La Langue Française

Learning a language is quite difficult as it turns out. You go through years of grammar, reading, writing, attempting to understand old French cassettes, and you think you’re finally ready. You’ve been over the subjunctive case so many times, you could probably remember in your sleep that when using with “pour que” it conjugates irregularly in the subjunctive as “pour que je fasse” (the subjunctive incidentally is a mood, not a tense); you’ve written essays on France-fin-de-siecle, and most importantly you know that there are only three French words that are masculine in the singular and feminine in the plural – orgue, amour, délice – I mean, come on, of all the weird exceptions in the French language, this has got to be the weirdest!

But it’s not nearly enough. Sure, coming to Paris with that type of background will give you the immediate ability to function in the city. What’s in that sandwich you might wonder? No problem – jambon, fromage. Beginner stuff. But then you have to order it – “…je…voudrais…” oops, first mistake. Parisians don’t say “je voudrais” – they say “je prend”. And you would certainly not learn that out of a French textbook for foreigners.

Once you get past that first freak-out of being too embarrassed to say so much as “bonjour” in French because you know the minute you say it, you’ll be pinned for a foreigner, or worse a foreigner with the hint of an American accent...you start making progress. But though you get better, it’s an uphill battle. Sure, I have no difficulty understanding Madame-my-host-mother-Petillault; heck, I’ve even gotten used to Charlotte’s ability to come up with more sentences in a minute than I might in a day. But, there’s always that catch that reminds you of how hopelessly impossible it is to completely master the language. Usually with comprehension it comes down to slang, like the slang of my host-brother – it makes you wonder if that language you’ve been learning was actually French. French, in fact, is language that takes on three distinct forms – the oral version, the written version, and the literary version. Having learned French out of a text-book, you could say I’m pretty good at understanding the written version – the type of French that turns up on signs, restaurant menus, even newspapers. It’s standard French, nothing to unexpected after eight years of French class.

But as soon as you open a book – it morphs into this crazy thing known as literature. Suddenly, you are confronted by this verb tense you would never have seen if you weren’t particularly fond of Victor Hugo’s possibly unnecessary digressions. Passé Simple. Used only in literature. Why? Because the French clearly want to make their language as exclusive as possible, or so I imagine. And of course the level of vocabulary is nowhere near your comprehension level. But okay, you’ve learned the new conjugations, you’ve looked up the never-heard-of-before-Hugo-vocab, you’re all set, right? Wrong. The problem with reading French literature is that it is plus soutenu then the spoken or standard language – it is full of difficult syntax construction, seemingly random changes in grammar, and the sort of stylized writing you have never encountered. In short, it is a language of its own – taking the rules of the one you learned and twisting them into complex variations full of metaphors, allusions, and word play. Now you no longer need to know just vocab and grammar, you need to understand the language. You need to understand it enough to be able to manipulate it and to understand how others manipulate it. You are forced to grasp the complex flow of the language – the way the structure is built, not just what the words mean, but how are they juxtaposed. I mean, think of all the hard-to-comprehend essays you’ve read and how the authors of those essays turned seemingly simple sentences into a rollercoaster ride of adverbs that are only loosely held together. Now try that in French. See what I mean?

Anyway, even with the complexity of literary French, conversational French is what I’d consider the hardest of the three. But given the length of this post and the fact that I will probably write as much if not more about the horrors of speaking French, I shall leave you in suspense of how the French make it impossible for others to speak with them.

Why blog?

One of the reasons I like the idea of studying abroad is because you can become accustomed to the ways of the people, city, etc. And becoming accustomed to Paris is a very satisfying feeling in the sense that you develop an idea of places and things you like – favorite creperies, lovely cheeses, short cuts to get to school. You have the chance to get to know the guy who works at your boulangerie, and God forbid, start tutoi-yaing him (although Madame-my-host-mother-Petillault tries to avoid addressing the baker completely as not to be forced to choose between the "tu" or "vous" form, even after 35 years of going to the same boulangerie). And, now that I’ve been living in Paris for over a month, I can definitely say the city has become my home – after all, I’ve moved around quite a bit; I've gotten to be quite talented at adapting to the cities’ oddities. On the one hand it's nice, having a schedule - you become a citizen of the city enough to not have to always be doing touristy things. You can stay home if you're feeling under the weather; you are not obliged to always be doing something exciting.

