March 30, 2012
IAS 380R Baby Goats in Bretagne
Small Cultural Proof
After a Young Single Adult activity in Rennes, I had several hours before my train would leave. I was with some members from Rennes and another girl from Poitiers, who would be taking my same train. One of the boys invited us to his house until it was time for Sarah and me to catch our train. He lived on a farm. We walked in the door to the house and my heart melted when I saw his dad sitting on an old rocking chair with a baby goat in his arms and a bottle, and two more goats in a box at his feet. They were 6 days old, and the mom had died a just few days after they were born. I actually thought they were lambs for a while, until I caught on. I wanted so bad to take a picture, but as we talked they joked about an American family who came to visit them for Thanksgiving and how they documented with a camera every step of the turkey choosing, killing, cooking, eating process. I was too shy to set it up for them to later joke about the American girl who got a kick out of the “lambs” in the bucket. The dad was gentle with them, but at the same time he didn’t handle them like one would handle a pet. He handled them, of course, like a farmer would handle his stock. I wasn’t sure what the outcome of these little helpless animals would be, and I didn’t want to know. My French isn’t good enough to pick up on things I’m not trying to pick up on. However, unavoidably, I eventually heard him say, “Yeah, they’ll sure be good on a plate!” and I knew he wasn’t joking.
My friends went outside to have a “lovers’ quarrel” leaving me awkwardly with the entire family. The goats finished their meal and went back outside to the barn. I started talking to the mom about cooking; she had made a far breton with prunes, and being less familiar with cuisine bretonne, I had never seen one before. She printed up the recipe for me, and also gave me a thorough and insightful discourse about which spices are hard on your stomach and what she uses with what. She said she never cooks with pepper, as it’s actually terrible for you (something I find somewhat amusing, because I’ve met another woman from Brittany who never ever cooks with salt, and of course has quite strong opinions on it, but uses pepper frequently). We all shared the far breton, which I quite enjoyed, since I’ve always been a lover of flans and custards, and this resembles the two.
When it was time to leave, I took my recipe to make my own far breton and my new knowledge about the turmoils of pepper, and was glad to never have to see those baby goats on my plate.
March 07, 2012
IAS 380R Méli-Mélo
Large Cultural Proof
Some of the other teaching assistants and I joined an international student club called Méli-Mélo. There was a membership fee of six euros to join, and after that most of the activities are free, or at reduced price. The club held weekly, if not biweekly, activities with French and foreign students in Poitiers and in the surrounding areas. Some of the activities included Polyglot nights, flying over Poitiers, museum tours, ice skating, a big Christmas dinner with festivities, a weekend sportif, and a tasting tour including wine, chocolate, and macaroons from the region.
The “Polyglot” activities were held at least once a month at a pub on the grand place by Hôtel de Ville. Each table had a sign which told what language was allowed to be spoken at that table. There were always several French tables, a couple of English tables, a Spanish, a Portuguese, an Italian, and a Chinese table. People sat at one table until they tired of the conversation or the language, and then got up and moved on to try a different table. They tried to have at least one native speaker of the language at each table. One thing I noticed right away is that foreigners, particularly anglophones or Asians, have an extremely difficult time with the “tu” and “vous.” In a social setting like that, of all student aged people in the same club, I see no reason for anyone to use the “vous.” We were all taught in school, “Use ‘tu’ with friends or people the same age as you. Use ‘vous’ to show respect to someone older than you or someone you work under.” However we all still struggle with it, myself very much included. But at the Mèli-Melo activities I felt very confidently that “tu” was the appropriate form of “tu,” and one night decided to try a little experiment. I insisted on using “tu” with everyone at our table (We were lacking a native French speaker at that point.) and waited to see if it would catch on. Up to that point, some Asian girls were very cautiously “vouvoyer” everyone and I felt it was a bit much. I had not long before that been corrected by a French girl, when I used the “vous” with them, she told me it was “too heavy. Too much, and it was weird to use that with other young people.” So I took it upon myself