Super is the same in both languages.

Super old men in France will talk to anything slow enough, and when I'm waiting for something I'm slow enough. The other day I was waiting in a park and an old man wearing about four sweaters came and wanted to chat, about how great my nose is, and where I learned French, and if I have ever lived in a desert and what I think of souls.

"I'm going to be honest." he said. "If I had a time machine and could be a young man again, and if you lost some weight, I would ask you to marry me right now on the spot."

"That is super honest." I said.

It changes

TIME MACHINE POSTs are things I wrote in France and then never published because of laziness something besides laziness. Here is one of them.

Every Friday I go to a literature review session for college students who apparently have nothing better to do on Friday nights. Last week when it was over and everyone was leaving, the teacher asked me where I lived and how I was getting home. When I answered that I lived by the train station and was going to take the metro she told me that was a horrible idea and she would give me a ride. I said that was very nice of her, and I put on my coat and my backpack and was ready to go.

"Woah, don't put your coat on! We're having a picnic."

I looked around, even though I already knew what I was going to see. It was 9:30 at night. There was no one else in the building. She pulled a picnic basket from underneath a table.

This is something that happens a lot in France. Someone says something very clearly, and I understand every word, but I don't UNDERSTAND. Yes, I caught that you want to have a picnic with me at 9:30 at night. I was able to grasp every word in that sentence. And yet... it's 9:30 at night. And you want to have a picnic?

Dinner was a bag of tiny chicken drumsticks that you can put in the microwave, gluten-free bread because she knew I was allergic to wheat, and a package of garlic cheese. There was a ton of chicken in the bag, but she kept telling me to eat more, until finally they were gone. Then she pulled out a second bag of tiny chicken drumsticks, barbeque flavored.

"Barbeque is a different flavor that regular," she announced in case I had never had flavored food before. "So, it changes."

"It changes" (or ça change for people who wish I didn't translate all the dialogue on my blog) is a sentence that I UNDERSTAND does not mean the same thing as it does in English, but it's impossible for me to think otherwise. In French ça change means "It's kind of different, but there you go." France is kind of different. It changes. But I like it.

at least the baby will have beautiful green eyes

A couple months ago in France I was having a perfectly normal afternoon where I found myself sitting in a park reading while a French man in this eighties was telling my why no Arabic people should be allowed in the country. He was just getting to the part where they will kill us all in our sleep when he stopped mid sentence with a gasp.

"You have green eyes. Why didn't I notice sooner that you have green eyes! Your eyes are the most beautiful thing in the world. And you have such a beautiful smile. Great, American teeth! All you need to do is start exercising a little..."

Maybe in someone else's life this would be the big turning point where they stopped eating a wheel of Brie with a jar of Nutella every morning for breakfast, but for me it wasn't.

No, if I were to have such a turning point it would have been a couple months earlier, when a woman thought I was pregnant. By that I don't mean she asked "When are you due?" or "Is it a boy or a girl" I mean she came up to me, rubbed my stomach, and told me the little munchkin was going to be the luckiest kid in the world to have a mom like me.

What do you say to people when this happens? There is no handbook for this.

Welcome to meet you

Today I intentionally planned the worst day possible: I decided to change my address AND close my bank account, hoping it would turn into eight heinous hours of missing documents, complicated forms, rude customer service and long lines, and by the end of the day I would be screaming "Good riddance, France!" and I wouldn't be sad at all when I leave on Thursday.

But somehow, it only took a half hour? I still can't believe it.

And twenty minutes of that half hour was spent chatting with the woman who worked at the post office  - who showed me a collectible stamp set with her eight favorite places in France, and told me about all the places I hadn't been to. After I bought them she followed me over to the table where I was sticking them on postcards, and helped me decide who should get each one. Then she said "You know, I thought of a couple more things I want to tell you about Alsace," and after that she started explaining how the French postal system works (everything goes in a box, then they send it to people), and  showing off English phrases she knew (including the title of this post), and she told me that everyone in Marseille was going to miss me and that she loved Americans and that I was so great.

The people in line behind me had the kind of day I was expecting to have.



Then at the bank I handed in my forms and the man at the counter said "impeccable." and wished me a safe trip back to the US. That was it - nothing missing, no extra things to make copies of. No stories about Alsace or the postal system either, but I had met my daily quota so that's fine. I think I've finally mastered French paperwork, after eight months here. Just in time to leave. I've also started crying in a bank while my account was being closed. Check that off the bucket list. I don't know what's wrong with me.