But every once in awhile I’ll be sitting, doing the most banal of things like checking Facebook, and have this startling realization that I’m in freaking PARIS. Like the center of the world, Paris. The place where most of the world’s accomplishments can trace its roots to in some way or another. And I realize I don’t want Paris to become normal. Because when something becomes “normal” it loses its value to a certain extent. Certainly you pick up the cute quotidian habits of being a Parisian, but you appreciate it less. And to not appreciate Paris? Well, if I were Christian, that would be sin number one.

Moreover, I have this sudden urge to capture all of Paris and bottle her up so that I never lose that wonder and fairy-tale-like amazement of living in what could rightfully be termed, my dream city. But bottling up Paris is like trying to catch snowflakes. Just as soon as you’ve gathered an imprint of a moment in time, an impression of what you see as “Frenchness” or "Parisianness" - it’s gone. Forgotten. Just another moment of the day. Sure, you'll remember the funny incidents, the great food, the impressing castles, but what about everything else? What about those things that you don't choose to write down. After all, in writing this very blog entry, I am choosing this reflection as something of importance. I am always in the process of choosing. Choosing which parts of Paris are worth seeing, which moments are worth remembering, which people are worth getting to know. But in attempting to paint this picture of Paris into my mind, I lose all those things of which I don't specifically take note. It’s really rather frustrating - after all, having a limited time in Paris turns on the pressure. You have exactly so many days to see all/process all. And how do you hold it all in when the basin of memory is full of little holes, allowing it to all leak out?

Anyway, I guess until I find the answer to this enigma, discover how to capture Paris and squeeze her into a bottle, make sense of her, I’ll have to choose which impressions and memories to keep. Assuming my attempt to cork that rich French wine that is Paris succeeds, all I’ll have to do to taste that wonder back in the States, is pop the cork and read my blog.

Marche aux Puces

So this weekend I went to a flea market in Clignacourt and though I could tell you about it, I think the pictures show a much more interesting story. You'll notice I tend to prefer the antiques.

My Parisian Flat.

I’ve always enjoyed dreaming about my perfect Parisian flat: small, filled with old furniture and cute dishes, complete with a kitchen containing an assortment of smelly cheeses, fine wines, aromatic teas and coffees, locally produced honey, Edith Piaf playing in the background, you know – the stuff of picturesque Provence with an urban feel to it. Well, you could say I wasn’t disappointed. What I now like to think of as my Parisian flat is a place where every floorboard creaks and every door closes with difficulty; where everything is badly in need of repair and where whatever it is you touch may just break; where stacks and stacks of ancient and partially dusty books in every language line the corridor, and where antique trinkets catch your eye at the oddest of moments; where the rooms are littered with furniture from gosh knows which century that Madame-my-host-mother-Petillault reupholsters as an extra boulot, and where the absolute darling of a kitchen contains a disarray of pots and pans, fromages with which my stomach is quite pleased, and a gorgeous sunlight that streams into and illuminates the kitchen at the earliest of hours. And despite the rather fragile nature of this flat, it clearly has a personality, and a strong one at that. (Oh, and as a side note, pardon my Proustian sentences, but I’ve always had a bit of difficulty avoiding them.)

The front door is half covered with a paisley sheet (don’t ask me why) and it leads to what I guess could be considered the foyer which is more so a collection of random odds and ends placed upon rickety tables and discolored-from-age-tapestries. The living room is partially split in half with one side housing a television possibly as ancient as the books that surround it, a rusty mirror above a marble fireplace, puffy couches, and an assortment of armchairs. The other includes a balcony of currently withering plants, a creaky old piano, a dining table never in use, and several more re-upholstered pieces. Everything looks to be at least fifty years old, and everything is amazingly interesting.

