it wasn’t so easy this time

Blythe Sleepy Eyes

Sleep-deprived two Speakeasies in a row. I guess my beginner’s luck had run out because this time the words did not magically flow from my uncooperative brain.

As I was expending copious amounts of energy trying to say anything like something an actual French person would say, I was simultaneously having an out of body experience in which I was hovering above myself taking great pride in every single word that came out of my mouth, because here I was speaking another language, which is just nuts considering I don’t speak another language.

At the same time, I realized with a jolt that the person across from me was opening his mouth and effortlessly releasing words that flowed intuitively one from the other. There was absolutely no struggle on his part because he had been speaking this language from infancy the same way that I had been speaking English. For him, French is neither fun, nor frustrating, nor anything other than utilitarian.

It struck me as utterly bizarre that his native language was my foreign language and vice versa – that what I experience in a French conversation is 100% different than what he does. It’s not as though I have never thought about this before, but at that moment it felt like when you repeat your own name over and over until it sounds completely unfamiliar.

I should really get more sleep before I go back to one of these things…

[Photo: Valeri Passon]

Speakeasy

Christine @ Speakeasy

Early Monday morning I had been asleep for about four hours when my radiator came on making sounds like it was being beaten by an angry mob of hammers. It didn’t stop even after I closed the valve, and I couldn’t fall back to sleep.

Both drunkenness and sleep deprivation severely affect my ability to speak a foreign language – but not always in a bad way. They can sometimes render me mute and flailing, but they can also lower my inhibitions and inspire stream of consciousness-style gabbing far more advanced than my wide awake and sober self is capable of. It’s always a toss-up which extreme I’ll swing towards, so I didn’t know whether my Spanish class on Monday afternoon and French Speakeasy event that evening would be disastrous or miraculous.

Turns out it was a little of both. In Spanish I couldn’t put two words together and did more miming than talking, but in French I was transcendent. (Relative only to myself.)

One of my speaking partners was a woman, Christine (in the picture above), who is harboring remarkably similar dreams to mine right now. I think it was four years ago that she took a cargo ship from France to the United States in search of adventure and now she wants to travel the world, learning new things in each country and picking up jobs along the way taking photos for non-profits. We agreed it would be fun to conspire together, and in the meantime I signed up for the next Speakeasy in November…

speak dating!

Virginie at Speak Easy

On Tuesday night I went to a free session of Speak Easy during FIAF’s open house. Speak Easy is essentially speed dating, but instead of swapping potential romantic partners every ten minutes, you swap language partners and spend five minutes speaking French and five minutes speaking English with each one. Speak Easy started in Paris, I think, and came Stateside just recently. I have tried to sign up a few times but never jumped on it fast enough – tickets for native English speakers sell out in like five minutes (though that’s never the case for native French speakers. They practically have to give those tickets away, because English speakers are to French speakers in speak dating as women are to men in speed dating).

Well, I got lucky and heard about this special Speak Easy event early enough to nab a spot. And I got lucky again when two of the four people I was paired up with offered to have our conversation 100% in French because they speak English all day and don’t need to practice.

It was really fun. An MC gave us conversation prompts each time we switched languages, and sometimes we followed them and sometimes we didn’t. I met a photo editor, a French teacher, a techie and a woman who works in a bank (Virginie, above). All very nice people and all sparkling conversationalists.

The next Speak Easy in New York is on September 28th, and as per usual it’s already sold out for native English speakers (unless you’re under 30; I guess they are trying to skew younger). It’s co-hosted by French Morning and Fluent City so get on their lists and act fast if you want to try it out!

the best of words, the worst of words: foi and impossible

Asking native French speakers to tell me, in French, their favorite and least favorite words and to explain their choices is a good way for me to practice conversational French and also possibly learn some new words. Thus, the best of words, the worst of words. A couple of weeks ago, I targeted my colleague, Serge, for this delightful-to-me/bemusing-to-him exercise.

