"He's healing you," my sister explains. "He can tell you're hurt."
It would have been even more adorable if he hadn't been the one who gave me the cut in the first place.
December 25, 2010
I'll eat you up
I've spent a good part of my vacation holding WALL-E, my sister's green exotic bird. WALL-E reminds me of a small dinosaur, or the dinosaurs I've seen at least. And you never know if he's going to be very sweet or very violent. Yesterday he was sweet - he stared at me for a few minutes, then started licking a giant bloody gash on my left hand.
"He's healing you," my sister explains. "He can tell you're hurt."
It would have been even more adorable if he hadn't been the one who gave me the cut in the first place.
"He's healing you," my sister explains. "He can tell you're hurt."
It would have been even more adorable if he hadn't been the one who gave me the cut in the first place.
start spreading the news
I don't know whether I like America or France better.
I don't know if I'll be able to speak any French when I go back in a week.
I do know my dog looks great in antlers.
I do know I got a Frank Sinatra album for Christmas, and I know that's a Christmas miracle.
December 22, 2010
sixteen pounds of poodle
It's not quite enough to clear a four-foot snowbank, and a little bit too much to carry half a mile home because he's shivering and wet.
But it's just right.
But it's just right.
December 16, 2010
elf yo-self
Did you dress up as an elf for a French Christmas party this year? Because I did. Actually in France Santa doesn't have elves, he has lutins - which translates to a cross between a pixie and brownie. Don't even get me started on the subtle differences between the thousands of French magical creatures.
A local Santa going to a holiday party needed an extra lutin, and apparently really skinny people with super pale skin and a round faces make convincing lutins? It was hyper-rad. All the kids gave me kisses and all the adults wanted their picture with me.
Afterwards a little boy said he saw my earrings and thought "Wait a second, lutins don't wear earrings..." and when he looked closer he realized my ears were fake, and then he realized Santa wasn't real. Well, guess who isn't getting any presents next year. And, since he's French, he'll be beaten by some crazy old man instead.
Lutins don't wear earrings; I can't believe the nonsense I put up with.
A local Santa going to a holiday party needed an extra lutin, and apparently really skinny people with super pale skin and a round faces make convincing lutins? It was hyper-rad. All the kids gave me kisses and all the adults wanted their picture with me.
Afterwards a little boy said he saw my earrings and thought "Wait a second, lutins don't wear earrings..." and when he looked closer he realized my ears were fake, and then he realized Santa wasn't real. Well, guess who isn't getting any presents next year. And, since he's French, he'll be beaten by some crazy old man instead.
Lutins don't wear earrings; I can't believe the nonsense I put up with.
December 15, 2010
thank you, angel-dog.
11:05 am, I'm already five minute late to tutor someone, and I'm 10 minutes away from their apartment. I have 70 euros worth of small change in my pockets, 4 expired metro tickets and 1 valid ticket which all look identical, I'm carrying 2 extra-long rolls of glossy wrapping paper, and my shoes are untied. You can probably tell where this is going.
I fell on my face, cut my knee open, and bent the wrapping paper all out of shape. I have fallen at least 30 times in France, so as an expert on the subject let me tell you what it's like. If you fall and laugh good-naturedly, no one will laugh with you. Instead they will stare at you with disgust. Normally I laugh anyway, but this morning there were 200 people looking at me. So I started sobbing.
It was the definition of sobbing. Loud wails and snot and so many tears my vision was blurred. Because wrapping paper so slippery and French is so hard, and dang it why can't anyone in this country be nice to clumsy people. And most of all, I miss my family, and I just wanted someone to say "It's ok, everybody falls." And I just wanted a hug and I'm sick of being kissed. I promise I don't usually sob. But I couldn't go home, I had to keep walking, and once I started crying I couldn't stop. I limped toward my tutee's apartment, leaving a pathetic trail of soggy wrapping paper and tears.
Then, straight from heaven, came a tiny dog in a turtleneck sweater. He saw I was in distress and his little ears perked up. Without a moment's hesitation he sprinted toward me, tripling his speed to keep my pace. He skipped alongside me, staring up at me with such sincere concern that he was completely oblivious to the benches, trash cans, and pedestrians he was running into. And for a minute I had a friend.
Until his owner yelled "Leave her alone!" and dragged him off. I should have said something like "No, that was just what I needed today. Also I like his sweater; that color is very flattering on him."
But instead I just kept sobbing. Today really wasn't my day.
I fell on my face, cut my knee open, and bent the wrapping paper all out of shape. I have fallen at least 30 times in France, so as an expert on the subject let me tell you what it's like. If you fall and laugh good-naturedly, no one will laugh with you. Instead they will stare at you with disgust. Normally I laugh anyway, but this morning there were 200 people looking at me. So I started sobbing.
It was the definition of sobbing. Loud wails and snot and so many tears my vision was blurred. Because wrapping paper so slippery and French is so hard, and dang it why can't anyone in this country be nice to clumsy people. And most of all, I miss my family, and I just wanted someone to say "It's ok, everybody falls." And I just wanted a hug and I'm sick of being kissed. I promise I don't usually sob. But I couldn't go home, I had to keep walking, and once I started crying I couldn't stop. I limped toward my tutee's apartment, leaving a pathetic trail of soggy wrapping paper and tears.
Then, straight from heaven, came a tiny dog in a turtleneck sweater. He saw I was in distress and his little ears perked up. Without a moment's hesitation he sprinted toward me, tripling his speed to keep my pace. He skipped alongside me, staring up at me with such sincere concern that he was completely oblivious to the benches, trash cans, and pedestrians he was running into. And for a minute I had a friend.
Until his owner yelled "Leave her alone!" and dragged him off. I should have said something like "No, that was just what I needed today. Also I like his sweater; that color is very flattering on him."
But instead I just kept sobbing. Today really wasn't my day.
December 13, 2010
French beard-growing contest
Hey, here are three photos of the last week.
Have you heard of Saint Beard? On December 4th in Provence, everyone puts some wheat in a bowl of cotton, and lets it germinate during the holidays. Then we gossip about wheat for three weeks - whose didn't sprout, whose is the tallest, who cheated by putting theirs on the radiator, and who tells the least-successful Saint Beard jokes.
The last one is me. While admiring our crop I asked my flatmates "Did Saint Beard invent the beard? Is that why we're celebrating?"
"No," they explained. "Beards just grow on faces on their own; no one invented them."
Sad clown noise.
And in other news, depending on your definition of news, I made this hideous tirelire for my sister. I can't remember the real word right now, but it's something you can put money in, and then throw in the trash when your sister goes back to France. I've been horrible at making things ever since I cut my finger on a tape dispenser in kindergarten, and refused to do crafts for the rest of the year because they were "too dangerous." I only cut myself three times while making this.
Our wheats are growing at a decent pace, which means next year will be full of good jokes and good beards and free of tape dispensers.
Have you heard of Saint Beard? On December 4th in Provence, everyone puts some wheat in a bowl of cotton, and lets it germinate during the holidays. Then we gossip about wheat for three weeks - whose didn't sprout, whose is the tallest, who cheated by putting theirs on the radiator, and who tells the least-successful Saint Beard jokes.
The last one is me. While admiring our crop I asked my flatmates "Did Saint Beard invent the beard? Is that why we're celebrating?"
"No," they explained. "Beards just grow on faces on their own; no one invented them."
Sad clown noise.
And in other news, depending on your definition of news, I made this hideous tirelire for my sister. I can't remember the real word right now, but it's something you can put money in, and then throw in the trash when your sister goes back to France. I've been horrible at making things ever since I cut my finger on a tape dispenser in kindergarten, and refused to do crafts for the rest of the year because they were "too dangerous." I only cut myself three times while making this.
Our wheats are growing at a decent pace, which means next year will be full of good jokes and good beards and free of tape dispensers.
good tidings
I met a student teacher during lunch today - she's French but wants to teach English in elementary schools. After finding out that I teach English, she asked what kind of training I had. I said absolutely zero. She got super uppity, which I understood, because she's a real teacher and I'm just a well-payed babysitter that loves talking about colors.
But then she started randomly dropping English words. Like "I studied English in college and got a Master's in it." with the word studied in English. And I thought that was strange. Because yes she's better at teaching, but why was she getting catty about knowing the word studied?
"So," she said, "where did you learn English?"
"How did I learn English?"
"Yeah, where did you learn to speak English?"
I explained that I'm American; it's my first language. And she said she had thought I was French. After that entire conversation. Which can mean only one of two things:
1. I AM AWESOME AT SPEAKING FRENCH!
2. Everyone got drunk at lunch again.
I want it to be the first, but unfortunately the second happens almost every day.
But then she started randomly dropping English words. Like "I studied English in college and got a Master's in it." with the word studied in English. And I thought that was strange. Because yes she's better at teaching, but why was she getting catty about knowing the word studied?
"So," she said, "where did you learn English?"
"How did I learn English?"
"Yeah, where did you learn to speak English?"
I explained that I'm American; it's my first language. And she said she had thought I was French. After that entire conversation. Which can mean only one of two things:
1. I AM AWESOME AT SPEAKING FRENCH!
2. Everyone got drunk at lunch again.
I want it to be the first, but unfortunately the second happens almost every day.
not your Brooke.
Only two months after my post about the way French people butcher my name, I now completely accept it. I have started to introduce myself as, and internalize myself as, Bhruuke. It's my French personality. Bhruuke often realizes that everything she is wearing is black, and is prone to yelling "C'est pas possible!" when she's annoyed. If people have a really bad cough, Bhruuke thinks they're saying her name. It's happened several times, but does not get any less embarrassing.
Here are some of my other nicknames that are not catcalls.
Ma petite Bhruuke (my little Brooke): Some French friends call me this.
Maîtresse (teacher): Polite children call me this. Or ones that can't remember my name.
Madame (madam): About three kids call me this. I have placed them in a higher rank of politeness than even the polite kids.
Ma Bhruuke (my Brooke): A 10-year-old girl I teach calls me this. She thinks we're friends. We'll see.
