no longer above pushing and smushing. The day has steeled me against any physical discomfort. I can brave 15 oxygen-low minutes if it means I’d just get home already. It’s now a game of survival, and I’m going to be on the side of the fittest. Turns out I hardly need to try. When the train pulls in, the crowd behind me surges through the doors, nearly lifting me off the ground on its mad dash to get inside. Voila, I’m on board. Now all I have to do is ignore the fact that my head is jammed into someone’s armpit, my bum is pressed up against a man’s front (still shuddering in disgust over that one), and that although I have nothing to hold onto, the mass of bodies around me is literally fusing me into place.

It’s a tense 12 minutes until the stop before mine, when suddenly a third of my train car empties and I realize I can breathe again. Halle-friggin-lujah! The doors close and I’m buoyed by the knowledge that within moments I’ll be back above ground, where no striking public employees can any longer interfere with my day. Woo hoooo…huh? The train grinds to a halt and the lights go black. The announcement blares: it’s only a temporary problem, we’ll be on our way any moment now. Hopes dashed, the crowd groans and reverts to its former state of white-knuckled impatience. The train is all but silent, save for the synth-pop sounds of a young hipster’s iPod. What’s that song…I know that song…OMG. No way. “That’s all they really waaaaaaant, some fuuuuuuuuun…when the workin’ day is done oh girls they wanna have fu-uuun…” This is too much for me to take and I burst into delirious laughter. Now everyone on the train car is staring at me like I’m a raving lunatic. Come on, people, how can you not appreciate the absurdity of the situation, with the Cyndi Lauper cherry on top?

The train comes back to life and whisks me to Oberkampf, only a quick walk away from my place. I’m flooded with relief to get off the train so close to home, soaking up every gulp of fresh air. Exhausted, slightly traumatized, I slump into the apartment only to find N and his parents finishing up a day’s worth of home improvement projects and plans to cook dinner at home. Thank goodness for happy endings.

Baby's First Strike

I’ve long known about the French inclination to protest, and was duly warned about the likelihood of a transportation strike. Alors, it wasn’t a shock when the news came ‘round that today would be the day. Practically no Metro, commuter train, railway, and bus lines would operate from Wednesday to Thursday evenings. Who could get to work, you may wonder. Those who have cars could brave L.A.-style traffic, those who live close enough could walk or ride bikes/ motorcycles/ scooters (all ubiquitous modes of transport on a normal day), and those who are shrewd – or motivated – enough could wake up at the crack of dawn and stake a claim on a Velibe (bikes available for public rental). You'd think cabs would also be an option, but as my in-laws (currently visiting) discovered, if you didn’t book one by last Wednesday, you were S.O.L. Although most of my Thursday students weren’t bothering to come to work at all, two were planning to, and I’m paid by the hour, so this girl put on her walking shoes and hoofed it to her 9:30am class.

It was a beautiful day for a transportation strike – deep blue sky, barely any clouds, an autumnal crispness to the air. The streets were a bit calmer than usual, although not much. My walk took me through the Marais into the commercial district of the 2nd arrondisement. I didn’t take the most aesthetically stunning route…lots of chintzy clothing stores, fast food places…I now know where the Paris Hard Rock Café is (thank goodness, I didn’t think I could lose any more sleep over that mystery) and if I’m ever nostalgic for my past brushes with Long Island, I can go to Japorama (it’s really a sushi restaurant, but of course my frame of reference is New York Jewish American Princesses). But just when you think you’re in a less than desirable nook of Paris, you look down a side street and see a magnificent medieval or Renaissance church peeking out past its neighboring buildings. Amen.

After my over-in-a-blink workday, I was thrilled to have a free afternoon to run errands. First, the post office. Clearly no deliveries can be made by train today, so I knew the package I wanted to mail wouldn’t leave the post office until tomorrow. However, the postal worker wouldn’t even accept my package and let it remain in the p.o. until it could be delivered tomorrow. WTF? Since you can buy stamps and send letters elsewhere, why was the post office even open, then? Ah, France…