And the best part of the day - the woman at the post office asked where I was from and when I said the US she replied "Oh, but I thought your post cards were written in English, where did you learn to write in English so well?"

Come to the US with me, Post Office Woman, and I will show you my eight favorite places in America. They are all ice cream shops and animal shelters. I'm not sure if there's a collectible stamp set available.

and you'll like the chicken.

I found this on my search for new vocab words today:

"Voilà je suis allée voir en bijouterie aujourd'hui pour me renseigner pour me faire un troisième trou au lobe de mes oreilles. La bijoutière m'a conseillée de rester à deux trous car j'avais des petits lobes, et que ça faisait plus joli sur moi. Qu'en pensez-vous ?"

Only in a country where when I told my friend I was running a half marathon she said "No you're not." and where restaurant requests are often followed by "No, that's not for you. You'll have the chicken."

"Don't make them feel smart when they're idiots." - French teacher, on dealing with six-year olds.

I'm running a half marathon in a couple weeks, and I'm really excited about training for it.

Does that sentence sound strange? Usually one would be excited for the actual event. The weather's beautiful, you run the course, everyone finishes at their own speed, everyone gets a t-shirt and pats themself on the back and goes home feeling like a winner.

But this is France and in France, we are not all winners. Some people are winners and others are losers and the race is not supervised by your mom. That's why there's a bus that trails behind the runners, and picks up anyone that can't keep up a 10-minute-mile pace. They don't get t-shirts or or stickers, and they go home feeling like the losers they are.

And that's why I'm really excited about training for it.

RED

Check out these puppies I scored for 5 euro at a really sketchy clothing store in Marseille.



Wearing all black and fitting in with the French crowd was fun for a while, but I'm starting to miss my glitter sweaters and rainbow-striped shoes back home. See you soon, glitter sweater. Enjoy my company while you can, goat cheese and macarons.

you want to see crime?

PARISIAN WOMAN AT MY HOSTEL: So, where are you from?
ME: The United States.
PARISIAN: Cool, which one? California? Miami? New York City?
ME: Minnesota actually.
PARISIAN: Oh, is that by Florida?
ME: No it's by Canada.
PARISIAN: I don't know this, what else?
ME: It's by the Great Lakes.
PARISIAN: I don't know this, what else?
ME: I live near Minneapolis.
PARISIAN: I don't know this, what else?
ME: Well, I guess the next city is Chicago.
PARISIAN: OHHHH! You're from CHICAGO! Why didn't you say so?! City of crime, eh? Look out everyone!

oh how precious

Check out this awesome video.
This is my life. Just multiply the number of guys hitting on her by 30 and subtract all their teeth.

EF - Live The Language - Paris from Albin Holmqvist on Vimeo.

But really, I love France. When I leave I'm going to miss it every day.

seen on

oh hello

Today I saw two women walking down the street. One of them was eating a sandwich, but I guess she wasn't hungry anymore, because she dropped it. She didn't throw it on the ground, she didn't accidentally drop it on the ground, just kind of carelessly released her grip, the way you would drop a seed into a garden or drop powdered sugar onto a pastry. Here sidewalk, take my sandwich. Then she lit a cigarette. It was so perfect that I thought to myself "I don't need to see anything else today. Nothing could be better than that."

But then at an outdoor café I saw a mailman walk up to a man and say "Hey, I've got a letter for you!" And I knew I really didn't need to see anything else today.

But then I was sitting on a bench, bracing myself against an outrageously strong wind, and I noticed a plastic grocery bag on the ground next to me, that took flight, and went about ten feet in the air. It came back down to eye level, hovered a moment, and then rose again, this time really soaring up, above the streetlamps and then above the buildings. Kites had nothing on this plastic bag. Birds had nothing on this plastic bag. Its handles floated behind it like two little plastic fins and it swam all around the courtyard above us.

Something about seeing a shopping bag so high was very off-putting, as though if there was a floating shopping bag there should be floating asparagus, floating baguette, and a floating half-gallon of milk. And now, I really don't need to see anything else today. Unless there's an airborne baguette somewhere. I would be interested in seeing that.

can't fight that logic

8-year-old boy: Brooke, have you ever met the Simpsons?
me: No, they're not real.
boy: Yes they are real. They live in Springfield, in America.
me: They're just a tv show. But on tv, yes they live in America.
boy: Have you seen a school bus?
me: Yeah, kids take them to school.
boy: HA! The Simpsons ride a school bus and school buses are real and the Simpsons are real! I knew it!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?"

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.

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.