The kitchen wins as my favorite room in the flat. It’s rather small and of a strange shape, and it has a huge window that I find particularly delightful on a Sunday morning when the warm sunlight makes me feel sleepy as I read Le Monde and enjoy my French breakfast of tartines, confiture, and nutella. The table is absolutely miniature-sized – it’s about two feet tall and has tiny stools even smaller than that. But nevertheless, this has been the official dining table for every meal I’ve had thus far, with guests or without. The stove is never clear of pots and pans, and the steel ventilator above it reminds me of the one used in science experiments – although this one is certainly more adorable and definitely more French. Despite or perhaps because of the cramped space of the kitchen and the enormous amount of cute little antiques and dishes it holds, the place exudes an air of disorganized cleanliness. I’m rather fond of it. That, with its eternal smell of flowery if somewhat stale cigarette smoke, really makes it the perfect French kitchen.

My room is at the very end or a long, narrow, and rickety hallway. It’s about the size of single dorm room at the University of Michigan, and from what I’ve heard, it’s fairly large for a Parisian apartment. The room is simply decorated with two rugs, an old but sturdy armoir, a tiny wooden desk, a bed that would probably be uncomfortable for anyone taller than me, a dark pink comforter, a yellow and white lined futon, a marble fireplace with a mirror, and a nice long window that leads to a tiny but cute balcony. Isn’t it just picture perfect?

But despite all these detailed descriptions of my nouvelle Parisian flat, what really makes it of interest is its perfectly French aura. The flat is like a combination between one of Ann Arbor’s used bookshops, an antique store, your grandmother’s attic, and an outdoor flea market. You can always discover something new – Madame-my-host-mother-Petillault never throws anything out. There is stuff everywhere – in piles, on shelves, hidden away in cupboards. It’s disorderly, but not messy. And every object is shrouded in history; it’s like a museum! There’s an encyclopedia of the history of Paris street names and the famous people who lived there, there are antiques Madame-my-host-mother-Petillault probably picked up in antique shops or one of Paris’ many markets, there are confiture jars that used to belong to Madame-my-host-mother-Petillault’s mother, posters of museum exhibitions, black and white pictures of family, and a dinner-time aroma of amazing home-made French cuisine (including a fresh baguette and blue cheese such as my favorite, St. Agur from the local marché). The flat is probably three or four times as small as a house in Troy, but it’s grounded in at least four times as much history, knowledge, cuisine, and culture.

PARIS, FRANCE!

I’m not entirely sure when I decided France was the center of the world, but by the time I was seven or eight it was a done deal. When other children were playing with barbies and watching cartoons, I watched movies about Jeanne d’Arc and worshipped the Eiffel Tower. Perhaps it may have been something genetic – I mean the cultural exchange between Russia and France in the time of Peter the Great was enormous. Clearly I was historically predisposed to French-ify myself, right?

Anyway, as stated earlier, I took the TGV into Paris, and despite the fact that this would be my second time in Paris it felt like the first time didn’t even count. That certainly isn’t surprising given that my first time in Paris lasted slightly more than 24 hours. Why only 24 hours? It was the last stop of my month-long tour in Germany as a violinist with Blue Lake’s International Youth Symphony Orchestra. And as I’m sure you can imagine, 24 hours in Paris doesn’t exactly exhaust the city from all it has to offer. Especially since that one day in Paris was Bastille Day (the French day of independence) so everything was closed and crowds were walking the streets with bottles of wine celebrating. I’ve gotten the impression that the French, more than celebrating a holiday for its historical or possible religious value, use it as an excuse to eat and drink a lot. I, of course, am not complaining – the more food, the better.

Arriving in Paris was frightening, exciting, unbelievable, ohh…I don’t even know. I’ve spent practically eight years studying French language, read numerous books about its history (goodness, I love the history of kings and queens!), dipped into French literature, been the president of my high school French Club…well I think the point is clear. To finally be able to come to France and actually live in Paris is a dream come true – I imagine my little seven-year-old self would be quite giddy with excitement. Although I must admit my twenty-year-old self was a little nervous as to what Paris would actually show herself to be – a lifetime of loving France kind sets you up to have certain expectations.