Serge is a soccer-playing, West African record-spinning, ethnic cuisine-sampling Burkinabè who also spent time growing up in Cote d’Ivoire and Senegal. I find it inspiring and awesome that nearly every day he does the rounds, visiting cubicles on two floors of our section for friendly little tête à têtes – and it was during one of these that he told me his best and worst words.

He wanted to start with his least favorite word:

Serge's least favorite word: impossible

Impossible = well, impossible. Because, “Rien est impossible. C’est une histoire d’energie. Si tu penses que tu peux faire quelque chose, tu peux le faire, mais ça demande une certaine discipline, l’obligation, courage. Donc le mot ‘impossible,’ je ne l’utilise jamais.” [Nothing is impossible. It’s about your energy. If you think that you can do something, you can do it, but it takes some discipline, commitment, courage. So I never use the word ‘impossible.’] I asked Serge if there’s ever been anything he’s wanted to do but not been able to manage, and with a confident shake of his head he replied, “No.” (I wish I could say the same.)

Serge’s favorite word is the other side of the coin:

Serge's favorite word: foi

Foi = faith. Because: “Croire en soi, peu importe la situation, tout ira bien.” [If you believe in yourself, no matter what the situation, everything will be okay.] For Serge it’s a question of both religious faith and confidence in himself, though he added, “La confiance en moi vient de Lui.” [My self-confidence comes from God.]

So, it appears that Serge and I are polar opposites: he’s an optimistic man of faith, and I’m an agnostic ball of anxiety. But we are in agreement when it comes to our love of West African music. So I will take this opportunity to publicly remind Serge that he still owes me a mix tape. 🙂

I shouldn’t have done it

rose-flavored ice cream

Tonight on my way to the subway, I passed Ladurée, the Parisian macaron shop. Even though I hold as objective truth than one should never step foot in foreign outposts of shops that are beloved institutions in their home countries, I did anyway. Blame my overactive bladder and preference to use the bathroom in a fancy French café over a McDonalds: once in the door, I couldn’t help but eye the offerings. And when I noticed rose glace on the menu, the battle was over before it began. I had been on the lookout for floral-flavored ice cream above all other food in France, because I remember like it was yesterday the moment I had my first taste of fleur glace from a street vendor in Paris two decades ago. One of the best things I have ever tasted. And yet, I could not for the life of me find flower-flavored ice cream in wintry Paris. No street vendors in sight, and the shops only had rose sorbet.

All this to say, I quickly abandoned my deeply-held convictions and ordered a scoop of Ladurée’s rose glace, from an excessively sweet waitress with a Staten Island accent. It tasted delicious in the way American ice cream can taste delicious, but it was not at all like the life-altering French ice cream I had in 1993. While eating, I eavesdropped on conversations transpiring in English. I paid with dollar bills.

And I felt the looming threat of tarnishing the memory of the Ladurée in Saint Germain, where I bought macarons made more heavenly by the knowledge they came into existence in their motherland, were sold in a luxe shop that would have been guillotined during the French Revolution, and were requested in halting French from snooty employees who couldn’t be bothered with silly American customs like politeness. Ladurée should never have crossed the Atlantic.

And I should never have followed that ice cream with chocolate… but that’s a story for a different blog.

phishing in French

weird baby doll head

I was honored recently to have received my first scam email in French. I like to tell myself that I ended up on the distribution list because the phishers have sophisticated hacking technology that determined my French proficiency to be high enough to warrant trying to rip me off in that language. (Why not?)

For your edification, I share the heartbreaking story and the dying last wishes of Baby Gagnon (aka Mr. Baby, a name I may steal for my nom de plume):

Bonsoir à vous,

Excusez moi de cette manière de vous contacter, je viens d’apercevoir votre profil qui après tant de jours de prières est le seul a retenir mon attention voilà pourquoi je vous fais part de ce qui m’arrive.

