Bicultural Relationships

Last night, against my better judgement, I went into Paris with Gui Gui. We went to the seventeenth, to see a friend of his, drink a few beers, and as per usual, have several impromptu French lessons.

I was running late, and the A14 was closed, so we didn't make it into the city until after eleven. We miraculously found parking right outside the building and used the fifteen thousand codes that Paris apartment require and finally found ourselves, naturally, outside the wrong door. Gui Gui finally starting yelling Niehls' name, and we looked down the hall, to see a large, dark figure shadow the door of the apartment to the right. After a few laughs, we entered the relatively spacious Parisian apartment (boasting enough room for AT LEAST five people.) It was one of those places that would have been nice, if I lived there, but as it was occupied by a 21 year old engineering student, it wasn't. I didn't care that much, but Gui Gui had a hard time hiding his disgust. The floor was littered with school papers, I counted at least ten empty cigarette boxes, and plenty of fast food wrappers.

Niehls is a nice guy. Gregarious, not self possessed, and funny. But, as Gui Gui and Niehls sat there discussing Niehls' tattoo, and I attempted to catch every word, I had one more realization.

Cross cultural dating is hard. I wouldn't be seeing Gui Gui, if I wasn't comfortable with him, I wouldn't be meeting his friends either, if I was concerned that it would be boring, because it's not. But the language thing, is such a pain the ass. There is nothing more frustruating, than listening to a conversation, wanting to understand it, and not. It feels absurd. When Gui Gui are together, just the two of us, I understand about 92 percent of what he says, when he talks to his friends, or yesterday when he was talking to his sister, I miss more than I should admit.

I was a little buzzed when we left last night (at 230 am) and I was feeling nostalgic, and telling him how much I would like to show him my country. It's a little unsettling, to be living in a place so foreign, and be with someone who can show where they drank their first beer, or where they used to set bon fires, or where they went to middle school. Meanwhile, the only memories I can share are "Oh man, I love this song!" I am vaguely nostalgic for the days when I could say, "I know this place that I used to go when I was younger, I'll take you next weekend."

He asked me then, "Do you think I would get along with your friends?" Of course!

.........If you spoke the same language. Because as hard as it was for me to go out with Gui Gui's friends, I at least get the gist of the conversation, that is, I don't understand every word, but I know what they're talking about. And while Gui Gui's English isn't nonexistant, he has a hard time following me and my anglofriends. We went out for Saint Patrick's Day, but we pretty much had to float between my friends, and his friends. Mine will be speaking in English (and we wont change for anyone), and his will be speaking in French.

Goes with the territory, I guess.

Flemmard-Falling for an Iphone Addict

Scene-Chez Gui Gui

In front of the house, via text

R-"Suis la"

G-Entre!

Inside the gate

G-Entre!

In the foyer of the house

G-Je suis dans ma chambre

At the head of the stairs, seconds before I opened the door to his room

G-Coucou!

Off the Beaten Path

There's that famous quote "Not all who wander are lost." Well good for them, because the longer I live away from my native land the more I realize just how lost I am. Up until I graduated college, I was on a path, I wasn't sure where exactly, but it was guided and easy to follow. Now, here I am, over a year later after I decided to go off this path and I am no closer to finding what I'm searching for. But now the question becomes, well, what AM I searching for? Culture? What kind of culture? Art that someone painted four hundred years ago? My Dad chastises me for not taking advantage of all the beautiful Parisian things that I could surround myself with. Yes, I could wander the Tuillerie gardens, for the hundreth time, or fight the crowds at Monmarte. But at the end of the day, what's the point? Nah, no thank you, I'll pick and choose myself what I want to see, I don't prefer doing just what other people tell me.

I read an article in some periodical, that was written by some author whose name I can't remember. None of that is important. But he did bring up an interesting point. In the 1800s it was popular for upper class boys to go on a Grand Tour of Europe, during which time they would go on ragers and see all these classical pieces of art. Occasionally, they were so overwhelmed by the beauty of the artwork that they would faint out of shear awe. The writer went on to say that modern day humans merely observe all these great works of art, and culture just to check them off a list. So they can go back to their country of origin and smugly tell their coworkers "Why yes, I was at the Eiffel Tower, we walked by it on a lovely sunny day after drinking a little café crème, but you know, it wasn't that impressive..." So perhaps da Vinci is turning over in his grave, but excuse me when I say, I don't give a shit about seeing the Mona Lisa.

Okay, that's a little bold. I do give a shit about her, I just am not in any particular hurry to see her. I have wandered by the Louvre about a thousand times, and I have yet to enter. But before you bawk, think about it, how many Parisians do you think have seen actually the artwork there? You think the Banlieue punks on the metro spend their time eating baguettes in Parc Luxembourg? Nah. They're too busy harrassing everyone on the street for drink and cigarettes. And while I'm not trying to lump myself together with these hoodlums who rock pastel sweatpants and bad haircuts, we do have something in common. We live here. And Paris is a big, busy city. Yes, it has fabulous architecture and its world famous, but it's home for us. I work during the week, a lot. As we all know, childcare is no small feat. On the weekends I want to spend time sleeping, or seeing my friends.