Here are some of my other nicknames that are not catcalls.
Ma petite Bhruuke (my little Brooke): Some French friends call me this.
Maîtresse (teacher): Polite children call me this. Or ones that can't remember my name.
Madame (madam): About three kids call me this. I have placed them in a higher rank of politeness than even the polite kids.
Ma Bhruuke (my Brooke): A 10-year-old girl I teach calls me this. She thinks we're friends. We'll see.
December 9, 2010
my love for you burns like a broken toaster
Last year I was assigned to be the "historian" for my church group. I diligently recorded what happened at all of our activities, assuming eventually they would be put in a gilded book or scroll, but they never were. So I present one here for your historical enjoyment.
Leaf-raking activity
recorded by Brooke
That Saturday seemed like any other. Brooke, Jessica, Jessica, Katie, Allyson, Haley, and Mitchell met in the quad, completely unaware of how the leaf-raking service activity would turn out. They were as unaware as a blindfolded person walking into a room full of ants when their favorite tv show is on. The weatherman had promised snow, but his promise was as hollow as a mother's promise for a Furby for Christmas, before she arrives late to Toys R Us and all the Furbies are sold out, and she ends up buying a sit-n-spin on clearance instead. But then you get a Furby later that year for your birthday so things aren't so bad after all. So no snow, but the air was as crisp and cool as a ginger snap left in the fridge overnight. Just like two meteorites hurling through space, the two cars sped at a safe and reasonable pace toward the park. The ground was littered with leaves, like a concert venue after three bands played who threw leaves into the audience instead of confetti or guitar picks. But the girls' resolve to rake was as unshakable as a baby rattle locked in a steel vault, with no key or passcode to open it. Soon the leaves were bagged and everyone ate pizza and agreed that the day had changed their lives forever.
must be Santa
It may be warm and sunny but it's still almost Christmas, and that means I've become obsessed with European Santa. As in "Wow Brooke, it's getting pretty late and you've been pestering me about Santa for two hours already..." "Yes but how does he get DOWN the chimney? And why doesn't he wear a hat? And you said he was Saint Nicholas but Saint Nicholas already CAME."
My friend told me that in Switzerland, Santa/St Nick/Father Christmas travels around with a donkey. In case a barnyard animal wasn't weird enough, I mistook the word "donkey" for the word "dwarf." In my defense the two sound very similar and I'd spent the whole day watching Lord of the Rings. Also I've already had five very factual conversations about the difference between dwarfs and gnomes and brownies. Magic is serious business here. Anyway, I had to know more about why a dwarf was involved.
Why does he bring the dwarf along, just for company? Or does he navigate?
Company? He rides it, obviously.
Come again?
Yeah, dwarves used to be a really common form of transportation in Switzerland.
My friend told me that in Switzerland, Santa/St Nick/Father Christmas travels around with a donkey. In case a barnyard animal wasn't weird enough, I mistook the word "donkey" for the word "dwarf." In my defense the two sound very similar and I'd spent the whole day watching Lord of the Rings. Also I've already had five very factual conversations about the difference between dwarfs and gnomes and brownies. Magic is serious business here. Anyway, I had to know more about why a dwarf was involved.
Why does he bring the dwarf along, just for company? Or does he navigate?
Company? He rides it, obviously.
Come again?
Yeah, dwarves used to be a really common form of transportation in Switzerland.
December 8, 2010
choose your own adventure
Talking with people, in any language, is a lot like reading a choose your own adventure book. Because if someone asks if you like cabbage you can say "It reminds me of my mother" or "It gives me a rash." And depending on which you choose will determine whether the conversation is about childhood memories or skin ailments. Maybe their mother was a professional wind-surfer. Maybe they think people who talk about rashes are disgusting. There's no way of knowing what's going to happen next. Wild!
The worst thing about choose your own adventure is that you can only choose one adventure. Which is why the best thing about conversations is when someone mishears you. You say "I'm going out of town this weekend" and they hear "Do you want to write a screenplay together this weekend?" And then you get a sneak peek at how they would have responded. Maybe they've been dying to write a screenplay and you never would have known.
It's like accidentally looking at page 156 instead of 165 and seeing what would have happened if you had investigated that scraping noise. You would have died. When people mishear you everyone gets twice as many adventures. Now let's introduce a foreign language.
Tonight during dinner the woman I live with asked how my day was, and I said it was pretty good. She responded with "Yeah, I don't like thinking about what's in hot dogs either. But at least it isn't dogs!"
And now I know what would have happened if I had randomly brought up the content of hot dogs. It would have gone over surprisingly well. No luck yet on getting her to write a screenplay with me.
The worst thing about choose your own adventure is that you can only choose one adventure. Which is why the best thing about conversations is when someone mishears you. You say "I'm going out of town this weekend" and they hear "Do you want to write a screenplay together this weekend?" And then you get a sneak peek at how they would have responded. Maybe they've been dying to write a screenplay and you never would have known.
It's like accidentally looking at page 156 instead of 165 and seeing what would have happened if you had investigated that scraping noise. You would have died. When people mishear you everyone gets twice as many adventures. Now let's introduce a foreign language.
Tonight during dinner the woman I live with asked how my day was, and I said it was pretty good. She responded with "Yeah, I don't like thinking about what's in hot dogs either. But at least it isn't dogs!"
And now I know what would have happened if I had randomly brought up the content of hot dogs. It would have gone over surprisingly well. No luck yet on getting her to write a screenplay with me.
December 7, 2010
they really do say that
In case I've shattered too many of your dreams about France, I thought I would reassure you that some of them are real.
When I was waiting in the doctors office the other day, there were twenty of us in a tiny room with one window and twelve chairs. Not a good thing to see when you show up at the doctor. And every disheartened patient who came in after me said the same thing: "Oh la la...."
This morning I was watching the Home Shopping Network (favorite show in any country) and someone was demonstrating how easily you could paint zig-zags with some sort of complicated spray-paint machine (I'll give you a better description of it when it arrives here next week). And every curve in the zig-zag was accompanied by "et voila, voila, voila, voila voila, voila."
When I was waiting in the doctors office the other day, there were twenty of us in a tiny room with one window and twelve chairs. Not a good thing to see when you show up at the doctor. And every disheartened patient who came in after me said the same thing: "Oh la la...."
This morning I was watching the Home Shopping Network (favorite show in any country) and someone was demonstrating how easily you could paint zig-zags with some sort of complicated spray-paint machine (I'll give you a better description of it when it arrives here next week). And every curve in the zig-zag was accompanied by "et voila, voila, voila, voila voila, voila."
December 6, 2010
shredded head
I woke up this morning with a shredded head. At least that's how one of my friends described it. It's just a cold, but since my job consists mostly of dancing and being kissed, I decided to call in sick.
I'm a little annoyed that I'm sick, because I have the lifestyle of an 80-year-old woman - I sleep nine hours a night and obsessively take vitamins. Capsule vitamins, like any normal adult. My liquid-loving French friends think my taking capsule vitamins is like licking the bottom of my shoes each morning. "It's about time you got sick," they all say "what with those capsule vitamins." The last time I took liquid medicine my mom kept me home from kindergarten and I got to spend the day watching Mister Rodgers. What I'm trying to say is, liquid medicine is for children.
After everyone had said "I told you so" and made me drink eleven glasses of herbal tea, they sent me to the doctor's. I thought it was kind of ridiculous, but my head was too shredded to argue.
The doctor ended up being in the same building as me. And his office looked the same as my apartment, with a dozen chairs crammed into what would be the kitchen. There was no sign-in or anything. But there was a poster advertising the Utah National Parks. Not a valid substitution for a sign-in, but thought it was worth mentioning. One woman was appropriately knitting a scarf. I was reading a Hunger Games in French and writing down new words on a Kleenex. Everyone else was just staring into space - including a three-year-old boy, who did not make a sound for the entire two hours I was there.
When people meet me for the first time they do some quick math to figure out where I'm from, and doctors are no exception. It goes something like this:
she has an accent
+ she weighs less than 500 lbs and isn't wearing a cowboy hat
= she must be British
At one point during the visit the doctor said "I don't know how they do things in England!" and I wanted to add "Neither do I!!" but I decided to just roll with it. Why? Because some people know what nationality I am and some people know what color my mucus is, and above all I like to keep those two groups separate. This seems like a good time to mention that the doctor was wearing what looked like a sheep costume. I am not well today, guys.
The doctor gave me the whole week off work. And four boxes of medicine, all liquid. None of them are flavored, and one of them is "effervescent." But then I realized - I get to stay home from kindergarten tomorrow. If I can find some Mister Rodgers on youtube maybe this will be fine after all.
Every half hour someone calls to see how I'm doing. "Are you eating enough oranges, Brooke? Drinking orange juice? Taking liquid vitamins? I don't know how they do things in England, Brooke..."
We'll probably never know how things are done in England.
Mandatory x-ray I received after arriving in France. And a wooden cat that probably thinks I'm not eating enough oranges.
I'm a little annoyed that I'm sick, because I have the lifestyle of an 80-year-old woman - I sleep nine hours a night and obsessively take vitamins. Capsule vitamins, like any normal adult. My liquid-loving French friends think my taking capsule vitamins is like licking the bottom of my shoes each morning. "It's about time you got sick," they all say "what with those capsule vitamins." The last time I took liquid medicine my mom kept me home from kindergarten and I got to spend the day watching Mister Rodgers. What I'm trying to say is, liquid medicine is for children.
After everyone had said "I told you so" and made me drink eleven glasses of herbal tea, they sent me to the doctor's. I thought it was kind of ridiculous, but my head was too shredded to argue.
The doctor ended up being in the same building as me. And his office looked the same as my apartment, with a dozen chairs crammed into what would be the kitchen. There was no sign-in or anything. But there was a poster advertising the Utah National Parks. Not a valid substitution for a sign-in, but thought it was worth mentioning. One woman was appropriately knitting a scarf. I was reading a Hunger Games in French and writing down new words on a Kleenex. Everyone else was just staring into space - including a three-year-old boy, who did not make a sound for the entire two hours I was there.