to set the example for these newly-arrived-in-France Asians. It didn’t take long for them to switch to “tu” with everyone else. I’ve noticed that, over time, when speaking to other non-native French speakers they are often very timid about using the “tu,” but if I use it confidently one or two times, they’ll follow my lead and use it too. But maybe that’s how it is with native French speakers too. Someone just starts using it, and the other person follows. Just the other day, I was struggling with using “tu” or “vous” with the father of someone I work very closely with. The daughter and I always used “tu” and it would seem absurd if we didn’t. With her father, however, I didn’t know if since we were in her home and she was using “tu” with him, and she and I were using “tu” with each other, if that meant that by the transitive property I was to use “tu” with him as well? I thought it was better to be safe than sorry, and used “vous” to show respect. After a while, it seemed to annoy him and he said abruptly, “We use ‘tu’ or we use ‘vous?” I shrugged. That’s always been such a difficult, touchy subject for us universal “you”-ers. He said, “We use ‘tu’ then.” I think I’ve finally decided that if someone uses “tu” with you, you use it back. If they’re elderly and want you to “vous” them to show respect, I think they’ll “vous” you also. Oooh the weeks I’ve suffered through trying to communicate with someone without using the word “you” at all, because I didn’t know which form to use! It seems a bit ridiculous now, that I’ve spent so many hours stressing about it, but it’s coming. However, like the “bises,” I may never get it down to a flawless, socially normal science. Guess that’s just the cross I have to bear for not being born French.
I was always a little surprised at how many French people were part of the Méli-Mélo club. In my own country, I don’t think I would be terribly interested in joining an international student club. However as Americans, we do tend to be a little more egocentric than the rest of the world. The activities always had a good split of about 50/50 French to foreign. Not everyone was a student; there were other teaching assistants like myself, people just working or living at home. There was lots of variety, and I think these activities got me speaking French a lot more than some of the other extra-curricular groups I participated in. At the end of one activity, the airplane ride over Poitiers, my brother and our friends and I invited some of the French people over for raclette at our apartment. What a disaster that was. We don’t have an oven or enough plates for as many people as we ended up having, but being American, we didn’t think it was that big of a deal. We got some paper plates and plastic ware. That’s what it’s made for, right? Well maybe one offense isn’t such a big deal, but we also went wrong with a) our choice of meal, b) how we prepared our meal, and c) how we cleaned up after the meal. Raclette is a French meal. It seemed like a good idea to us to make a French meal for our French guests. They will be delighted and flattered. This couldn’t have been farther from the truth. One of our guests in particular, Adrian, had taken it upon himself to let us know every step of the way everything that we were doing incorrectly. We didn’t have the proper raclette oven, and instead melted the cheese on the stove. We didn’t have an oven for the baked potatoes so we put them in the microwave. At the end of the meal, I wiped off the counter with a cleaning wipe. All of these acts were inexcusable to Adrian, and I swore I would never cook for a French person ever again. It would’ve all been very offensive, if it wasn’t for the fact that it got very amusing how we couldn’t even wash the dishes without him telling us we were doing it wrong, and then showing us the proper way. He came, without bringing anything, criticized, ate our food, criticized, and left, and we all took an oath that he would never step foot in any of our apartments ever again.
Méli-Mélo turned out to be well worth the 6 euro membership fee. I met lots of people, it got our little group of teaching assistants out, mingling with the French, and it was at a Polyglot night that I first realized that I might finally be getting this French thing down.
Some of the other teaching assistants and I joined an international student club called Méli-Mélo. There was a membership fee of six euros to join, and after that most of the activities are free, or at reduced price. The club held weekly, if not biweekly, activities with French and foreign students in Poitiers and in the surrounding areas. Some of the activities included Polyglot nights, flying over Poitiers, museum tours, ice skating, a big Christmas dinner with festivities, a weekend sportif, and a tasting tour including wine, chocolate, and macaroons from the region.