Then I was off to pick up some odds and ends we still need for the apartment (such as light coverings – apts don’t come with ‘em here and the bare bulb in our kitchen poking out of the wall (whoever thought that was a good place for a light fixture is one smart cookie) is killing me). I decided to finally go check out what the hype was all about at BHV, one of the city’s most legendary (and there are many, natch) department stores. Well, the legends are true. This isn’t just any run-of-the-mill department store. Sure, there are fashion items and cosmetics, but those takes a back seat to all things home. Almost every floor is organized thematically: hardware, bed and bath, kitchen, home décor, electronics, HOBBIES (I couldn’t get over this – an entire floor dedicated to crafts, arts, games, toys, sports, all kinds of goodness). I needed a hodgepodge of items, so I wound up on nearly every floor. I was in there for over an hour, so I probably walked about half a mile just inside the premises. Then it was more walking back through the Marais to home, sweet home. Although I spent about a half a day on my feet, it felt like a breeze. J’adore vadrouiller dans Paris…

All Settled

It’s been an eventful week in these parts. Our shipment arrived Monday without incident. The movers were super efficient and had our entire shipping container unloaded into our apartment within two hours. Nate was allowed a day off for moving purposes (another fabulous benefit vis-a-vis French employment laws) and Candice had arrived back in Paris from her Morocco trip, so the two of them oversaw it all. They spent the better part of the day unpacking a great deal of boxes and at least opening the rest. By the time I got home from work, the entire kitchen was unpacked, our furniture was set up, and the rest of our apartment was in box-world chaos…it felt great to come home to this scene, even if it was a minor train wreck.

Throughout the week, we unpacked the rest, organized where everything goes, and enjoyed having our belongings back. We’ve eaten dinner at our dining table (my first ever, such a treat to not eat dinner sitting on the floor!) and have done a couple loads of laundry in our washer and dryer (the ultimate luxury). At this point, we only have to hang artwork and take care of a couple more minor touches and we’re there!

I’ve provided a little tour of our building for your viewing pleasure. We have a classic Parisian apartment building – you enter onto a plant-filled courtyard, which feeds into a long corridor granting access to four separate buildings as well as three office spaces (art dealer, architect, gallery). Our building is all the way at the back of the corridor. After you pass through the second door, you can walk upstairs or take the tiny elevator – a rarity for us not only because we live on the third floor (really the fourth, as the French don’t count the ground floor), but also because it really, truly is tiny. In the photo, I’ve put my messenger bag inside for a little spatial perspective. We’ve had an interesting time getting all the cardboard refuse out of our apartment and into the garbage room, cramming as much as we can into the elevator and then racing it down the stairs, only to do it over and over and over again…yes, we’ve done it lots and lots of times.

Aside from all the household activity, we also had a nice, solid week of family time. Candice stayed in town for a few days and provided an invaluable amount of help with the unpacking process. Her presence also ratcheted up the hominess factor, as we cooked our first meals in the apartment and enjoyed cozy evenings just hangin’ out. Yesterday Nate and I visited his aunt, uncle, cousin, and grandmother, who live on a gorgeous farm about an hour outside the city. I hadn’t yet met his aunt and uncle, who are just lovely, warm people. It was heavenly to breathe in the sweet country air, eat a relaxed lunch, and visit the local golf course, really to see N’s aunt’s paintings (they’re on display in the club house) – but we wound up with vouchers for a free round due to the hospitality of the staff. Score! I also made it through the afternoon barely speaking any English – which is not to say that I was able to communicate perfectly, but I was pleased with my ability to follow conversations and contribute.

N’s parents will be in town in a couple days. More hosting! More family goodness! More reconnecting! And more blogging soon, now that things have calmed down a bit.

How to Stay Dry in Paris

I caught a cold at the end of the week. I knew it was inevitable when some students started complaining about their own, plus the weather has been wildly unpredictable: gorgeous and sunny one day, rainy and chilly the next, gray and windy for the rest of the week. I have a limited wardrobe until our grand shipment arrives, and I didn’t account for unseasonably cold weather in Sept/Oct. Years in San Francisco prepared me for dealing with dramatic changes in the weather, but I hadn’t at all expected it in Paris. So I unfortunately didn’t feel well enough to go out last night and therefore missed out on Nuit Blanche, which I’d been looking forward to all week. It’s an annual event organized by the city in which free art and multimedia installations are open in several neighborhoods until late-night and one Metro line runs free all night. Well, there’s always next year.