When people meet me for the first time they do some quick math to figure out where I'm from, and doctors are no exception. It goes something like this:
she has an accent
+ she weighs less than 500 lbs and isn't wearing a cowboy hat
= she must be British
At one point during the visit the doctor said "I don't know how they do things in England!" and I wanted to add "Neither do I!!" but I decided to just roll with it. Why? Because some people know what nationality I am and some people know what color my mucus is, and above all I like to keep those two groups separate. This seems like a good time to mention that the doctor was wearing what looked like a sheep costume. I am not well today, guys.
The doctor gave me the whole week off work. And four boxes of medicine, all liquid. None of them are flavored, and one of them is "effervescent." But then I realized - I get to stay home from kindergarten tomorrow. If I can find some Mister Rodgers on youtube maybe this will be fine after all.
Every half hour someone calls to see how I'm doing. "Are you eating enough oranges, Brooke? Drinking orange juice? Taking liquid vitamins? I don't know how they do things in England, Brooke..."
We'll probably never know how things are done in England.
Mandatory x-ray I received after arriving in France. And a wooden cat that probably thinks I'm not eating enough oranges.
December 5, 2010
just hit restart
Along with tomatoes and chocolate bars, one of my favorite foods lately is coconut milk rice. My friend is from Cape Verde and it's a common dish there. You should make it, because it's really easy. All you need is rice and coconut milk.
The only bad thing about coconut milk rice is in French it's called "the rice of the milk of the nut of the coco." I try to make sure it never comes up in conversation, so people don't think I'm malfunctioning. But that's not so hard.
The only bad thing about coconut milk rice is in French it's called "the rice of the milk of the nut of the coco." I try to make sure it never comes up in conversation, so people don't think I'm malfunctioning. But that's not so hard.
December 4, 2010
oh come all ye physicists
A couple weeks ago, wooden booths started showing up in downtown Marseille. The only hints as to their purpose was the word "Gelato" on one of them. When the doors finally opened and there was no ice cream in sight my disappointment only lasted until I found out what it really was - SANTON MARKET.
Santons are Southern France's version of nativity scenes, with hundreds of different characters. Maybe it's just the remains of a childhood obsession with dolls, but I think they're awesome.
Thank goodness for santons. Because no nativity is complete without a warthog, a town drunk, a bagpipe player, a gypsy, a monk, a cheese-maker, an armadillo, a kid playing hopscotch,
a math teacher,
and a mad scientist.
Santons are Southern France's version of nativity scenes, with hundreds of different characters. Maybe it's just the remains of a childhood obsession with dolls, but I think they're awesome.
Thank goodness for santons. Because no nativity is complete without a warthog, a town drunk, a bagpipe player, a gypsy, a monk, a cheese-maker, an armadillo, a kid playing hopscotch,
a math teacher,
and a mad scientist.
If you're happy and you know it
Yesterday, armed with smiling and frowning flashcards, I attempted to teach a group of 5-year-olds to say "I'm happy." I secretly had a second goal that no one would bite anyone, but I didn't want to get ahead of myself.
"I'm happy." I said, holding up a flashcard. "Now you say it."
Yellow! Blue! I like gorillas! Your hair is beautiful! Is it Thanksgiving again? Can we dance? How do you say pink? Can I keep those flashcards? He said a swear word! I had a hamster and it died!
"Those are all great comments guys. Let's try this again. Repeat: I'm happy."
And finally something clicked with the boy on the edge of the bench. He grinned at me, threw his hands in the air, and shouted "I'M HAPPY!" with a perfect accent. His classmates stared at him in stunned silence.
So he proudly translated for them: "It means 'I love you.'"
"I'm happy." I said, holding up a flashcard. "Now you say it."
Yellow! Blue! I like gorillas! Your hair is beautiful! Is it Thanksgiving again? Can we dance? How do you say pink? Can I keep those flashcards? He said a swear word! I had a hamster and it died!
"Those are all great comments guys. Let's try this again. Repeat: I'm happy."
And finally something clicked with the boy on the edge of the bench. He grinned at me, threw his hands in the air, and shouted "I'M HAPPY!" with a perfect accent. His classmates stared at him in stunned silence.
So he proudly translated for them: "It means 'I love you.'"
December 1, 2010
now she's hit the big time
Whenever I tell the kids that class is over their response is a cumulative "Deja!?" (Already?) followed by tears and desperate last-minute hugs as I pack up my things and leave the room.
Once I'm out I stand in the hallway for a few seconds. I listen to the muffled applause and screams of "I love Brooke!" I check to make sure I have my jacket. I wipe the chalk dust off my hands. And I fight the temptation to run back in yelling ENCORE! to the delight of my screaming fans.
I haven't done it. Yet. But I realized maybe comparing myself to the Beatles isn't that far-fetched - our fans have a lot in common. Like the bizarre fan art - the little pictures of me and British flags drawn on scraps of paper.
And the fact that while at school I'm constantly being chased after by packs of screaming fans clinging to my legs and trying to kiss me.
And when I cross the courtyard and the preschoolers I teach are playing in the preschool cage, they try to claw their way over the fence like wild animals, screaming "ELLO GOODBYE!"
"Don't let it go to your head." you say. "Why are they drawing British flags when you're American?" you ask. But I only get one year as a rock star, and I'm going to enjoy it. So if you have any more questions to ask me, I'll be on hopscotch square 7 during recess, signing autographs.
Once I'm out I stand in the hallway for a few seconds. I listen to the muffled applause and screams of "I love Brooke!" I check to make sure I have my jacket. I wipe the chalk dust off my hands. And I fight the temptation to run back in yelling ENCORE! to the delight of my screaming fans.
I haven't done it. Yet. But I realized maybe comparing myself to the Beatles isn't that far-fetched - our fans have a lot in common. Like the bizarre fan art - the little pictures of me and British flags drawn on scraps of paper.
And the fact that while at school I'm constantly being chased after by packs of screaming fans clinging to my legs and trying to kiss me.
And when I cross the courtyard and the preschoolers I teach are playing in the preschool cage, they try to claw their way over the fence like wild animals, screaming "ELLO GOODBYE!"
"Don't let it go to your head." you say. "Why are they drawing British flags when you're American?" you ask. But I only get one year as a rock star, and I'm going to enjoy it. So if you have any more questions to ask me, I'll be on hopscotch square 7 during recess, signing autographs.
November 26, 2010
and now for something you'll really like
I thought I had already heard the most bizarre things kids could be thankful for, until a ten-year-old girl was making her list yesterday, and asked me for the translation of a "bald mouse."
Me: A bald mouse?
HER: Yes a mouse that is bald.
ME: Can you describe it some more?
HER: Well, it's like a mouse, but it can also fly, and to fly it spreads its arms.
If you speak French you already know what this animal is so please don't laugh at me. Actually, everyone, please don't laugh at me. I told her it was a flying squirrel. And she thanked me and wrote it down, and I made a mental note that she was crazy. But then I got home and looked up "bald mouse" and it's a bat.
And it wasn't that funny until I thought of my alternate-reality Batman: FlyingSquirrelman.
All the alternate-reality super-villains are trembling in fear right now.
Me: A bald mouse?
HER: Yes a mouse that is bald.
ME: Can you describe it some more?
HER: Well, it's like a mouse, but it can also fly, and to fly it spreads its arms.
If you speak French you already know what this animal is so please don't laugh at me. Actually, everyone, please don't laugh at me. I told her it was a flying squirrel. And she thanked me and wrote it down, and I made a mental note that she was crazy. But then I got home and looked up "bald mouse" and it's a bat.
And it wasn't that funny until I thought of my alternate-reality Batman: FlyingSquirrelman.
All the alternate-reality super-villains are trembling in fear right now.
November 23, 2010
how old are you?
Today a kid asked how to say underwear in English and got sent to the corner.
It was the teacher who sent him to the corner. I didn't take any disciplinary action. Because when I held up a flashcard with the word "pumpkin pie" and the entire class screamed "PUMPKIN PEE!" I laughed for almost a minute before regaining composure and correcting their pronunciation.
So who am I to judge.
It was the teacher who sent him to the corner. I didn't take any disciplinary action. Because when I held up a flashcard with the word "pumpkin pie" and the entire class screamed "PUMPKIN PEE!" I laughed for almost a minute before regaining composure and correcting their pronunciation.
So who am I to judge.
November 22, 2010
I am thankful I flipped through that French firearms handbook over the weekend.
This week I'm bringing Thanksgiving to France.
Today my students wrote "I'm thankful for..." on a piece of paper and then drew pictures to complete the sentence. If they already knew a word in English they could label it, which is probably why all of them were thankful for cats. And then I helped translate their other favorite things.
One major, and mysterious, difference between French kids and American kids is that almost all of them were thankful for sheep. Also they wrote long lists of their family members with (deceased) written after the deceased ones. It was very sweet.
And then there were the things that were the same as American kids. "How do you say pistol? It's a semi-automatic." asked one adorable boy, pointing to the barrel of the weapon he was most grateful for. How do you say flames? Parachute? Tank? Half the class was thankful for tanks. Grapple gun? Spear? Machine gun? Assault rifle? Before you congratulate me on my French weapon vocabulary, let me clarify I was looking at very detailed drawings.
Besides the requests for the translation of zombies, Manga comics, Rhianna, hamsters, cherries, and crocodiles; every kid wanted to know how to spell my name.
Bless your hearts.
And thank goodness for tanks.
Today my students wrote "I'm thankful for..." on a piece of paper and then drew pictures to complete the sentence. If they already knew a word in English they could label it, which is probably why all of them were thankful for cats. And then I helped translate their other favorite things.
One major, and mysterious, difference between French kids and American kids is that almost all of them were thankful for sheep. Also they wrote long lists of their family members with (deceased) written after the deceased ones. It was very sweet.
And then there were the things that were the same as American kids. "How do you say pistol? It's a semi-automatic." asked one adorable boy, pointing to the barrel of the weapon he was most grateful for. How do you say flames? Parachute? Tank? Half the class was thankful for tanks. Grapple gun? Spear? Machine gun? Assault rifle? Before you congratulate me on my French weapon vocabulary, let me clarify I was looking at very detailed drawings.