Anyway my arrival in France wasn’t exactly stress-free: my Professor’s perfect plan of how to meet everyone looked better on paper than in reality, resulting my waiting in the Gare de l’Est for an extra hour. But no worries! I was more nervous/excited to meet my new host-family to really care about that. My first impression of the place I would be living was “oh my gosh, they still have elevators like that?!” If you can imagine what most French balconies look like – a complicated and beautiful design of black metal bars – and then put that into a box form that includes a wooden closet inside it with mirrors and a door that opens like window shutters, you’ll be seeing the elevator. But for those who cannot follow my impossible description, I’ve included a picture. I was later informed that this apartment building, located in the sixteenth arrondissement near the Chardon-Lagache metro stop, had been constructed before the war either in the 20’s or 30’s – that, of course, would explain its lovely elevator. The rest of the apartment building exuded its age through its creaky floorboards.

My host-mother came out to greet Howard and me. She looked to be in her late fifties and very French (I’m not entirely sure what I mean when I say “very French” but it seems to be the right description). She started speaking to us, in French, of course. And my mind was suddenly on overload. Having just been in Germany I was still thinking in German and what with speaking to Howard in English for the past twenty minutes, I was a jumbled mess of French, German, and English with bits of Russian popping up. But no matter, I had successfully made it to my new Parisian flat and fair-ed la connaissance of my host-mother, Madame Catherine Petillault, and her two twenty-something-year-old sons, Robin and Nicolas. I would later learn that Madame-my-host-mother-Petillault has two other children: Pierre, whom I have yet to meet, and Charlotte, who speaks faster than most Germans drive on the autobahn.

Saarland-Saarbrücken-Elm-Trier-Luxembourg

My last stop in Deuschland was in Saarbrücken or rather a village near Saarbrücken called Elm. On my first visit to Germany I had stayed with a curious little man named Bertold who liked to indulge in the rather questionable consumption of numerous gummy bears, who tended to his garden religiously, and who literally, performed not just played, Wagner’s Flying Dutchman on the harmonica in the rain. I’m really rather convinced he’s a hobbit in disguise. And what with my tendency to appreciate all things quirky and short it was almost a given that I’d return.

This time I enjoyed sleeping-in past ten in the morning, spazieren gehen-ing on the very sunny if snowy mountain, probeir-ing traditional German country cuisine, eating herring on Ash Wednesday, Germany-style, and seeing the Porta Nigra, the Trier Cathedral, and St. Paulin’s Cathedral, in Germany’s oldest city: Trier. Talking to Bertold forced me to speak completely in German given that Bertold’s knowledge of English could be summed up in the words of cat, home, and hello. It was quite a challenge but certainly did wonders for learning the language (playing German scrabble was also quite helpful!). In fact, my language skills were really challenged when we decided to take a day trip to Luxembourg. Given Luxembourg’s proximity to Elm, we decided, over Bertold’s daughter’s amazing Italian pasta, that a trip to Luxembourg was definitely necessary.

Luxembourg, despite the fact that it’s probably the size of Rhode Island, speaks four languages. English, for the ease of travelers, French, for business, German, since it’s right next to the German border, and Luxembourgish – which though you rarely find it in print, is what most of the population speaks (it’s an uneven mix of French and German, with German being more influential in the construction of the language). Imagine if you spoke three of these languages at varying levels of competency and could partially understand the fourth – it’d be chaos! And it was. Every time I tried to say something in French, it came out in German. Surprising really, since most of the time I spent in Germany, I was struggling to come up with a grammatically correct sentence. Well, no doubt it provided some amusement to Bertold, his daughter, Susan, and her husband Willy.

In any case, Luxembourg proved to be quite the pleasant day trip. The combination of gorgeous gardens, the historische viertel’s cobblestone housing, diplomatic royalty in architecture and in practice (of which I’m not quite sure what to make), typically haunting gothic cathedrals, and breathtaking scenery really made it worth that hour and a half drive there and back. And having a last minute rendez-vous with Petra, Bertold’s friend whom I had met on my earlier travels, really put the cherry on top.