The “Polyglot” activities were held at least once a month at a pub on the grand place by Hôtel de Ville. Each table had a sign which told what language was allowed to be spoken at that table. There were always several French tables, a couple of English tables, a Spanish, a Portuguese, an Italian, and a Chinese table. People sat at one table until they tired of the conversation or the language, and then got up and moved on to try a different table. They tried to have at least one native speaker of the language at each table. One thing I noticed right away is that foreigners, particularly anglophones or Asians, have an extremely difficult time with the “tu” and “vous.” In a social setting like that, of all student aged people in the same club, I see no reason for anyone to use the “vous.” We were all taught in school, “Use ‘tu’ with friends or people the same age as you. Use ‘vous’ to show respect to someone older than you or someone you work under.” However we all still struggle with it, myself very much included. But at the Mèli-Melo activities I felt very confidently that “tu” was the appropriate form of “tu,” and one night decided to try a little experiment. I insisted on using “tu” with everyone at our table (We were lacking a native French speaker at that point.) and waited to see if it would catch on. Up to that point, some Asian girls were very cautiously “vouvoyer” everyone and I felt it was a bit much. I had not long before that been corrected by a French girl, when I used the “vous” with them, she told me it was “too heavy. Too much, and it was weird to use that with other young people.” So I took it upon myself to set the example for these newly-arrived-in-France Asians. It didn’t take long for them to switch to “tu” with everyone else. I’ve noticed that, over time, when speaking to other non-native French speakers they are often very timid about using the “tu,” but if I use it confidently one or two times, they’ll follow my lead and use it too. But maybe that’s how it is with native French speakers too. Someone just starts using it, and the other person follows. Just the other day, I was struggling with using “tu” or “vous” with the father of someone I work very closely with. The daughter and I always used “tu” and it would seem absurd if we didn’t. With her father, however, I didn’t know if since we were in her home and she was using “tu” with him, and she and I were using “tu” with each other, if that meant that by the transitive property I was to use “tu” with him as well? I thought it was better to be safe than sorry, and used “vous” to show respect. After a while, it seemed to annoy him and he said abruptly, “We use ‘tu’ or we use ‘vous?” I shrugged. That’s always been such a difficult, touchy subject for us universal “you”-ers. He said, “We use ‘tu’ then.” I think I’ve finally decided that if someone uses “tu” with you, you use it back. If they’re elderly and want you to “vous” them to show respect, I think they’ll “vous” you also. Oooh the weeks I’ve suffered through trying to communicate with someone without using the word “you” at all, because I didn’t know which form to use! It seems a bit ridiculous now, that I’ve spent so many hours stressing about it, but it’s coming. However, like the “bises,” I may never get it down to a flawless, socially normal science. Guess that’s just the cross I have to bear for not being born French.
I was always a little surprised at how many French people were part of the Méli-Mélo club. In my own country, I don’t think I would be terribly interested in joining an international student club. However as Americans, we do tend to be a little more egocentric than the rest of the world. The activities always had a good split of about 50/50 French to foreign. Not everyone was a student; there were other teaching assistants like myself, people just working or living at home. There was lots of variety, and I think these activities got me speaking French a lot more than some of the other extra-curricular groups I participated in. At the end of one activity, the airplane ride over Poitiers, my brother and our friends and I invited some of the French people over for raclette at our apartment. What a disaster that was. We don’t have an oven or enough plates for as many people as we ended up having, but being American, we didn’t think it was that big of a deal. We got some paper plates and plastic ware. That’s what it’s made for, right? Well maybe one offense isn’t such a big deal, but we also went wrong with a) our choice of meal, b) how we prepared our meal, and c) how we cleaned up after the meal. Raclette is a French meal. It seemed like a good idea to us to make a French meal for our French guests. They will be delighted and flattered. This couldn’t have been farther from the truth. One of our guests in particular, Adrian, had taken it upon himself to let us know every step of the way everything that we were doing incorrectly. We didn’t have the proper raclette oven, and instead melted the cheese on the stove. We didn’t have an oven for the baked potatoes so we put them in the microwave. At the end of the meal, I wiped off the counter with a cleaning wipe. All of these acts were inexcusable to Adrian, and I swore I would never cook for a French person ever again. It would’ve all been very offensive, if it wasn’t for the fact that it got very amusing how we couldn’t even wash the dishes without him telling us we were doing it wrong, and then showing us the proper way. He came, without bringing anything, criticized, ate our food, criticized, and left, and we all took an oath that he would never step foot in any of our apartments ever again.