Besides the requests for the translation of zombies, Manga comics, Rhianna, hamsters, cherries, and crocodiles; every kid wanted to know how to spell my name.
Bless your hearts.
And thank goodness for tanks.
"Where did you find a blow torch?"
"We didn't find one, we made it ourselves - we just attached a lighter to a can of spray-deodorant. Best way to set cockroaches on fire, hands down. The entire apartment was cockroach-free after just a few minutes."
Every time I finish telling a story like this, my friends ask the same question. "How do you get yourself into these situations?" The answer is simple: Yes.
Yes can get you into all sorts of adventures, good or bad. If you say yes to everything, no matter where you're living or what you're doing, I guarantee things are going to be more exciting. Some days you'll only get lame questions like "Do you want extra chocolate with that?" but some days you'll hit jackpot with questions like "Do you want to learn how to gut a fish?" Keep saying yes and someday you too, can make your own blowtorch.
If you haven't read David Sedaris' essay "In the Waiting Room" then you should. He talks about doing the same thing in France, with the word "ok."
Saying yes to everything means doing things I never planned on doing. Meeting a North African politician, eating chestnut paste, screaming anti-Sarkozy slogans at the top of my lungs, midnight fishing, square dancing with French teenagers, learning to break-dance from a 3-year-old Cape Verdian, helping a Polish tour guide install iTunes, scuba diving, and saving lost puppies.
It's easy to get yes-happy. Yes I will join your Christmas choir! Yes I will go to the Plague festival! Yes I would like some warm sugared milk! Yes I will take an alphabet class with Algerian immigrants!
Riding a carousel. Ok, this was not a really difficult yes.
Yes, I know I'm probably going to end up dead or with head lice. But for now I'm alive with a clean scalp, and every day is an adventure.
Every time I finish telling a story like this, my friends ask the same question. "How do you get yourself into these situations?" The answer is simple: Yes.
Yes can get you into all sorts of adventures, good or bad. If you say yes to everything, no matter where you're living or what you're doing, I guarantee things are going to be more exciting. Some days you'll only get lame questions like "Do you want extra chocolate with that?" but some days you'll hit jackpot with questions like "Do you want to learn how to gut a fish?" Keep saying yes and someday you too, can make your own blowtorch.
If you haven't read David Sedaris' essay "In the Waiting Room" then you should. He talks about doing the same thing in France, with the word "ok."
"The word was a key to a magic door, and every time I said it I felt the thrill of possibility."
Saying yes to everything means doing things I never planned on doing. Meeting a North African politician, eating chestnut paste, screaming anti-Sarkozy slogans at the top of my lungs, midnight fishing, square dancing with French teenagers, learning to break-dance from a 3-year-old Cape Verdian, helping a Polish tour guide install iTunes, scuba diving, and saving lost puppies.
It's easy to get yes-happy. Yes I will join your Christmas choir! Yes I will go to the Plague festival! Yes I would like some warm sugared milk! Yes I will take an alphabet class with Algerian immigrants!
Riding a carousel. Ok, this was not a really difficult yes.
Yes, I know I'm probably going to end up dead or with head lice. But for now I'm alive with a clean scalp, and every day is an adventure.
everyone take their pencils out of their mouths
Because it's time to learn the days of the week!
I teach at three different schools, three different days.
At my Monday school the kids are angels and all the classes have an ocean view. At the end of the day I think "I love teaching! I want to keep teaching forever! I'm so good at it!" Monday is a the-bus-arrives-exactly-when-I-get-to-the-bus-stop-so-I-don't-have-to-wait-at-all kind of day.
At my Tuesday school the kids are pretty nice and it's in a nice neighborhood. Not angels, not on the beach, but nice. On Tuesdays I think "Teaching is ok. But I'm not very good at it, and it's really exhausting." Tuesday is a miss-the-bus kind of day.
My Thursday school is different. On Thursdays I think "I hate teaching, I'm horrible at teaching, I hate this country, and I want to go home." Tuesday is a take-the-bus-half-an-hour-in-the-wrong-direction-and-then-step-in-dog-crap-twice kind of day.
Today is Monday!
If you still haven't grasped them I recommend this video:
I teach at three different schools, three different days.
At my Monday school the kids are angels and all the classes have an ocean view. At the end of the day I think "I love teaching! I want to keep teaching forever! I'm so good at it!" Monday is a the-bus-arrives-exactly-when-I-get-to-the-bus-stop-so-I-don't-have-to-wait-at-all kind of day.
At my Tuesday school the kids are pretty nice and it's in a nice neighborhood. Not angels, not on the beach, but nice. On Tuesdays I think "Teaching is ok. But I'm not very good at it, and it's really exhausting." Tuesday is a miss-the-bus kind of day.
My Thursday school is different. On Thursdays I think "I hate teaching, I'm horrible at teaching, I hate this country, and I want to go home." Tuesday is a take-the-bus-half-an-hour-in-the-wrong-direction-and-then-step-in-dog-crap-twice kind of day.
Today is Monday!
If you still haven't grasped them I recommend this video:
November 21, 2010
a jacket a day
It's a lot warmer in Marseille than in Minneapolis, but you wouldn't know it to look around. People bundle up here like it's the arctic.
Mostly to show off, I only wear my coat when I really need it and hardly ever turn on my heater. "Look at that awesome, inappropriately-dressed Minnesotan," I assume everyone must be thinking. "She has access to warm clothing and heaters but doesn't use them, and it makes me respect her." French friends won't have any of it though. "I'm not letting you outside without that jacket - you'll catch a cold."
I know we have this saying in the U.S. but does anyone believe it? I thought it was like wishing on dandelions. Cold doesn't make you cold, any more than hanging out at the tapir cage turns you into a tapir. I have proved that second fact with four years of study at the Minnesota Zoo.
I attribute my recent sneezing (and subsequent French "bless you's") to sleep deprivation or a possible allergy to cockroaches. But no one agrees with me. "Well, now you've done it," they all say as I twitch my nose "You've gone and caught yourself a cold like we said you would. Maybe if you have worn a sweater..."
I have yet to see a dandelion here, but I bet they're worth their weight in gold.
Mostly to show off, I only wear my coat when I really need it and hardly ever turn on my heater. "Look at that awesome, inappropriately-dressed Minnesotan," I assume everyone must be thinking. "She has access to warm clothing and heaters but doesn't use them, and it makes me respect her." French friends won't have any of it though. "I'm not letting you outside without that jacket - you'll catch a cold."
I know we have this saying in the U.S. but does anyone believe it? I thought it was like wishing on dandelions. Cold doesn't make you cold, any more than hanging out at the tapir cage turns you into a tapir. I have proved that second fact with four years of study at the Minnesota Zoo.
I attribute my recent sneezing (and subsequent French "bless you's") to sleep deprivation or a possible allergy to cockroaches. But no one agrees with me. "Well, now you've done it," they all say as I twitch my nose "You've gone and caught yourself a cold like we said you would. Maybe if you have worn a sweater..."
I have yet to see a dandelion here, but I bet they're worth their weight in gold.
November 20, 2010
pas de nouvelle, bonne nouvelle
I have yet to have a conversation with someone here without them asking if I have news from my family. It's very considerate, but I never know what to say. My sister got a new job this week, so I've told half the population of Marseille, but if you don't know her is it really that interesting?
To me, news about someone you don't know is something big. If my family moved to Kazakhstan to become bat farmers that would be news. Since they haven't I usually say, "No news." to which people respond "Well, no news is good news!" And it's true. Because I don't think my family would do well in an arid climate like Kazakhstan's, and those bat bites are a nightmare.
To me, news about someone you don't know is something big. If my family moved to Kazakhstan to become bat farmers that would be news. Since they haven't I usually say, "No news." to which people respond "Well, no news is good news!" And it's true. Because I don't think my family would do well in an arid climate like Kazakhstan's, and those bat bites are a nightmare.
need some toast?
Every morning when I wake up I stumble out of bed and type my dreams on my computer. I used to write them in a notebook, but they were only legible 20% of the time. Which is really unfortunate when they include gems such as these:
I hurry to my next class, Fight Room. "Did you take notes last week?" I ask my classmate in the seat next to me. He punches me in the face.
Snow is falling really thick, and I catch a huge piece. Then I realize it's not snow it's a giant dead white goose, and I yell "don't touch that!" but it's too late my sister has already touched it. She freaks out and wants to wash her hands, so I say lets go up to that abandoned castle and you can wash them.
He was sitting across the street with his guitar. "What do you want me to play?" he yelled, and I said Cat Stevens.
I find a photography book with pictures of George Costanza wearing a business suit. Then I'm in the book, and the two of us are being chased by a giant catfish, and the more we swim toward land the further away land is.
Was handing out toast to people who needed it.
I hurry to my next class, Fight Room. "Did you take notes last week?" I ask my classmate in the seat next to me. He punches me in the face.
Snow is falling really thick, and I catch a huge piece. Then I realize it's not snow it's a giant dead white goose, and I yell "don't touch that!" but it's too late my sister has already touched it. She freaks out and wants to wash her hands, so I say lets go up to that abandoned castle and you can wash them.
He was sitting across the street with his guitar. "What do you want me to play?" he yelled, and I said Cat Stevens.
I find a photography book with pictures of George Costanza wearing a business suit. Then I'm in the book, and the two of us are being chased by a giant catfish, and the more we swim toward land the further away land is.
Was handing out toast to people who needed it.
November 19, 2010
Cheese Review 11 and 12
11. Smoked cheese from the Carpathian mountains (Polish)
Pretty good. Looks more like meat than cheese, but it is cheese. In this picture it looks more like bread, but there's a bear in this picture and that's hilarious so stop complaining.
Rating: 5/10
12. Twarog (Polish)
Sour and wet. Apparently you can mix it with sugar, salt, onions, or peppers. You can also make it yourself but it's really complicated and you need to live in a climate similar to Poland's.
