“The English do add here and there some other words when speaking, but it is obvious that ‘God-damn’ is the foundation of their language.” – Pierre-Augustin Caron de Beaumarchais
“To err is human. To laze about is Parisian.” – Victor Hugo
“English is just badly pronounced French.” – Georges Clemenceau
“We could never tell whether the Parisians were happy to hear us making mistakes when speaking French, or if they just found the mistakes interesting to listen to.” – Franz Kafka
“I like the French very much, because even when they insult you, they do it so nicely.” – Josephine Baker
“I would rather have a German division in front of me than a French one behind me.” – General Patton

On an unrelated note, all cultures and nations surely can agree that the Eiffel Tower is a stunningly beautiful structure. Every time I see it I am amazed – its incredible height, elegant curves, and the near-transparency of its frame that makes it like a piece of art. When I leave the office I see it through one of the sidestreets and every single time it’s a wonderful sight. I’ve included the photo of it here.

While it’s one thing to mock the infatuation with food & drinks culture here (ie don’t, because you come across like an ass), it’s enjoyable to watch a local squirm with a mix of righteousness, anger and a frail self-consciousness when arguing the relative merits of French vs New World wines. And while it’s undoubtedly true that France has enriched world culture with its great arts, this high quality does not extend to French ‘humor’ – which is not so much untranslatable as it is unpalatable.

But one thing that really makes me smile time and time again is when we are speaking in English and my partner pauses to think mid-sentence, and then resumes with the words “I’m sorry, but I don’t know this word in English” and then uses an English word right away. Examples of this are: pistache, bizarre, apricot, copy, labyrinth, massage, and prolonge. I keep a list of this and jot them down whenever they come across.

When I mentioned that the English word for ‘bizarre’ is also ‘bizarre’, the response was confusion, and when I followed that up by saying that English actually has a larger vocabulary than French, the look quickly changed to something in-between indignation and pity. Because surely no other languages have the breadth and the depth of French? Though to be honest English does itself no favors in their eyes with the complete absence of structured grammar and the gratuitous usage of swear words.

After two long weeks stuck in my apartment, tomorrow I will finally venture back out into the world. I’ve been forewarned that now that summer is over, the metro is jam-packed and wildly uncomfortable. I for one am looking forward to regular, continuous human interactions, and surely more metro stories and swear words. To conclude, here’s one photo to commemorate a very enjoyable first summer in Paris.

I haven’t gotten to learn much French this week as I spent the last few days fielding these questions at a hospital. Douleur, pain, was the key word there. I don’t have a lot of experience with the medical world, but here are some observations anyway.

Damn they are easy with the morphine. I got hooked up and pretty much passed out into delirious oblivion for a good fifteen hours. At night I’d wake up and be utterly confused only for a nurse to walk in, turn the valve once more, and I’d feel the warmth of the morphine coursing through my veins once again. In truth I was happy to be off it because it really messes with your ability to think clearly.

Full service. I was blissfully unaware of what was going on most of the time and they seemed to run the whole thing without needing any input from me. Someone came by at some point to get a copy of my passport. A few times a day a doctor came and looked at my belly. Then they gave me the paperwork to go and I was out of there.

Sexy nurses, or the lack thereof. Dispelling some myths here, the hospital was seriously lacking in the ‘hot French nurse’ category, but that’s OK because all I could have done in my state was to slur half-French half-Dutch at them.

Now I can’t work. They issued me an arret de travail, which essentially forbids me to go to work until September 11. This doesn’t mean I can go on holiday either. I have to be at home every day between 9-11 am and 2-4pm. This is apparently serious business and I’m now stuck at my apartment for the next two weeks…

So now I’m shuffling around the apartment like an old man, hunched over to protect the stitches in my belly (I forgot to mention: I had appendicitis). I am preparing an action plan for groceries which will most likely be “aw fuck it just order everything over the internet”. I’d still like to share some choice words with you.

Je m’en fiche, Je m’en fout, Je m’en tape – I don’t care, I don’t give a shit, I really don’t give a shit
Fourchette, couteau, cuillere – fork, knife spoon. Finally I know these words now.
Feignant – lazy. Probably the word I will use the most in the upcoming two weeks.
Tomber dans les pommes – literally, “to fall into the apples”, it means to faint
Connard – something to say to the slow cutters in the metro: asshole.

Look at any office building in Paris this month and you will see a Post-It note version of Pac-Man, Asteroids, an Angry Bird or two, or Cartman staring back at you. Today I even saw an entire tropical paradise, palmtree and all.