Méli-Mélo turned out to be well worth the 6 euro membership fee. I met lots of people, it got our little group of teaching assistants out, mingling with the French, and it was at a Polyglot night that I first realized that I might finally be getting this French thing down.
February 07, 2012
IAS 380R La Rochelle
Large Cultural Proof
I was starting to regret lugging a giant pair of purple rain boots to
this country, however this week they've been thoroughly put to use.
Sylvie, my coordinator/ boss here in France sent out an email last week
saying she was in desperate need of people to accompany a group of kids
on a week long field trip to La Rochelle. We (Krissy and me) were told
we were going along because both of the teachers taking the 24 kids are
men, and the mothers felt much more comfortable with female chaperones
as well. For matters of propriety, we would be needed if a girl slipped
in the shower and we needed to fish out her unconscious body. Otherwise,
we would have free time during the day while the children attend their
music workshops. "You will be able to explore La Rochelle and shop!" we
were told.
The reality of the situation doesn't quite line up with the sales pitch.
So far I've made a million beds and added a million extra blankets to keep children losing extremities due to lack of heat, changed sheets on a bed where an "accident" most certainly took place, trying to be discreet so as not to further embarrass an 10 year old boy. But to my dismay all the kids caught me at the scene of the crime holding the evidence, and giggled hysterically. I've revived my early morning seminary trradition of waving a hair dryer around a room and in my bed to keep from getting hypothermia, and earned myself the nickname "Miss Marmot" for curling up under my blankets in any spare moment we have. I got stuck in the mud on the beach, guiltily trying to hide my boots from the kids who would less than 24 hours later get hard core yelled at for committing the very same felony. We also played in the snow, read a book in our jammies, and sang a song about lion soup. Have you ever had lion soup? Or tiger pie? Well, neither have I. We played some games, learned some words, ate some cake and hot chocolate. An uber cool Parisian group taught us how to make music using a computer program and how to make rhymes and write lyrics about the cold and the ocean. We collected sea shells, watched the sea gulls and sun set on the water. And it's only day two.
.....Later....
This week has been exhausting. And cold. The heaters never got fixed the whole time we were there. Between the changing sheets, various musical activities for the camp, and walking on the beach, there was mealtime. This was a ritual I most thoroughly enjoyed. We ate in a cafeteria-like add on to one of the older buildings and food was prepared by 2 or 3 women who worked there most of the year for school groups like us. The food was always exceptional. The children, aged CM2, 9, 10, and 11 year olds, sat at round tables and took turns getting bread or water and we (the two male teachers, Krissy, and I) dished up the salad, soup, shepherds' pie, lasagne, etc. Then the children were supposed to wipe off the tables and help clean everything, but that often didn't happen and they often got yelled at for it.
There are three schools I normally work at, all of which are in nice neighborhoods and the kids come from families who are fairly well off. For most of these children, that's not the case. Their school is situated in one of the few more dangerous parts of Poitiers, and according to the Headmaster, who was one of the two teachers we accompanied on the trip, most of the children have at least one family member in prison. He often talked to us about how "they just don't get it," meaning that they have to really work and try to be good to break the cycle; otherwise they will end up pregnant or in prison like their older siblings and parents. He frequently yelled at them, which I have decided is just a typical French method for handling misbehavior, but we could also see that he cared greatly for the children. It was actually a few days into the trip that he told us about their families and such. And before that, seemed to me to be perfectly normal children. I didn't always think they merited being yelled at; often it was for some small offense that I think any excited child on a school trip could've done. However there were other times where I could see that most of them hadn't been brought up in a terribly refined culture.