Rating: 6/10
I don't know if you've heard already but I'm a pretty big deal in Marseille's Polish community. My Polish friends introduce me to Polish chocolates, Polish tea, Polish music, and best of all (though it's hard to top chocolate) Polish cheese.
At lunch today we debated whether Poland or France had better cheese, which seemed like a ridiculous argument. René (French) ended it by citing the Charles de Gaulle quote "How can anyone govern a nation that has two hundred and forty-six different kinds of cheese?" And then we all agreed that because of quantity alone, France was the clear winner. René said there were 365 different varieties, not 246, but during the conversation he casually mentioned 23 I had never heard of, so he does seem to know what's up. I wrote them all down.
Pretty good. Looks more like meat than cheese, but it is cheese. In this picture it looks more like bread, but there's a bear in this picture and that's hilarious so stop complaining.
Rating: 5/10
12. Twarog (Polish)
Sour and wet. Apparently you can mix it with sugar, salt, onions, or peppers. You can also make it yourself but it's really complicated and you need to live in a climate similar to Poland's.
Rating: 6/10
I don't know if you've heard already but I'm a pretty big deal in Marseille's Polish community. My Polish friends introduce me to Polish chocolates, Polish tea, Polish music, and best of all (though it's hard to top chocolate) Polish cheese.
At lunch today we debated whether Poland or France had better cheese, which seemed like a ridiculous argument. René (French) ended it by citing the Charles de Gaulle quote "How can anyone govern a nation that has two hundred and forty-six different kinds of cheese?" And then we all agreed that because of quantity alone, France was the clear winner. René said there were 365 different varieties, not 246, but during the conversation he casually mentioned 23 I had never heard of, so he does seem to know what's up. I wrote them all down.
November 18, 2010
I'll eat you up
All of my kids were wild things today. In every class they were jumping out of their seats and saying "sex" instead of "six" and whispering to each other. So instead of playing games or singing songs we spent the whole day silently copying down vocabulary words into their English notebooks.
If you haven't played Diner Dash on the iPhone you should, but for now I will explain it to you. You run around a restaurant taking customers' orders - when they want your attention they'll raise their hand, and if you're not fast enough they'll storm out.
On super-hard levels you have everyone in the restaurant raising their hand at the same time. Welcome to my classes today. At any given moment there were twenty kids staring at me with big eyes and raised fingers while I ran around frantically trying to answer every question. Questions like these:
"I just wrote an M but it's an ugly M."
"I want to white out this line and start over, is that ok?"
"I can't write the letter H."
"I'd like to write in cursive but the teacher would get mad, will YOU get mad if I write in cursive?"
"I can't write the letter Y."
"Did I do a good job?"
"I can't write in a straight line."
"Did I do a good job?"
"Did I do a good job?"
"My six looks like a five, I'm sorry."
"I can't write the letter S."
"Did I do a good job?"
"Should I underline the date? You didn't underline it but it would help it stand out."
Did I do a good job?"
"The nine you wrote on the chalkboard is really ugly and it's distracting me."
and, my personal favorite:
"Wassima says I'm a piece of trash."
I hope they are never wild things again. The good news is I saved twenty-five cents in reward stickers. And now I'm going to go play Diner Dash.
If you haven't played Diner Dash on the iPhone you should, but for now I will explain it to you. You run around a restaurant taking customers' orders - when they want your attention they'll raise their hand, and if you're not fast enough they'll storm out.
On super-hard levels you have everyone in the restaurant raising their hand at the same time. Welcome to my classes today. At any given moment there were twenty kids staring at me with big eyes and raised fingers while I ran around frantically trying to answer every question. Questions like these:
"I just wrote an M but it's an ugly M."
"I want to white out this line and start over, is that ok?"
"I can't write the letter H."
"I'd like to write in cursive but the teacher would get mad, will YOU get mad if I write in cursive?"
"I can't write the letter Y."
"Did I do a good job?"
"I can't write in a straight line."
"Did I do a good job?"
"Did I do a good job?"
"My six looks like a five, I'm sorry."
"I can't write the letter S."
"Did I do a good job?"
"Should I underline the date? You didn't underline it but it would help it stand out."
Did I do a good job?"
"The nine you wrote on the chalkboard is really ugly and it's distracting me."
and, my personal favorite:
"Wassima says I'm a piece of trash."
I hope they are never wild things again. The good news is I saved twenty-five cents in reward stickers. And now I'm going to go play Diner Dash.
November 16, 2010
not my style
I hate to disapoint people who think I'm surrounded by haute-couture runway fashion, but I feel safe in estimating that there is more English on clothing in France than there is in the U.S.
French brand popular with middle-schoolers
For reasons unknown, 98% of French people own this sweatshirt.
Usually it's teenagers and adults sporting these English words and slogans, and they all speak enough English to know what their clothing says. Not the case with elementary schoolers. Today I was practicing introductions with a class of ten-year-olds, and they were really struggling. Their shirts, however, had a lot to say.
One girl's shirt: "Things I like: painting my nails, going for walks, talking on the phone. THINGS I LOVE: TEXTING JACOB!" Another girl's read "I'm way too young." I had no comment on either of these shirts.
The boy wearing a sweatshirt that said "MINNESOTA: a Camp the original sr0ike 173-4-" wasn't as lucky. "Where did you get that sweatshirt?" I kept asking. "You know that's where I live, right? That's the state I'm from, on your sweatshirt. Followed by some gibberish, but still." He'll probably never wear it again.
French brand popular with middle-schoolers
For reasons unknown, 98% of French people own this sweatshirt.
Usually it's teenagers and adults sporting these English words and slogans, and they all speak enough English to know what their clothing says. Not the case with elementary schoolers. Today I was practicing introductions with a class of ten-year-olds, and they were really struggling. Their shirts, however, had a lot to say.
One girl's shirt: "Things I like: painting my nails, going for walks, talking on the phone. THINGS I LOVE: TEXTING JACOB!" Another girl's read "I'm way too young." I had no comment on either of these shirts.
The boy wearing a sweatshirt that said "MINNESOTA: a Camp the original sr0ike 173-4-" wasn't as lucky. "Where did you get that sweatshirt?" I kept asking. "You know that's where I live, right? That's the state I'm from, on your sweatshirt. Followed by some gibberish, but still." He'll probably never wear it again.
November 15, 2010
November 14, 2010
everything I really need to know but don't
Am I the only one who remembers absolutely nothing from high school physics? Because I don't. And the worst thing about forgetting physics is I feel like it would have been really useful knowledge. Chemistry, worthless. History, a joke. No one has ever asked me how many atoms of boron are in a mol, or needed to know the thirteen social factors leading to the Franco-Prussian war. But almost every day I think about physics.
Tonight on the way home, it felt for a second as though our metro car was going the wrong direction. And I thought, if our metro car is traveling at a speed of 60 miles per hour in the wrong direction, and the other one is shooting toward us also at a speed of 60 miles per hour in the right direction, and the cars are made of steel, and I am in the third car, will I live to solve this physics problem?
Our physics teacher would give us constants to use in these equations - the velocity needed to melt steel or the minimum weight that would crush a human skull. I would write these golden numbers in the back of my physics notebook, knowing they were sure to come in handy. But what did I do with that notebook? Threw it away with my chemistry and history ones. And that's why I'm sitting on the metro car, possibly minutes away from death, with nothing to do but stare at my reflection in the window.
Tonight on the way home, it felt for a second as though our metro car was going the wrong direction. And I thought, if our metro car is traveling at a speed of 60 miles per hour in the wrong direction, and the other one is shooting toward us also at a speed of 60 miles per hour in the right direction, and the cars are made of steel, and I am in the third car, will I live to solve this physics problem?
Our physics teacher would give us constants to use in these equations - the velocity needed to melt steel or the minimum weight that would crush a human skull. I would write these golden numbers in the back of my physics notebook, knowing they were sure to come in handy. But what did I do with that notebook? Threw it away with my chemistry and history ones. And that's why I'm sitting on the metro car, possibly minutes away from death, with nothing to do but stare at my reflection in the window.
November 13, 2010
Esssactly
Major spoiler alert for people who are months behind on reality television: I was catching up on Project Runway last week, and when Casanova was cut I was crushed.
Casanoava was a Puerto Rican contestant who spoke in broken English and was always yelling "Essssactly!"
The guy never made any sense. No one could understand him. In short - he was me.
Because that's how I see myself lately - I am the zany foreign character on my own French reality show. Always thirty seconds behind in the conversation. Laughing really loudly when I don't understand jokes. Only speaking in the present tense. Drifting off midi-sentence when the vocabulary gets too difficult. And always, with a bewildered look on my face, repeating my famous catchphase: "What is going on?"
Other likenesses include Gloria from Modern Family
and Consuela the maid from Family Guy.
Cross your fingers that viewers find my antics endearing, so I don't get voted off.
Casanoava was a Puerto Rican contestant who spoke in broken English and was always yelling "Essssactly!"
INTERVIEWER: You seemed to struggle with some of the challenges [...] do you think it was an issue with the language barrier or do you think that it was that you had a different interpretation of what you thought that they wanted?
CASANOVA: Definitely maybe I can say both.
The guy never made any sense. No one could understand him. In short - he was me.
Because that's how I see myself lately - I am the zany foreign character on my own French reality show. Always thirty seconds behind in the conversation. Laughing really loudly when I don't understand jokes. Only speaking in the present tense. Drifting off midi-sentence when the vocabulary gets too difficult. And always, with a bewildered look on my face, repeating my famous catchphase: "What is going on?"
Other likenesses include Gloria from Modern Family
and Consuela the maid from Family Guy.
Cross your fingers that viewers find my antics endearing, so I don't get voted off.
November 12, 2010
November 10, 2010
when the cat's away the mice will dance
Last night, after watching a French movie and all its bonus materials, I told the couple I live with I was going to go to bed early. "I don't know what it is," I explained, "but lately at the end of the day I'm just freaking exhausted."