It’s a great phenomenon, doubly weird because it’s only referencing Western, ie not specifically French, pop culture. It brings a smile to my face every time I see them, because in the last two weeks I’ve come to relate totally to the complete work ennui that is August here. Here are some pics I stole off the Internet!

I wonder why everyone is so miserly on their morning and evening commute, but I’m sure I will start to share their pain once my honeymoon period here is over. There is, however, a class of people that I’m already more than willing to throw onto the tracks in the path of an onrushing train. They come in two types.

The Slow Cut.
I’m walking straight, they’re walking just a bit diagonally and a tad slower. So I want to pass them, but they’re a little ahead and are slowly crossing into my path. So I have to hold, wait, cross the other way and resume walking. And at that point they tack like a sailboat and make their way, diagonally again, in the most direct possible way to the corner they need to turn into. Cutting me off a second time.

The Sudden Swerve.
I’m walking straight, again, and I’m beginning to think that’s what I’m doing wrong here. Because this person in front of me swerves across my path as many times as they can, forcing me to change direction every minute or just hug a wall and race past them. And they do this without ever looking back. It’s like they have some sixth sense on where I am and where I’m trying to go, and they instinctively do everything in their power to make this as annoying for me as possible.

It’s all OK, though. I get my revenge as soon as we’re above ground. When I’m on my bicycle, no pedestrian is safe!

Kiffer – to like something a lot. So if it’s great, you can say “c’est kiffant!”. And it’s also part 1 of the line “je l’ai kiffé, je l’ai chiné, je l’ai chopé” which means “I liked her, I flirted with her, I did her”.
Un truc de dingue/ouf – something crazy, in a good way. Ouf is fou in verlan.
Faire la bringue – similar to faire le teuf, it means party. And it combines with dingue so you can say that “la bringue était dingue” which is awesome because it rhymes.
Tellement vener – used in exclamation that something is really annoying.
Shagass/petasse – two ways to call someone a bitch. I now know officially too many crude words for women, thankfully I also learned
Ma gazelle – arab-french slang for a beautiful girl.
Dents de bonheur – literally, ‘teeth of happiness’, it’s the little gap between someone’s front teeth.
Gueule de bois – hangover. Definitely the word of the day for today…

But surprisingly few people I meet are actually born & raised Parisians, and all the import is very much attached to their origins. So as much as I get asked the question where I am from, I get to return it. And it seems like the French come from only 4 places.

Lille, ie the North. This conjures up images of grey ash clouds and heavy industry, and it seems most people from Lille try to play it down. They’ll say “Well, yes, originally I’m from Lille, but I moved when I was…”

Lyon, ie Not Quite The South. Their claim to fame is being the third-biggest (I’m counting London) and that’s kinda it. Apparently it’s very nice, and not Paris.

The South. People keep telling me they’re from ‘the South’ with a kind of knowing tone of voice, as if I should ascribe mythical qualities to this place. What they don’t realize is that I associate the south with Limburg, Catholics and Carnaval, so to me it’s an endearing but not altogether positive view. Apparently it’s warmer, and the people are nicer than those in Paris. It actually sounds really nice, but I keep having this nagging thought in the back of my head that wonders why they’re all here if it’s really that great down there.

Bretagne. This has been called “The England of France” or “The California of France” depending on who is talking about it. It seems to be a place to make fun of, for its rough weather, coarseness, and general un-Frenchness. So I guess it’s actually the Ireland of France. Naturally, I sympathize with people who live in crappy weather and drink a lot, so this seems like a very good lot.

If you don’t feel like asking where your French compatriot is from, an easy way to find out is to start kissing them. No, not in that way. Just the usual introductory ones. If they do 2, they’re from the North. If they do 3, they’re from the South. If they do 4, you’ve got yourself a Breton. To make it more complicated, apparently in the South and Bretagne you start the kisses on the left cheek. This will take some time, and many awkward moments, to figure out exactly.

Nope, it’s all about Planet Nova, far and away the best radio station in the whole world. Light on ads, light on BS, just quality tune after quality tune. You can listen to it here

This is a photo of the Moët & Chandon cellars’ evacuation plan. Realistically it should just say: in case of emergency, pop a few bottles and enjoy your last moments because there is no way you’re ever getting out.

I’ll come back to this topic a few more times, but first I have to gather some photographic evidence of the dehumanizing experience called ‘finding the exit of the metro station’.