One of the last days we were at a museum of natural history, and the kids were running about and acting more wild than anyone ought to in a museum. A man who worked there approached me and told me that if they continued to run, they could easily knock over one of the pieces on the floor below because they were causing the ground to shake. He said they'd had a school group earlier that month that had done just that, and they had been extremely fortunate not to have broken it. I told the Headmaster, who immediately rounded up the children and gave them one of the most firm, stern lectures I'd ever heard him give. He told them about a girl who was at the primary school, L'école Andersen. She later went on to collège (middle school), and got pregnant in her first year of collège. Then the daughter got older, went to the same primary school, and also got pregnant in her first year of collège. Then, the granddaughter, she followed the same pattern. It seemed to me to be not quite the appropriate lecture to give when their crime was running through a museum. He probably tied it together somehow, and I just didn't catch that bit. However I am a firm believer that if you are always telling somebody they are one thing, they are much more likely to become that thing. If parents have a child and tell him he's dumb and can't be a doctor, then he is likely to eventually start believing them. So when you remind a group of children twice a day that they are underprivileged and from low income families that have lots of problems, and they need to work super hard not to have problems too, it's almost like telling them they're bound to have the same future. Unless they want to work super hard, which it's likely that these children aren't the type that excitedly anticipate the concept of work. Even if it's true that their futures are bleak, I think that constantly pointing out the bleakness is not going to help or motivate them to want better for themselves. It would be better to help them learn, little by little, the value of knowledge and teach them what their futures could be like, if they succeed. Anyway, I know Krissy and I were often frustrated by that. By how often they were yelled at. But of course the system is different here than in the US or Canada (Krissy is Canadian). Educators "educate" differently. I'll never know what happens to those kids. I'll never know if the great-granddaughter attending Ecole Andersen manages to escape the pattern set by her mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother. But I sure hope she does. And I sure hope some of the rest of those kids can learn to hope as well.
The reality of the situation doesn't quite line up with the sales pitch.
So far I've made a million beds and added a million extra blankets to keep children losing extremities due to lack of heat, changed sheets on a bed where an "accident" most certainly took place, trying to be discreet so as not to further embarrass an 10 year old boy. But to my dismay all the kids caught me at the scene of the crime holding the evidence, and giggled hysterically. I've revived my early morning seminary trradition of waving a hair dryer around a room and in my bed to keep from getting hypothermia, and earned myself the nickname "Miss Marmot" for curling up under my blankets in any spare moment we have. I got stuck in the mud on the beach, guiltily trying to hide my boots from the kids who would less than 24 hours later get hard core yelled at for committing the very same felony. We also played in the snow, read a book in our jammies, and sang a song about lion soup. Have you ever had lion soup? Or tiger pie? Well, neither have I. We played some games, learned some words, ate some cake and hot chocolate. An uber cool Parisian group taught us how to make music using a computer program and how to make rhymes and write lyrics about the cold and the ocean. We collected sea shells, watched the sea gulls and sun set on the water. And it's only day two.
.....Later....
This week has been exhausting. And cold. The heaters never got fixed the whole time we were there. Between the changing sheets, various musical activities for the camp, and walking on the beach, there was mealtime. This was a ritual I most thoroughly enjoyed. We ate in a cafeteria-like add on to one of the older buildings and food was prepared by 2 or 3 women who worked there most of the year for school groups like us. The food was always exceptional. The children, aged CM2, 9, 10, and 11 year olds, sat at round tables and took turns getting bread or water and we (the two male teachers, Krissy, and I) dished up the salad, soup, shepherds' pie, lasagne, etc. Then the children were supposed to wipe off the tables and help clean everything, but that often didn't happen and they often got yelled at for it.
There are three schools I normally work at, all of which are in nice neighborhoods and the kids come from families who are fairly well off. For most of these children, that's not the case. Their school is situated in one of the few more dangerous parts of Poitiers, and according to the Headmaster, who was one of the two teachers we accompanied on the trip, most of the children have at least one family member in prison. He often talked to us about how "they just don't get it," meaning that they have to really work and try to be good to break the cycle; otherwise they will end up pregnant or in prison like their older siblings and parents. He frequently yelled at them, which I have decided is just a typical French method for handling misbehavior, but we could also see that he cared greatly for the children. It was actually a few days into the trip that he told us about their families and such. And before that, seemed to me to be perfectly normal children. I didn't always think they merited being yelled at; often it was for some small offense that I think any excited child on a school trip could've done. However there were other times where I could see that most of them hadn't been brought up in a terribly refined culture.