Though the next part of my travels would take me to Paris, I left Germany reluctantly. Despite the boxes of cigarettes that country consumes, I’m fairly certain it shall always remain a place of nostalgia for me.

Kassel and Frankfurt: The Relatives

Next on my list of things to do in Germany was visiting the relatives. My first stop was in Kassel. My distantly related and possible uncle Fima picked me up from the Sebodes, and I’m fairly certain he gave them quite a fright! He’s got quite a forté personality and seems to have picked up on that German directness of saying exactly what he thinks, no euphemisms involved. But despite my American-influenced surprise at this directness, I quite enjoyed my time there. Kassel, at least when I was there, could probably rival Michigan in snow and cold temperatures. However, Kassel was also a mix of the A Seben nightclub, Turkish delights such as the Döner, which seems to have taken over the country, heavily Russian-accented German, poker, expensive sushi, delightful morning breakfasts of heavenly expresso and the very German Wursts and Bröt, modern interior design, and my very tall cousin, Bagrat. So after that three or so day stay in Kassel with Fima, Bagrat, and Natasia, I made my way over to the Frankfurt relatives where we celebrated Ira’s Geburstag, saw the Umzug from Karneval/Faschings, ate delicious Italian Margherita pizza, saw the huge Frankfurt skyscrapers, enjoyed coffee with my cousin Marina, played cards with my cousin, Dima, and forgot two pairs of shoes. All in a week’s work, non?

À Göttingen, À Göttingen...

Despite the fact that I have had a life long love affair with France before I had even been there, I’ve always wanted to come back to Germany, ever since I was there for a month with the Blue Lake International Youth Symphony Orchestra. So here I am on my way to Paris with the TGV, eating buckets full of gummy bear variety that just can’t be found in the States, and writing about my three weeks in Germany. Germany is perhaps not the best place to vacation – the weather isn’t much better than in Michigan. But when you spend time living here you pick up on the little quirks of the people and the place. The delicious Apfel-Schorle (a combination of mineralwasser and apple juice), the cute little dorfs with colorful housing choices, the curious doors that attach themselves to said houses, the cathedrals and coble stoned walkways older than all of America complete with today’s ironic if modern and sharply dressed diplomats, the strange German stare you are bound to encounter when sitting aboard the Regional Bahn, a dozen different German dialects and accents und so weiter.

This time around my first stop in Germany was Göttingen to visit Chris, my long time friend and fellow traveler-in-training (forgive me for my corny writing style!). He is currently studying and working in G-town while living with the Sebodes, a host-family. So, after a rather stressful flight to Germany, which included 1 early flight, 1 late flight, 1 missed flight, and 1 more late flight, I was finally able to take the metro to the Hauptbahnhof where I met Chris. This of course was an adventure in and of itself given that I was two hours late. But hey, when you’re traveling in a country whose language you barely speak, be prepared for adventures!

Göttingen, like Ann Arbor, is a university city – the university itself was smaller than U of M, but the downtown section with its bookshops, cozy cafés, Tee und Gewurste shops could definitely rival tree town. Spending a week in the life of Chris Crac, Göttingen style was definitely an adventure. From meeting up with his friends who speak German with bits of Italian, Spanish, Polish, Hungarian, accented English and whatever I added to the mix, to buying 2 euro wine from the Kroger equivalent, to enjoying chicken soup with the never too tired to party Erasmus students, to meeting up with the other, German Chris, to warm and happy Irish coffee, to walking on ice outside the Hannover Rathaus, and to knowing when the train was nearly in Göttingen by the ear-popping tunnel that never fails to wake up its passengers, well… it could be a scene out of the movie l’Auberge Espagnole.

Chris’ host-family also provided for interesting company given that Inge, Chris’ host-mom, introduced me to a lovely old French song while instructing me on how to properly ventilate a room, and Chris’ host-dad, Andreas made the perfect home-made orange juice. Of course, they were both quite excited to inform me on everything New Zealand, given their plans for vacationing there just a day after I left. Even my broken German and managing to get lost with the simple direction of “go straight” couldn’t damper the excitement!