En effet, je me présente Gagnon Baby et je suis au États-Unis d’Amérique (Washington)pour mes soins, J’étais propriétaire d’une entreprise d’importation du Café et Cacao en Cote D’ivoire, et j’ai perdu mon épouse il y a de cela 3 ans, ce qui m’a beaucoup affecté et je n’ai pu me remarier jusqu’à ce qu’on me dise un jour que je souffre d’une maladie qui me condamne à une mort certaine,J’ai un cancer qui est en phase terminale, c’est un cancer de voie aéro-digestive supérieures qu’on appelle généralement cancer de la gorge ce qui se forme dans le larynx ou dans le pharynx. Ces 2 organes creux regroupent l’ensemble des organes de la déglutition, de la voie et de la respiration. Ils sont situés dans la zone qui commence derrière le nez et qui descend jusqu’au cou, mon médecin traitant vient de m’informer que mes jours sont comptés du fait de mon état de santé dégradé. Selon ce que le Docteur m’a justifié, une boule s’installe présentement dans ma cage cérébrale. Je me sens très mal et j’ai très peur, Je et je dispose d’une somme de 2.000.000 €uros dont je voudrais faire Don a une personne de confiance et honnête avant ma mort puisque mes jours sont comptés faute de cette maladie au quelle je n’ai eu de remède. J’aimerais donc que vous en fassiez un bon usage (Crée un orphelinat à mon nom afin de prendre soin des enfants démunis, Luttez contre les mauvaises maladies, aidez les familles pauvres etc.) voilà pourquoi je fais de cette somme un don,

Veuillez me contacter directement a mon adresse émail : gagnonbaby@gmail.com

Sur ce je vous laisse donc et j’espère que vous m’aiderez tout en bénéficiant de ce don afin de réaliser mon vœux le plus cher au monde j’ai plus d’autres options.

Je reste dans l’espoir de vous lire

Mr Baby

[Photo: Andy McLemore]

Scrabble en français

playing Scrabble in French

Not as fun as it sounds (to a nerd).

That may be why, months after we started this game and paused mid-way with the promise of picking it back up again soon… we have not.

Part of the problem is that we played with an English rather than a French set of letters. The number of tiles of each letter corresponds with how often that letter is used within the language, and the points for each letter are higher the rarer the letter is within the language. The English set caters to the English language; the French set would have been totally different. Which meant that even the fluent French speaker in our group was stumped when it came to forming remotely high-scoring words.

For fellow board game nerds:

English scrabble tile distribution

French scrabble tile distribution

L’Etranger: bof

The Stranger

Finally read the English version of The Stranger, a few weeks after finishing the French version. It took like two hours. I was happy to confirm that I had in fact understood the story, and that my impression from the French reading – that the main character seemed not so much existentially detached as developmentally disordered – stood firm. I know that was not Camus’ intention and that this literal interpretation of the text makes me somewhat dense, but so be it.

And now for your listening pleasure, the song running through my head the entire length of the book (here’s the connection):

[Photo: Anthony]

the pleasures of uncertainty

jet trail

My lease is up this Friday, and I’ll be subletting apartments on a (crazy) month to month basis so I don’t have to sign a new lease that would force me to stay in the city beyond the end of my work contract. I’ve committed to leaving for Senegal within a month of the last day of my temporary – also month to month – contract, which could be terminated any time between October 1 and April 19. This means that if I stick to my guns, I will be in Senegal in no more than ten months. (The hope is that by writing this in a public forum, I will stick to my guns out of pride, even if courage fails me.)

Apart from a hefty dose of fear and dread, the thought of traveling on a one-way ticket to West Africa also fills me with a sense of freedom and excitement that I haven’t felt since right after college when I decided to move to Los Angeles on a whim, sight unseen, with one suitcase, without friends, without job prospects, and without knowing how to drive. That heady mix of euphoria and nausea is back, baby!

[Photo: Tarik Browne]

speaking of vous’ing and tu’ing

vous vivez vous apprendrez

I just found this cute and handy flowchart that breaks down exactly when to address people with the formal French vous and when the informal tu is more appropriate.

It all comes down to the little box in the bottom right corner, I think. And yet, tu is always what pops out of my mouth first, because I guess I’m just a little punk.

[Photo: Marco Nunes]