One of the last days we were at a museum of natural history, and the kids were running about and acting more wild than anyone ought to in a museum. A man who worked there approached me and told me that if they continued to run, they could easily knock over one of the pieces on the floor below because they were causing the ground to shake. He said they'd had a school group earlier that month that had done just that, and they had been extremely fortunate not to have broken it. I told the Headmaster, who immediately rounded up the children and gave them one of the most firm, stern lectures I'd ever heard him give. He told them about a girl who was at the primary school, L'école Andersen. She later went on to collège (middle school), and got pregnant in her first year of collège. Then the daughter got older, went to the same primary school, and also got pregnant in her first year of collège. Then, the granddaughter, she followed the same pattern. It seemed to me to be not quite the appropriate lecture to give when their crime was running through a museum. He probably tied it together somehow, and I just didn't catch that bit. However I am a firm believer that if you are always telling somebody they are one thing, they are much more likely to become that thing. If parents have a child and tell him he's dumb and can't be a doctor, then he is likely to eventually start believing them. So when you remind a group of children twice a day that they are underprivileged and from low income families that have lots of problems, and they need to work super hard not to have problems too, it's almost like telling them they're bound to have the same future. Unless they want to work super hard, which it's likely that these children aren't the type that excitedly anticipate the concept of work. Even if it's true that their futures are bleak, I think that constantly pointing out the bleakness is not going to help or motivate them to want better for themselves. It would be better to help them learn, little by little, the value of knowledge and teach them what their futures could be like, if they succeed. Anyway, I know Krissy and I were often frustrated by that. By how often they were yelled at. But of course the system is different here than in the US or Canada (Krissy is Canadian). Educators "educate" differently. I'll never know what happens to those kids. I'll never know if the great-granddaughter attending Ecole Andersen manages to escape the pattern set by her mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother. But I sure hope she does. And I sure hope some of the rest of those kids can learn to hope as well.
 |
| Learning to write song lyrics. Subject: food and the ocean! |
 |
| on their way to the beach |
 |
| office building. cafeteria on the left. |
 |
| cafeteria |
 |
| Krissy in our lovely room |
 |
| everyone at the museum |
 |
| With a shrunken head! She wants to be a fashion designer when she grows up <3 |
February 01, 2012
IAS 380R SFR: Une Vrai Expérience Culturelle
Small Cultural Proof
Notre histoire commence avec SFR. Quand mon frère et moi sommes arrivés en France, nous avons eu les problèmes vraiment terribles avec le procès pour obtenir l'internet. Je suis allée à la boutique de SFR et j'ai signé le contrat. Le représentant des ventes a dit que dans trois ou quatre jours, il serait obligatoire d'aller au petit magasin pour obtenir notre Neufbox. Il y avait quelqu'un qui nous appellerait à dire que notre Neufbox est prêt et nous irions y aller de l'obtenir.
Alors, nous avons attendu. Et attendu. Nous avons fait beaucoup de visites à la boutique de SFR pour demander à l’emplacement du Neufbox. Après deux semaines, mon frère est allé à la boutique et ils ont dit que le Neufbox était prêt. Il a obtenu notre Neufbox et nous étions trop contents. Cependant, quand nous avons essayé d'installer le Neufbox, il n'a marché pas. Quand nous avons demandé au sujet du problème ils ont dit que nous avons devons appeler quelqu'un qui peut installer le Neufbox parce que nous étions les premières gens qui avaient un Neufbox dans cet appartement. Donc, nous avons appelé encore et prévu un rendez-vous. Cependant, il n'y avait personne qui est venue pour le premier rendez-vous. Pour le deuxième, l'homme a dit qu'il ne peut rien faire et c'était en fait obligatoire d'avoir un autre homme qui peut nous aider. Finalement, après deux mois sans internet dont SFR m'a chargé, j'ai fixé un rendez-vous avec l'homme correct qui a travaillé pendant cinq minutes d'installer notre Neufbox. C'était un miracle !
Je vois qu'il y a une mentalité commune en France que si un système ne marche pas, ce n'est pas grave parce qu'on ne peut rien faire de corriger les problèmes. C'était toujours comme ça, donc, c'est bien sûr le moyen le plus pratique.