I felt well enough to brave some errands yesterday. Once again, navigating certain parts of the Marais was crrrrrrrrrrraaaaaaazy. I know I’ve mentioned this before, but it continues to astonish me how widespread this is—people really just stop right in front of you in a very crowded street or on the stairs exiting the Metro, as if they’re the only ones on the planet. Yes, I’m walking behind you, but no, I really didn’t want to actually GO anywhere (heh). Anyhow, during our travels we discovered an odd yet valuable piece of information: key copying shops are not also hardware stores, but double as shoe repair places. Do metal cutting machines also work well on leather? Huh. Kind of like the logic of the ubiquitous donut shops in SF that also serve Chinese take-out (if the deep fryer is already on, just keep putting stuff in it!). Aside from tending to mending some shoes, we bought a washer and dryer – we’re very excited to have laundry in our apartment. This is especially a dream come true for me, who has never had laundry on the premises since I lived at my mom’s. And for those of you who are wondering why we’d bother to buy appliances at all…That’s just how it works here. Any empty (unfurnished) apartment in France comes unequipped. You must supply all of your own appliances (fridge, oven, all of it), your own curtains and curtain rods, and even your own light coverings. [It’s true that there are a lot more overhead costs to moving into an apartment here than in the US, but consequently utility bills are cheaper.]

Whereas Saturdays in Paris are busy and boisterous, Sundays are quiet and contemplative. Most businesses are closed, traffic is calmer, the streets aren’t as crowded—it’s a day usually reserved for family visits and simply lounging around. This morning, we rushed out to the one market we knew was open until the afternoon to buy some groceries, thanking our lucky stars for the one épicerie out of 20 that was open for at least part of the day. It’s a rare gorgeous day in Paris, so afterwards, we had wanted to picnic in the gorgeous Jardin du Luxembourg in the 6th, but I wasn’t feeling up to the trek. Instead we took a stroll around another part of our neighborhood only to discover a tucked-away, thriving Sunday scene. Who knew?! On Rue de Bretagne, just around the corner from us, several businesses and shops are indeed open on Sunday, not to mention the Marché des Enfants Rouge – a covered outdoor market with overflowing produce stalls, milky chevres, tasty salamis, fresh fish, tons of other fine foods and wines, flowers, and take-out crepes, Moroccan, or sushi that you can eat on the many picnic tables on the perimeter of the market. After admiring the bounty, we walked up the street to Square du Temple, an adorable little park with benches galore, a sizable playground, gazebo, ping-pong tables, and a nice swath of grass. Lots of families were out to play and so we enjoyed some people-watching in the sun. We took some smaller streets back home and discovered lots of cute restaurants and shops that we plan to indulge in at some point. We’re glad we abandoned our too-ambitious (for the sick girl, anyway) Sunday plans to uncover a bit more of our neighborhood. Each time we do, we get even more excited that we live here. Come visit and you’ll see…For the time being,check out the remaining pics in this post for some other interesting local discoveries we made today.

Back on the home front, this weekend brought another victory: we finally won our battle with the shower. For those who have been to this country, you may have already experienced the oddities of French showering. Unlike in the States, where showerheads are permanently attached to the plumbing and always positioned well above your head, showerheads in France are at the ends of metal hoses and if they can be held in position at all, you’re lucky to find ones that sit higher than the top of your head (we’re among those lucky few). Getting wet in the shower isn’t even so much the issue as is keeping the rest of the bathroom dry. Our hotel didn’t have a shower door or curtain – only a small glass pane that barely jutted out past the location of the showerhead. There was always a huge puddle outside the shower, even when we turned the head as far away from that part of the bathroom as possible. Our apartment has a shower curtain rod, but because of dimensions of the bathroom it has to be L-shaped and really closes you in if a shower curtain is pulled all the way around. OK, there’s not much we can do about that, but what was even more puzzling was that the previous tenants had a shower curtain that wasn’t longer than the top of the tub, and thus only succeeded in funneling water right outside the tub. Isn’t the point of a shower curtain to keep the water inside the shower? The solution was clear: buy a longer shower curtain.