"OH MY GOODNESS!!!" they both screamed. "Say that again! Say that again!" Knowing better than to repeat what I assumed had been an accidental swear word or innuendo, I asked what was going on.
"That was such an amazing sentence! You used all the right verbs, and all the right articles, and slang only French people know!" Apparently this perfect sentence called for a celebratory dance that consisted of holding their fists high in the air and prancing around the apartment. You can't take more than two steps without hitting a wall in our apartment, so it was more like spinning around in circles.
When my flat-mates hate my hair, they really hate my hair. And when they think my French is getting rad, they really think it's getting rad. And it's scary to watch.
"Well, like I said," I mumbled, since they were too busy dancing to hear me, "I think I'm going to go to sleep."
"OH MY GOODNESS!!!" they both screamed. "Say that again! Say that again!" Knowing better than to repeat what I assumed had been an accidental swear word or innuendo, I asked what was going on.
"That was such an amazing sentence! You used all the right verbs, and all the right articles, and slang only French people know!" Apparently this perfect sentence called for a celebratory dance that consisted of holding their fists high in the air and prancing around the apartment. You can't take more than two steps without hitting a wall in our apartment, so it was more like spinning around in circles.
When my flat-mates hate my hair, they really hate my hair. And when they think my French is getting rad, they really think it's getting rad. And it's scary to watch.
"Well, like I said," I mumbled, since they were too busy dancing to hear me, "I think I'm going to go to sleep."
only FOOLS use red
My favorite French thing isn't a word or a food, it's a hand gesture. It doesn't mean anything, but it means everything. The closest translation is "oh man!" or maybe just an exclamation point.
Yesterday my class of 7-year-olds was copying down the numbers eleven through twenty in their English notebooks. Things were going pretty well. They were all quietly using their little rulers to write in perfectly straight lines, and struggling to read my handwriting. The first time I wrote something they thought I used a different alphabet. Ouch.
I was writing "sixteen" on the board in my very best penmanship when a boy in the front row raised his hand and asked what color they should be using. The teacher said blue and he started squirming. "But I've been writing in red, is that bad?"
"Yes." she said. "That's VERY bad. Why would you use red, what were you thinking? Now you need to tear out that page in your notebook and start over completely. And your notebook will be missing a page, so you've basically ruined the whole year."
I smiled because I thought she was joking. Then I realized she wasn't. Time for a French hand gesture to sum up the situation.
yikes from Brooke Barker on Vimeo.
Yesterday my class of 7-year-olds was copying down the numbers eleven through twenty in their English notebooks. Things were going pretty well. They were all quietly using their little rulers to write in perfectly straight lines, and struggling to read my handwriting. The first time I wrote something they thought I used a different alphabet. Ouch.
I was writing "sixteen" on the board in my very best penmanship when a boy in the front row raised his hand and asked what color they should be using. The teacher said blue and he started squirming. "But I've been writing in red, is that bad?"
"Yes." she said. "That's VERY bad. Why would you use red, what were you thinking? Now you need to tear out that page in your notebook and start over completely. And your notebook will be missing a page, so you've basically ruined the whole year."
I smiled because I thought she was joking. Then I realized she wasn't. Time for a French hand gesture to sum up the situation.
yikes from Brooke Barker on Vimeo.
November 9, 2010
Name that city
Marseille, France or Algiers, Algeria?
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
Answers below.
I was walking by the port today and I remembered how when I first got here, I always complained that it reeked of fish and smoke. But now I can't smell them anymore. And that means two things. One, all my clothes will need to be washed at least four times when I go home. And two, Marseille has grown on me.
Please forget anything I said about wanting to be in some quaint French town. Marseille is big and dirty and exciting and I love it here. Even after I get mugged I'm going to stick to this conclusion. I'm positive there isn't any city that's better. But maybe Algiers is close? I can't believe how similar they look. Pretty rad.
Answers:
1. Marseille
2. Algiers
3. Algiers
4. Marseille
5. Algiers
6. Marseille
If you got them all right you get a sticker.
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
Answers below.
I was walking by the port today and I remembered how when I first got here, I always complained that it reeked of fish and smoke. But now I can't smell them anymore. And that means two things. One, all my clothes will need to be washed at least four times when I go home. And two, Marseille has grown on me.
Please forget anything I said about wanting to be in some quaint French town. Marseille is big and dirty and exciting and I love it here. Even after I get mugged I'm going to stick to this conclusion. I'm positive there isn't any city that's better. But maybe Algiers is close? I can't believe how similar they look. Pretty rad.
Answers:
1. Marseille
2. Algiers
3. Algiers
4. Marseille
5. Algiers
6. Marseille
If you got them all right you get a sticker.
trompe-l'œil in action
There are cockroaches on the first floor of our building. I live on the third floor, and on my way to work I walk through the mob of them, dancing all over the place. It's like a little morning celebration.
Every once in a while I think the bloodstain on the stairwell wall is a giant cockroach, and I panic and stop in my tracks. The baby cockroaches scurry frantically around my feet, worshiping their giant cockroach king. Should I throw my bag at it? Should I race past? But then I realize oh good, it's just that bloodstain.
Every once in a while I think the bloodstain on the stairwell wall is a giant cockroach, and I panic and stop in my tracks. The baby cockroaches scurry frantically around my feet, worshiping their giant cockroach king. Should I throw my bag at it? Should I race past? But then I realize oh good, it's just that bloodstain.
November 8, 2010
where the good girls and boys live
I live in a beautiful city right on the ocean, and it's November and still warm. Awesome for me, lame for French kids who want snow. It's snowed once in the last eight years, and it lasted less than an hour. Whenever I tell a class that we have snow they yell out "La chance!" in unison. (Lucky!)
I've introduced myself to elementary-schoolers so many times that I have it down. I show them a photo of my family. I show them my Minnesota Twins shirt and tell them about baseball. That one always impresses them, and I see them looking at each other like "Hey, that shirt says 'Minnesota' on it; she isn't making this up." Then I show them a pair of gloves and say that where I'm from, there is a lot of snow.
Then things get crazy. Usually French children raise their fingers instead of their hands. But not when you mention snow. They're raising their arms, they're climbing on their desks to get higher. Do you ski? How do you get places? Are all the flights canceled? How do you keep your house warm? Do you wear coats? These were all real questions.
But the best one came from an adorable boy in blue glasses and a soccer jersey, who was holding his breath until I called on him. He let out a sigh of relief when I finally did, and then asked "In Minnesota, is it Christmas every day?"
Of freaking course it is. I said there was snow, didn't I?
Is there a more awesome place then America? We have Barack Obama. We have the White House, which for some reason all 8-year-old French children are obsessed with. We have Michael Jackson and Hollywood and hamburgers. But that wasn't enough. So those scientists in Minnesota, bless their hearts, they sat down and finally found out a way to make it Christmas every single day. That's probably why when the kids finally start to calm down, after I tell them I have one Christmas a year and I've never met Jay-Z or the president, I get the same question in every class:
"Why on earth did you leave and come here?"
I've introduced myself to elementary-schoolers so many times that I have it down. I show them a photo of my family. I show them my Minnesota Twins shirt and tell them about baseball. That one always impresses them, and I see them looking at each other like "Hey, that shirt says 'Minnesota' on it; she isn't making this up." Then I show them a pair of gloves and say that where I'm from, there is a lot of snow.
Then things get crazy. Usually French children raise their fingers instead of their hands. But not when you mention snow. They're raising their arms, they're climbing on their desks to get higher. Do you ski? How do you get places? Are all the flights canceled? How do you keep your house warm? Do you wear coats? These were all real questions.
But the best one came from an adorable boy in blue glasses and a soccer jersey, who was holding his breath until I called on him. He let out a sigh of relief when I finally did, and then asked "In Minnesota, is it Christmas every day?"
Of freaking course it is. I said there was snow, didn't I?
Is there a more awesome place then America? We have Barack Obama. We have the White House, which for some reason all 8-year-old French children are obsessed with. We have Michael Jackson and Hollywood and hamburgers. But that wasn't enough. So those scientists in Minnesota, bless their hearts, they sat down and finally found out a way to make it Christmas every single day. That's probably why when the kids finally start to calm down, after I tell them I have one Christmas a year and I've never met Jay-Z or the president, I get the same question in every class:
"Why on earth did you leave and come here?"
Cheese Review 9 and 10
9. EMMENTAL
This isn't that exciting, because another name for Emmental is Swiss Cheese. But it was made in France, and it was pretty delicious. Not Comté-delicous, but pretty delicious.
Rating: 8/10
10. CROTTIN DE CHEVRE
This translates to "goat dung." I had super high hopes for this cheese, but it actually lived up to its name. Probably because I skimped and got a cheap kind. It tasted bitter and spongy, a really bad kind of spongy. Yikes it was nasty. Maybe I will try again with a higher-quality goat dung? Stay tuned.
Rating: 1/10
This isn't that exciting, because another name for Emmental is Swiss Cheese. But it was made in France, and it was pretty delicious. Not Comté-delicous, but pretty delicious.
Rating: 8/10
10. CROTTIN DE CHEVRE
This translates to "goat dung." I had super high hopes for this cheese, but it actually lived up to its name. Probably because I skimped and got a cheap kind. It tasted bitter and spongy, a really bad kind of spongy. Yikes it was nasty. Maybe I will try again with a higher-quality goat dung? Stay tuned.
Rating: 1/10
November 6, 2010
Martha Stewart guest post
One of my recent obsessions, along with eating macaroons and feral-dog-watching, is making granola. It sounds nerdy, if you have a terrible hearing impediment that makes "delicious" sound like "nerdy." I found a recipe on Serious Eats, and even if you're not planning on ever making granola you should look at those pictures and I think you'll change your mind.
Here I've catered the recipe to people living in an apartment where the kitchen has recently been completely destroyed in a gas fire.
2 glasses of oats
1 glass of nuts/seeds
1 glass of honey and olive oil mixture
Find the toaster oven behind the bookcase and plug it into the outlet in your bedroom. Bake half an hour at 150 degrees Celsius, then mix in dried fruit if you haven't eaten it out of boredom. Today I only ate half the dried fruit out of boredom.