Je n'ai pas trouvé une solution à ce problème. J'ai l'internet, mais chaque mois, je vais à la boutique de SFR d'obtenir un reimbursement pour les deux mois où ils m'ont chargé avant que j'aie reçu l'internet. Ils ont dit que je peux avoir un mois, mais je dois écrire une lettre à SFR pour demander l'argent pour le deuxième mois. Je trouve que c'est absolument ridicule. Ils sont une grande société et le seul moyen qu'ils peuvent fonctionner est de retirer mon argent. La bataille continue !
Notre histoire commence avec SFR. Quand mon frère et moi sommes arrivés en France, nous avons eu les problèmes vraiment terribles avec le procès pour obtenir l'internet. Je suis allée à la boutique de SFR et j'ai signé le contrat. Le représentant des ventes a dit que dans trois ou quatre jours, il serait obligatoire d'aller au petit magasin pour obtenir notre Neufbox. Il y avait quelqu'un qui nous appellerait à dire que notre Neufbox est prêt et nous irions y aller de l'obtenir.
Alors, nous avons attendu. Et attendu. Nous avons fait beaucoup de visites à la boutique de SFR pour demander à l’emplacement du Neufbox. Après deux semaines, mon frère est allé à la boutique et ils ont dit que le Neufbox était prêt. Il a obtenu notre Neufbox et nous étions trop contents. Cependant, quand nous avons essayé d'installer le Neufbox, il n'a marché pas. Quand nous avons demandé au sujet du problème ils ont dit que nous avons devons appeler quelqu'un qui peut installer le Neufbox parce que nous étions les premières gens qui avaient un Neufbox dans cet appartement. Donc, nous avons appelé encore et prévu un rendez-vous. Cependant, il n'y avait personne qui est venue pour le premier rendez-vous. Pour le deuxième, l'homme a dit qu'il ne peut rien faire et c'était en fait obligatoire d'avoir un autre homme qui peut nous aider. Finalement, après deux mois sans internet dont SFR m'a chargé, j'ai fixé un rendez-vous avec l'homme correct qui a travaillé pendant cinq minutes d'installer notre Neufbox. C'était un miracle !
Je vois qu'il y a une mentalité commune en France que si un système ne marche pas, ce n'est pas grave parce qu'on ne peut rien faire de corriger les problèmes. C'était toujours comme ça, donc, c'est bien sûr le moyen le plus pratique.
Je n'ai pas trouvé une solution à ce problème. J'ai l'internet, mais chaque mois, je vais à la boutique de SFR d'obtenir un reimbursement pour les deux mois où ils m'ont chargé avant que j'aie reçu l'internet. Ils ont dit que je peux avoir un mois, mais je dois écrire une lettre à SFR pour demander l'argent pour le deuxième mois. Je trouve que c'est absolument ridicule. Ils sont une grande société et le seul moyen qu'ils peuvent fonctionner est de retirer mon argent. La bataille continue !
January 19, 2012
FR 311 Vocabulaire 3
1. to care for se soucier de
2. to draw attention attirer l'attention
3. to fulfill respecter
4. to guide guider
5. to limit limiter
6. to obey obéir
7. to promise promettre
8. to retain conserver
9. to set aside réserver
10. to donate faire don de
11. to fast jeûner
12. to give, to provide donner
13. to include comprendre
14. to meet needs répondre aux besoins
15. to pray prier
16. to receive recevoir
17. to save sauver
18. bone un os
19. flesh la chair
20. sin le péché
21. succeeded réussi
22. to face faire face á
23. to suffer souffrir
24. trial une épreuve
25. burden un fardeau
2. to draw attention attirer l'attention
3. to fulfill respecter
4. to guide guider
5. to limit limiter
6. to obey obéir
7. to promise promettre
8. to retain conserver
9. to set aside réserver
10. to donate faire don de
11. to fast jeûner
12. to give, to provide donner
13. to include comprendre
14. to meet needs répondre aux besoins
15. to pray prier
16. to receive recevoir
17. to save sauver
18. bone un os
19. flesh la chair
20. sin le péché
21. succeeded réussi
22. to face faire face á
23. to suffer souffrir
24. trial une épreuve
25. burden un fardeau
January 11, 2012
IAS 380R Birthday Party
Large Cultural Proof
I was invited to an overnight birthday party for Sarah, a girl in the branch, who was celebrating her 20th birthday. It was only the second time I was the only English speaker at a social event, the first being Adélie’s raclette party. Sarah had invited other friends from church, none of which were in our branch because Sarah and I are the only Jeunes Adultes in the Poitiers Branch. Her other friends came from as far as Rennes to celebrate and spend the night. There were nine of us total, including her younger sister. We played games, ate elaborately presented food, and went to church together the next morning.