I'm not a tourist anymore, and that's that.

Are You There Yet? Sucking It Up and Speaking French.

I found myself, last night, sitting in the front seat of Gui Gui's car, as he whipped around the streets of Paris, simultaneously screaming French obscenities, checking his iphone, and leaning into kiss me at each red light. As we took a right past the Place de Concord, I looked up to see the lights of the Champs d'Elysees marching obediently (decidedly not French) towards the Arc de Triumph, and I had that thought.

How the hell did I end up here?

I looked over at Gui Gui, who was mumbling under his breath about les connards of Paris, which translates to something very vulgar in English. He saw me looking at him and smiled at me. I couldn't help but smile back. If there's one thing Gui Gui is, it's attractive. He has what has to be the best jawline known to man, it's square and distinctly masculine. He also has one of the most perfect mouths I've ever seen, wide (huge actually) with a cute little cupid's bow. The bastard also has perfectly square, large teeth, which he deceitfully presses against his bottom lip when he's trying to convince me to do a betise.

He has that classic darker French coloring, and wears his hair a little longer than would be acceptable had he not been a student. "Quoi?" He asked me, "Pour quoi tu me regards comme ça?" "Parce que je te trouve beau." We came up to another red light, he leaned over, "Ah bon?" and kissed me.

There are worst things in life, I suppose, than to be young, in Paris, and dating a French adonnis.

But, if you had told me fourteen months ago that I would be dating someone I call Gui Gui, and doing it in French, I wouldn't have believed you. And although I would like to spend pages and pages writing about how obsessed I am, I'll try to focus on the point of this post, and that is--Getting over your fears, sucking it up, and infiltrating the French.

When I came to France, as it proudly declares on my "About Me" section of this blog, I spoke about four words of French. After a month or two, I didn't really think I would really ever get the point where I could even be conversational. But, after a few months I became a little more determined. I had two very important motivators, and they were: Antoine, and my pride, more specifically, Antoine's constant abuse of it.

Antoine used to give me hell about speaking French. He couldn't understand how I didn't speak French as well he did, even though I had only been speaking the language for about 10 days when we met. Everytime we met another foreigner who spoke better than me (everyone) he would tell me that they spoke better and ask me why I didn't speak like they did. I explained, time and time again, that my only French interaction was in my class, and of course when I heard it around the house. Language, just like everything else in life, does not come easily.

He also used to get pissed off regularly because I didn't have any French friends...because comme ça je pourrais parler français. What I had to point out then, (that I seem to have forgotten now, as I try to force my friends to hang out with more French) is that spending time with a bunch of people who are talking in a language you don't understand just isn't fun. And even if I did find some Frenchies, we would have to speak in English and that wouldn't be that great for my French either.

Don't get me wrong. I gave it a go. I went on a date a month in with someone who spoke very poor English. It was fun to do once, but after it takes forty five minutes to say one sentence, it gets old. I went to a party at my friend Dennis', and made an effort to go out with a friend who has primarily French friends. But it was true, I preferred to have a good time with my friends that I could actually communicate with.

But somewhere between binging with Anglophones, and being chastised by my French boyfriend, the French starting coming along. Speaking wasn't so great, but all of a sudden I could understand my kiddies as they spoke amongst themselves. Things went from an annoying jumble of consonants to defined words. But I still wasn't ready.

A new crop of filles rolled into O-town, interested in speaking French , although we joked and laughed mostly in English. I was out with one of these O-townians on Armistice Day's Eve in November playing pool in a bar in St. Germain, drinking overpriced pints of beer and laughing at a group of garçons. Somehow we ended up talking to the group, and back at one of their houses. And it was fun. We spoke in French, they spoke in French and something finally clicked. I started having tea with Alexis, and meeting more of his friends, and suddenly people were speaking in French, "Because it was easier."

And now here's where my arrogance and pride comes in. I hate, hate, hate, the stereotype that Anglophones are incapable of speaking any other languages. More often than not, following an English conversation, if I speak in French, I am met with gawks of shock "Oh, vous parlez Français!" or my personal favorite question from friends' of friends who ask "Tu parles un petit peu de français?" with a look of doubt and anxiety on their face. (I usually respond with something along of the lines, well I hope so, as your friend DOESNT SPEAK ENGLISH) Before getting indignant, I do, however, have to remind myself that a few months ago, the answer would have been "Non, pas de tout"

I still struggle with spelling, a lot of vocabulary, most grammar, indirect/direct objects, and following conversations, as a third party. But the question at this point is, will this get any better in a classroom? Maybe the vocabulary, and the spelling of course. But as far as everything else, the only thing to do is getting OUT there. It's about losing the fear and realizing that for as dumb as you may look when you're trying to navigate around the intricacies of the French language.....

You look a whole lot worse when you are only speaking English.

Paroles that Made Me Laugh

Scene-Butcher shop in Saint G, four pretty anglophones, three attractive butchers (No, this is not the beginning of a joke, and yes it was two brunettes a blonde and a redhead.)