This granola has almonds, pine nuts, sunflower seeds, and the uneaten cranberries.
It's so easy a feral dog can do it. And if the guy at your outdoor market likes Americans, you can get seeds, nuts, and fruit for free. Oats and honey are practically free so, you do the math.
Here I've catered the recipe to people living in an apartment where the kitchen has recently been completely destroyed in a gas fire.
2 glasses of oats
1 glass of nuts/seeds
1 glass of honey and olive oil mixture
Find the toaster oven behind the bookcase and plug it into the outlet in your bedroom. Bake half an hour at 150 degrees Celsius, then mix in dried fruit if you haven't eaten it out of boredom. Today I only ate half the dried fruit out of boredom.
This granola has almonds, pine nuts, sunflower seeds, and the uneaten cranberries.
It's so easy a feral dog can do it. And if the guy at your outdoor market likes Americans, you can get seeds, nuts, and fruit for free. Oats and honey are practically free so, you do the math.
November 5, 2010
Kate Moss hates tomatoes
All I said was "I didn't eat breakfast this morning." but judging by her look of disgust and horror I might as well have said "I ran over a little girl with my car this morning."
The couple I live with is positive my diet of chocolate and cheese has me minutes away from starvation. They both agree that I'll never weigh enough to birth children. And the box of rice I was holding when I nonchalantly said breakfast was below me put the wife over the edge.
"If you want to eat like Kate Moss when you go back to the US that's FINE. But not while you're here!" she yelled, slamming down a plate of tomatoes and fried eggs. I can't tell you what makes chocolate diet food and tomatoes a hearty meal, but I will offer this advice: don't tell French people you didn't eat breakfast, and heaven help you if you say you don't want dessert.
My flat-mates say it's a good thing I have a fat face. "Even if you lose weight from not eating enough tomatoes, you'll still have that fat face." Thanks friends.
I quickly changed the topic to the pond scene the husband was engraving on a knife handle. I complimented him on the reeds and he said thanked me. But when he went back to engraving I had to stop him. "Can we all just take a minute and be impressed that I know the word 'reeds'? Because how often does that word come up?" And we did, thank goodness. I'm tired of this amazing vocabulary going under the radar.
I have a fat face full of French knowledge.
The couple I live with is positive my diet of chocolate and cheese has me minutes away from starvation. They both agree that I'll never weigh enough to birth children. And the box of rice I was holding when I nonchalantly said breakfast was below me put the wife over the edge.
"If you want to eat like Kate Moss when you go back to the US that's FINE. But not while you're here!" she yelled, slamming down a plate of tomatoes and fried eggs. I can't tell you what makes chocolate diet food and tomatoes a hearty meal, but I will offer this advice: don't tell French people you didn't eat breakfast, and heaven help you if you say you don't want dessert.
My flat-mates say it's a good thing I have a fat face. "Even if you lose weight from not eating enough tomatoes, you'll still have that fat face." Thanks friends.
I quickly changed the topic to the pond scene the husband was engraving on a knife handle. I complimented him on the reeds and he said thanked me. But when he went back to engraving I had to stop him. "Can we all just take a minute and be impressed that I know the word 'reeds'? Because how often does that word come up?" And we did, thank goodness. I'm tired of this amazing vocabulary going under the radar.
I have a fat face full of French knowledge.
November 4, 2010
vacation's over
It doesn't matter how great your day is going, walking into a class of 8-year-olds and hearing them all gasp "OH MY GOODNESS, she's beautiful!" in breathless awe is going to make it better.
Speaking of people being easily impressed, I passed out stickers to kids in my classes today. I have been obsessively collecting all summer, buying packs for five stickers per cent. I knew the kids would be ridiculously excited, but I didn't realize the teachers would be so impressed. "The children can take these stickers home? Should they return them next week? You mean they can KEEP THEM?!?"
Hands on your desks guys. We're not going to continue until everyone has calmed down.
Speaking of people being easily impressed, I passed out stickers to kids in my classes today. I have been obsessively collecting all summer, buying packs for five stickers per cent. I knew the kids would be ridiculously excited, but I didn't realize the teachers would be so impressed. "The children can take these stickers home? Should they return them next week? You mean they can KEEP THEM?!?"
Hands on your desks guys. We're not going to continue until everyone has calmed down.
November 1, 2010
wait for the screaming
I found a mouse in my room yesterday. It was Halloween and I was watching Ratatoille on the television, when a mouse ran by my foot. Ratatouille isn't a 3D movie, so I turned off the tv and we started the hunt.
In high school I had a pet mouse, the smartest, bravest, and most honest and noble creature that ever lived. In French class we had to write a paper on our hero, and I wrote about my pet mouse. Then we had to change papers with a partner and my partner had written about his mom, who was fighting cancer. That was not the best day. Today I spent five minutes looking for what I remembered being a fantastic picture of my mouse. And here it is.
So, it's really unfortunate that it's actually the worst photo ever taken. Speaking of unfortunate, there was a mouse in my room yesterday. I'm not really scared of mice. I only have two rules: I don't want to touch mice I don't know, and I don't want to see them dead.
Most animals in French are masculine if you don't know their gender, but my flat-mates kept calling this mouse a girl. As in "Hurry, she's fast!" She was not that fast. I think she was probably drunk. I asked my fellow mouse-hunters why feminine pronouns were used for rodents, but they were too busy getting out the tube of mouse glue to give me a grammar lesson.
Mouse glue. France is known for its pastries and and its art but not for its mouse glue, and that is a shame. It's thick and brown and we covered a piece of cardboard in it and set the homemade trap on the floor. Then they placed half a baguette in the middle, because the only thing French mice love more than smoking and wearing tiny berets is a good baguette.
"In the middle of the night you'll start to hear screaming," they explained. "And then you'll be able to sleep peacefully." I've never associated peaceful slumber with screaming before, but I have also never baited a lady mouse with half a baguette, so it seemed like as good a day as any to try something new. Our mouse was serious baguette enthusiast, and within minutes she wandered over to the carboard and go stuck. Her screaming didn't have the soothing effect I had been promised - it sounded desperate and human. But after a few seconds she was quiet, and she closed her eyes and shook in fear. "Let's get a box," I motioned with my hands as to the size, "and we can put her outside."
"Nah, we don't have a box that small." said the husband, twirling a hammer. After one final look at her shaking on the bed of mouse glue, I went into the kitchen and waited. There were four tiny screams of terror before there was silence.
And so ends the tale of how I gained and lost my first French roommate. Now it's just me alone here, and several irrational fears. I'm afraid to turn on the radiator, because if there's a mouse inside it will explode and die in there. I'm afraid I'll freeze to death (this is closely related to the fear of not turning on the radiator). And for some reason I'm afraid to touch the tube of mouse glue, which is still sitting in the middle of my room. There's a drawing of a mouse on the box, and when it's quiet, I can hear her screaming.
In high school I had a pet mouse, the smartest, bravest, and most honest and noble creature that ever lived. In French class we had to write a paper on our hero, and I wrote about my pet mouse. Then we had to change papers with a partner and my partner had written about his mom, who was fighting cancer. That was not the best day. Today I spent five minutes looking for what I remembered being a fantastic picture of my mouse. And here it is.
So, it's really unfortunate that it's actually the worst photo ever taken. Speaking of unfortunate, there was a mouse in my room yesterday. I'm not really scared of mice. I only have two rules: I don't want to touch mice I don't know, and I don't want to see them dead.
Most animals in French are masculine if you don't know their gender, but my flat-mates kept calling this mouse a girl. As in "Hurry, she's fast!" She was not that fast. I think she was probably drunk. I asked my fellow mouse-hunters why feminine pronouns were used for rodents, but they were too busy getting out the tube of mouse glue to give me a grammar lesson.
Mouse glue. France is known for its pastries and and its art but not for its mouse glue, and that is a shame. It's thick and brown and we covered a piece of cardboard in it and set the homemade trap on the floor. Then they placed half a baguette in the middle, because the only thing French mice love more than smoking and wearing tiny berets is a good baguette.
"In the middle of the night you'll start to hear screaming," they explained. "And then you'll be able to sleep peacefully." I've never associated peaceful slumber with screaming before, but I have also never baited a lady mouse with half a baguette, so it seemed like as good a day as any to try something new. Our mouse was serious baguette enthusiast, and within minutes she wandered over to the carboard and go stuck. Her screaming didn't have the soothing effect I had been promised - it sounded desperate and human. But after a few seconds she was quiet, and she closed her eyes and shook in fear. "Let's get a box," I motioned with my hands as to the size, "and we can put her outside."
"Nah, we don't have a box that small." said the husband, twirling a hammer. After one final look at her shaking on the bed of mouse glue, I went into the kitchen and waited. There were four tiny screams of terror before there was silence.
And so ends the tale of how I gained and lost my first French roommate. Now it's just me alone here, and several irrational fears. I'm afraid to turn on the radiator, because if there's a mouse inside it will explode and die in there. I'm afraid I'll freeze to death (this is closely related to the fear of not turning on the radiator). And for some reason I'm afraid to touch the tube of mouse glue, which is still sitting in the middle of my room. There's a drawing of a mouse on the box, and when it's quiet, I can hear her screaming.
cheese review 8
8. CAMEMBERT
My first experience with this cheese was a reference in the movie "Wallace and Gromit, A Grand Day Out." But my first experience eating it was last week at my friend's apartment. It tastes a lot like brie - but a little less brie-ish. I had just eaten a lot of other cheeses without cleansing my palate, so I might have to review this one again.
rating: 7/10
My first experience with this cheese was a reference in the movie "Wallace and Gromit, A Grand Day Out." But my first experience eating it was last week at my friend's apartment. It tastes a lot like brie - but a little less brie-ish. I had just eaten a lot of other cheeses without cleansing my palate, so I might have to review this one again.
rating: 7/10
October 31, 2010
happy halloween
The only "disguised" person I saw today was a 7-year-old boy on the metro wearing red eyeliner, holding a dozen pieces of candy, and growling softly to himself. I wanted to give him a piece of chocolate but I realized I'd eaten the entire box already. Sorry werewolf-kid. Or whatever you were.