And so I shopped. And shopped. And shopped. And every single store I went to did not carry a shower curtain longer than 200cm, the same length as the original curtain. What we had chalked up to poor thinking on the tenants’ part was soon replaced with utter disbelief: if this is the standard longest length, what about those of us who have shorter bath tubs? Is the entire country so precise at showering, or just not bothered by stepping out of the shower into a giant puddle?! Anyhow, upon coming to the conclusion that the perfect shower curtain just wasn’t out there, I had a eureka moment in a store: lower the shower curtain rod. Of course! I rushed home eager to investigate, only to be deflated. One end of the shower curtain rod is connected to the wall right above the tiny bathroom window. We couldn’t lower it. After another day of despairing over our watery dilemma, I finally figured it out: buy more shower curtain rings. We now have three rows of rings holding up our curtain, the bathroom floor is dry, and showering is now the stress-free experience it’s meant to be.

In other household news, our shipment arrives tomorrow – it’s about time! A real bed, dishes, warmer clothes, electronics…just a few of the things we’re very excited to finally have.

Sounding Off

Teaching English as a language has been eye- (and ear-) opening in many ways. It makes you realize how much you take for granted as a native speaker. One thing I’ve realized is that Americans (especially in certain regions) tend to blur words together and soften consonant sounds more often than other native English speakers. Many of my students are petrified of the notorious Texas drawl. One even feels that it’s harder to understand Texans than Indians. They probably haven’t dealt with the likes of authentic New Yorkers, or New Jerseyites (?) for that matter. If they had to, “The Sopranos” would be an unlikely yet fairly helpful teaching tool. I may have never developed a true New Yawk accent, but I’ve become more conscious than ever that I pronounce many of my t’s as d’s and I shorten some vowel sounds, so I’ve had to work hard on EEnunciaTing. Would Tony S. or Dubya, for that matter, fare as well?

Speaking of sounding things out, I taught the alphabet to a beginner today and boy, was it an exercise in confusion. Consonants aren’t a huge stretch, but many vowel sounds are wildly different. The English “A” sound doesn’t exist in French. The French “I” is pronounced the same way as the English “E;” the French “E” is pronounced similarly to the English “uh” sound. The poor guy was in a panic when I had him spell words I was dictating. Thank goodness “O” and “U” are close enough between the two languages, or he might have passed out. This was just the tip of the iceberg, as we haven’t even moved past the most basic long vowel sounds in English. Butter, milk, eggs, apples, sauce, etc. – oh, it’s gonna be a bloodbath. (I must be hungry, because those were the first words that popped into my head.)

Idioms have been another particular challenge. Native speakers forget that although these turns of phrase seem simple enough to one another, they can send even an advanced language learner into a spiral of confusion. “Step it up,” “in the loop,” “work it out”…these, among others, have slipped out during instruction. Explaining the meaning of an idiom is harder than you think, what with the need to break it down into the simplest words possible. It’s kind of like playing Taboo (my fave game, by the way) – there are some words you just can’t ever use and you still have to get someone to comprehend exactly what you mean to say.

On the flipside, I’ve noticed some idiosyncrasies of French utterances. They tend to make certain sounds that I’ve never noticed before among the Frenchies I’ve been long acquainted with. I’m wishing I had audio-recording capabilities right about now, but I’ll attempt to articulate these sounds anyway. One is akin to a sharp intake of breath, like the sound you’d make if you were suddenly startled – but not as strong and not with a connotation of shock. It seems to be used more as a nervous almost-laugh. And I’ve heard it most frequently from older people; not sure how to explain that. The other sound is the ever-popular noise the people here make to express “Who knows?” or “I don’t have a damn clue.” The more uncouth of the population produce a ripping-fart sound, while the more elegant make a kind of air-popping fart sound. Either you’re laughing right now or you can’t at all imagine what I’m talking about, but believe me when I say that by the end of my first week here, I was ready to MURDER the next person I heard do it. It was driving me crazy. At this point, I’ve resigned myself to its ubiquity. One of my classes recently served as a therapy session for dealing with this French-fart-sound hang-up. My students were taking a practice test for a Business English exam they’re taking this spring, and they were so stumped by one section of the test that the classroom was a veritable chorus of this sound. I realized then there was no escaping it…but though I can’t beat it, I am by no means joining it. Oh, hell no. Sorry, people, fart noises are for the bathroom or the armpit hijinks of 12-year-old boys.

And now for the interactive portion of this blog: What sounds do Americans make that can be perceived as bizarre or ridiculous? Post a comment with your ideas.