Butchers-Ah Yess you are English!
Me-Oui, mais j'ai oublié, como on dit "butcher" en français?
Butcher-Beau guss!

Scene-Chez Gui Gui
Me-Mais Gui Gui, on a profité ajourdhui!
Gui Gui-On a profité de quoi? Ta main?

Scene-Gui Gui's phone, can't repeat this in French, so rough translation--
Phone-Yes, Hello this is Mr. X calling on behalf of the recruitment office in Saint Germain en Laye. As you know we are currently at war in Libya so we are reenacting the draft. My sources tell me that you are now available to be drafted. We will be using the Navy to go forward with this, unfortunately we don't have any more boats available, so we are going to swim. Training starts at the pool in Saint Germain at noon on Friday. Thank you.

Devant Chez Gui Gui, after I went on a walk with him and his nephew, while he was babysitting.
Maman de Gui Gui- T'avais besoin d'une nounou?

Spring-God's Gift to Au Pairs

In September, Huzzah! Here you are in France! The sun shines! The kids are sage! The parents are understanding! There's no French class! All day everyday in the park!

Then October comes, the days get shorter, the weather gets colder. The sun, up until this point a daily attendee, starts getting lazy, showing up late, or not at all. As October seeps into November, he's gone. You don't know what you did to upset him, but you're on your own.

November becomes December, and while the holidays come around, the kids are suffering from cabin fever, and the parents are working more. The day ends at 4 PM. The sun has not returned. Your mood descends. Maybe you go home for Christmas, maybe you don't, all you know is the New Year will be difficult.

January brings more cold, more snow, but, upliftingly, a little more daylight. Then February arrives and something strange happens. You wake up one morning to something in your face. Confused, you roll around in your bed until you realize....

THE SUN HAS RETURNED! YOU MADE IT!

February passes quick, and March begins. Flowers pop up, to remind you, although you thought the weather was beyond hope, Spring will come! Reopen the season. The kids smile again, and you look forward to long walks in the parks, picnics in Paris, night runs, bottles of wine passed amongst friends, sun tans, and the holy French vacations.

This, the Au Pair realizes, is why we are here!

Redefining Friendship

Some fifteen years ago, or so, the planets aligned and I was introduced to my two closest friends, K and J. Through puberty, new experiences, new friends, new countries, new languages, new jobs, the three of us have remained friends. The last time the three of us were together, in the summer, we went kayaking and literally couldnt paddle three feet without laughing, or spouting out some kind of random information. I don't talk to them everyday. Now that K and I have both graduated, and I live in France, we don't see eachother as often as we would like. But I know, when everyone ends up on the same continent together, things will be fine. These are the kinds of friends you don't find every day.

These are the kinds of friends who think completely different than me, and yet, exactly the same. These are the kinds of friends who can tactfully give advice, because we understand eachother. They are the friends that aren't jealous, because we have been together so long, we appreciate eachother and can share eachother with different people. We've watched eachother go through relationships, and all secretly know the "one" for eachother. We fear for eachother, and we watch out for eachother. We annoy eachother, and we forgive eachother.

In fifteen years of friendship, I have never said anything catty about these two girls. One, it is a hundred percent not my style to say something about someone I wouldn't discuss with them face to face. (I wont say that I have never done it, but mostly, I try to avoid it.)

I hate dishonesty more than anything.

Which brings in why I probably like the French so much. Scratch that, most Europeans. One thing that really bothers me about my people, is dishonesty. I get nervous around Americans sometimes, because there's this implication of not being a hundred percent truthful. I get a lot of criticism, and oftentimes come off as a jerk, I think, because I have a hard time being bubbly and obnoxiously friendly. (Holy shit, I have been in France WAY too long.) Being friendly and kind is not a negative trait. It's lovely to be friendly the first time you meet someone. What bothers me, is after I spend a dozen times with the person, and they appear on guard, they agree with you, etc. Don't know what I mean? For example, Tati, my Spanish friend. If I tell her about an adventure that I had, she tells me exactly what she thinks of it, and why. She's not being a jerk, she's just being herself. And why would I get mad at her for having her opinions?

My former host mother, S, was always upfront and honest. At first, I was taken aback, then I grew to love it. I was never wondering "but what did she REALLY mean by that?" Gui gui, after I did a betise on Saturday, absolutely did not take my side. He told me what he thought, and why. He wasn't trying to placate me, I don't think it would have ever occured to him that I could have gotten mad at him. N, the new host father, is French and tells me things as is. It's not him being rude, but sometimes, sentences, are a business transaction. This needs to get done, you are my employee, point.

Maybe I'm just getting older (or brainwashed) but I am finally ok with myself. I still get restless, but not as much as I did before. I see my friends as humans, falliable beings who are free to do as they please. I think when I was younger, I really felt "OMG BFF 4EVA," but now, I choose to spend with people I enjoy talking to, when I have the time. And unfortunately, I do not have a lot of time.

Maybe it's getting older, maybe it's the French, or maybe it's earning a salary that breaks down to 3 euros an hour, but I think somewhere in the last fourteen months, I have found some little part of myself that I was missing.