October 26, 2010
haunted cat
In a desperate attempt to have a real Halloween, and to not spend the whole day watching television, we went to the cemetery today.
Marseille has a cool cemetery. It's huge, and the gravestones and tombs are packed in there like crazy. And it's easy to get lost, because there are so many DEAD ENDS! Thank goodness for cemetery jokes.
Marseille has a cool cemetery. It's huge, and the gravestones and tombs are packed in there like crazy. And it's easy to get lost, because there are so many DEAD ENDS! Thank goodness for cemetery jokes.
Cheese Review 7
7. FICELLO
This is just string cheese. I bought it the same day I bought the apple yogurt, the day I now refer to as the worst decision-making day ever. There were two varieties, regular and "baby", and I got the baby kind, assuming the word "baby" was being used the same way it's used in "baby carrots" - small like a baby, not made for babies. But when I got home I noticed the package called it "Baby's first cheese!" How does a baby eat string cheese? How does string cheese milk a cow? Like this:
Rating: 6/10
This is just string cheese. I bought it the same day I bought the apple yogurt, the day I now refer to as the worst decision-making day ever. There were two varieties, regular and "baby", and I got the baby kind, assuming the word "baby" was being used the same way it's used in "baby carrots" - small like a baby, not made for babies. But when I got home I noticed the package called it "Baby's first cheese!" How does a baby eat string cheese? How does string cheese milk a cow? Like this:
Rating: 6/10
October 25, 2010
simply market
A couple weeks ago I was grocery shopping at Simply. It's my favorite grocery store because it has almost the exact decorating scheme as Toys R Us - there are banners on the ceiling that say "Be Happy! Be SIMPLY!" and there are rainbows on the ground.
I was looking at the aforementioned rainbows when I saw an abandoned five-euro bill. I went over to the help desk to turn in the bill, excited for two reasons.
Reason one: I like saying new sentences in French, and I had never said "I found this money on the ground" before. In fact it was my first time saying "ground."
Reason two: I knew turning it in would up my grocery store karma. And I can always use some grocery store karma.
The karma exchange rate in Marseille is fantastic. Not once, or twice, but THREE times, people in line in front of me have said I can go before them because I'm buying less than they are. A cashier helped me count out my change when I tried to give her 3 euro and she saw I had 2.94 euro worth of change in my hand. (In French 94 is pronounced "four-twenty-fourteen" and I just like to avoid it completely.) A man gave me a free apple when I asked how much it was. Bagged rice, my favorite food, was on sale 2 for the price of 1. Strangers always ask me how I'm doing, or what yogurt I would recommend. Yesterday I left a dime on the counter and another customer sprinted after me to return it.
People might tell you that French people are really snotty and that they don't like Americans or some other sort of complete garbage, but I am going to set the record straight. I don't think grocery store karma is real. I think people in Marseille are just the nicest people I've ever met.
I was looking at the aforementioned rainbows when I saw an abandoned five-euro bill. I went over to the help desk to turn in the bill, excited for two reasons.
Reason one: I like saying new sentences in French, and I had never said "I found this money on the ground" before. In fact it was my first time saying "ground."
Reason two: I knew turning it in would up my grocery store karma. And I can always use some grocery store karma.
The karma exchange rate in Marseille is fantastic. Not once, or twice, but THREE times, people in line in front of me have said I can go before them because I'm buying less than they are. A cashier helped me count out my change when I tried to give her 3 euro and she saw I had 2.94 euro worth of change in my hand. (In French 94 is pronounced "four-twenty-fourteen" and I just like to avoid it completely.) A man gave me a free apple when I asked how much it was. Bagged rice, my favorite food, was on sale 2 for the price of 1. Strangers always ask me how I'm doing, or what yogurt I would recommend. Yesterday I left a dime on the counter and another customer sprinted after me to return it.
People might tell you that French people are really snotty and that they don't like Americans or some other sort of complete garbage, but I am going to set the record straight. I don't think grocery store karma is real. I think people in Marseille are just the nicest people I've ever met.
look out
After a month of searching I finally found a hair straightener in France and, to celebrate the occasion, brushed and straightened my hair this weekend.
FRANCE LOVES IT WHEN I BRUSH MY HAIR. With a response like this I can only imagine what would happen if I wore clean clothes. I heard "Have you been to the hairdresser?" so many times I've completely mastered how to say it. Why is it such a big deal when I fix my hair? I kept asking myself. Do I usually look that bad? Could this get any more insulting?
These questions were answered, with the question my mom asked as soon as I turned on my camera to video-chat with her last night.
"Are you wearing a wig?"
FRANCE LOVES IT WHEN I BRUSH MY HAIR. With a response like this I can only imagine what would happen if I wore clean clothes. I heard "Have you been to the hairdresser?" so many times I've completely mastered how to say it. Why is it such a big deal when I fix my hair? I kept asking myself. Do I usually look that bad? Could this get any more insulting?
These questions were answered, with the question my mom asked as soon as I turned on my camera to video-chat with her last night.
"Are you wearing a wig?"
Bizarre yogurt review #1
I gave myself another food goal today: to try a bizarre flavor of yogurt every week.
"But Brooke," you ask "where are you going to find the time? Aren't you already really busy with your 12-hour a week work schedule and your cheese-a-week goal?"
YES. Add to that some personal chocolate and macaroon goals and a lot of movies and sleeping and I am completely CHARGED, the French word for overworked. To make matters worse, after a total of seven hours of work this month because of strikes, I just started a two-week fall vacation.
France has some crazy flavors of yogurt. So far I've seen grapefruit, pistachio, coconut, watermelon, and... green apple and kiwi!
I was really hoping this yogurt would be green, but it was still really good. It had chunks of apples and lots of kiwi seeds/mouse droppings.
rating: not bizarre
"But Brooke," you ask "where are you going to find the time? Aren't you already really busy with your 12-hour a week work schedule and your cheese-a-week goal?"
YES. Add to that some personal chocolate and macaroon goals and a lot of movies and sleeping and I am completely CHARGED, the French word for overworked. To make matters worse, after a total of seven hours of work this month because of strikes, I just started a two-week fall vacation.
France has some crazy flavors of yogurt. So far I've seen grapefruit, pistachio, coconut, watermelon, and... green apple and kiwi!
I was really hoping this yogurt would be green, but it was still really good. It had chunks of apples and lots of kiwi seeds/mouse droppings.
rating: not bizarre
smell my feet
Good news: when I'm talking with French people lately, I participate a lot more in the conversation. Either it's my French is improving or it's because lately the topic of conversation is usually Halloween, a subject I know a lot more about than my flat-mates, who just bought a giant bag of oeuf plat (fried egg) gummies and pink marshmallows they're going to hand out to kids on the street on Halloween.
Everyone's getting stoked for the "Halloween" party this Friday. I'm putting that in quotes because when I ask what people were dressing up as they all said they're wearing orange and black. "The colors of Halloween!" So pathetic. "That's not Halloween." I complained on our way to the cemetery yesterday. "Yeah, it's two days before Halloween. But more people were free that day." Maybe my French isn't improving after all. I decided to let my disgust go under the radar, because I thought of something way more important.
I told them about how when I was little, a bunch of people would bring their cars to a parking lot and circle up and go from trunk to trunk getting candy. So much candy, so little walking, and so much less of your mom worrying about hypodermic needles. Take that, orange and black party. I waited for their response.
"Man, that's ugly." And everyone agreed that trunk-or-treats, combined with drive-in movies, perfectly summed up how janky and lazy Americans are. What's wrong with getting ten pounds of candy, five pounds of which are those gross cherry-flavored tootsie rolls? What's wrong with a costume's value being based on how few people can guess what it is? Who on earth goes to drive-in movies anymore and when did they become janky?
Boo.
Everyone's getting stoked for the "Halloween" party this Friday. I'm putting that in quotes because when I ask what people were dressing up as they all said they're wearing orange and black. "The colors of Halloween!" So pathetic. "That's not Halloween." I complained on our way to the cemetery yesterday. "Yeah, it's two days before Halloween. But more people were free that day." Maybe my French isn't improving after all. I decided to let my disgust go under the radar, because I thought of something way more important.
I told them about how when I was little, a bunch of people would bring their cars to a parking lot and circle up and go from trunk to trunk getting candy. So much candy, so little walking, and so much less of your mom worrying about hypodermic needles. Take that, orange and black party. I waited for their response.
"Man, that's ugly." And everyone agreed that trunk-or-treats, combined with drive-in movies, perfectly summed up how janky and lazy Americans are. What's wrong with getting ten pounds of candy, five pounds of which are those gross cherry-flavored tootsie rolls? What's wrong with a costume's value being based on how few people can guess what it is? Who on earth goes to drive-in movies anymore and when did they become janky?
Boo.
October 24, 2010
another reason to hate math.
What people don't tell you when they talk about the beautiful weather in the south of France, is that there's a crazy, crazy wind called the Mistral that reaches speeds of 50 miles per hour.
Mistral + my hair x French people's bluntness = this daily conversation with one of my flat-mates:
HIM: Hey Brooke!
ME: Hey!
HIM: Wow, your hair looks really terrible!
ME: What?
HIM: Terrible - in that context it means like really snarly and standing straight up.
ME: Oh, I understood the word terrible I was just... ok, thanks...
HIM: Why does it look so bad?
ME: Just naturally like this mostly.
HIM: Wow. Do you want some chocolate?
ME: Definitely.
Mistral + my hair x French people's bluntness = this daily conversation with one of my flat-mates:
HIM: Hey Brooke!
ME: Hey!
HIM: Wow, your hair looks really terrible!
ME: What?
HIM: Terrible - in that context it means like really snarly and standing straight up.
ME: Oh, I understood the word terrible I was just... ok, thanks...
HIM: Why does it look so bad?
ME: Just naturally like this mostly.
HIM: Wow. Do you want some chocolate?
ME: Definitely.
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