Sarah and her family don’t live in Poitiers, but in Châtellerault, a small town in the country. From Poitiers centre, it’s 30 minutes by car and a short 15 minute trip by train. I arrived at the train station at the same time as two other girls, and Sarah’s mom was there to get us. Their house was small and humble, but very cozy, with lots of portraits of children on the walls, stone floors with rugs, heavy wood furniture and china cabinet. They had set up a table with a tablecloth and fruit juices and chocolate candy. However the very first thing that happened when we entered the house was that Sarah’s mom went to search for some slippers for each of us to borrow. Since she has mostly daughters, she apologized to the boys who were already there that she didn’t have slippers for them. It was then that I began to learn the importance of slippers in French culture. Sarah had spent what must’ve been hours preparing a scavenger hunt, with clues and riddles leading to “missing pearls” hidden all over the house. I wasn’t much help with this, and occasionally Sarah would lead the group in collectively translating or explaining some of the clues to me. There were 20 some pearls, so 20 some clues as well, and the hunt took us several hours. Finally we lined up all the clues on the floor to decode a secret message. We never actually got around to decoding it, however, because I think at this point people were losing interest. So next we played a very active game of charades. Sometimes I needed help with the word I was supposed to act out. Obviously if you don’t know the word, you can’t very well act it out....
We continued to play games, sing karaoke, and talk for a while Sarah’s mom finished with dinner. At around 8:00 her mom brought out trays and trays of snack-like foods, including chips, bruschetta with cheese, meat, eggs, or olives, pizza cut into squares, etc. All of this was followed by a large salmon paté and more horderves. The grand finale was a giant chocolate cake with “Joyeuse Anniversaire, Sarah!” written on the top. We turned the lights off, sang, and Sarah blew out enormous candles with fat, sparkling, whistling flames. Sarah’s mom served up enormous portions of the cake, so rich and huge that I thought I might get quite sick if I finished it. I’ve noticed that the French seem to have an extremely high tolerance for rich foods when it comes to celebrating or lunchtime. Almost all of the girls finished the cake, but there were a couple, like me, who set it down for 30 minutes or so and then finished it on round II.
It was interesting being the only anglophone at a relatively long lasting social event. There were times where I was quite frustrated or embarrassed that I couldn’t participate more in the games or help more with the scavenger hunt, but it’s true that the whole time I was fascinated by being in a French family’s old stone house eating their special celebration food and wearing their slippers. But the more I learn about France and the world, the more I realize how prominent English is even outside of English speaking countries. For example, about half of the songs for the karaoke were in English, at which time they would throw me a microphone and tell me to help them. I also had a long conversation with someone about books and movies, most of which happened to be originally written or scripted in English.
This party didn't differ in lots of ways from a typical birthday party in the US; there was still games, food, decorations, presents, and cake. However there were enough differences to be very interesting and culturally enlightening. I don't think in America we would find very many 20 year old birthday celebrations with salmon paté, capers, and slippers distributed to all the guests. What a lovely party it was, and all our feet stayed nice and warm!
I was invited to an overnight birthday party for Sarah, a girl in the branch, who was celebrating her 20th birthday. It was only the second time I was the only English speaker at a social event, the first being Adélie’s raclette party. Sarah had invited other friends from church, none of which were in our branch because Sarah and I are the only Jeunes Adultes in the Poitiers Branch. Her other friends came from as far as Rennes to celebrate and spend the night. There were nine of us total, including her younger sister. We played games, ate elaborately presented food, and went to church together the next morning.
Sarah and her family don’t live in Poitiers, but in Châtellerault, a small town in the country. From Poitiers centre, it’s 30 minutes by car and a short 15 minute trip by train. I arrived at the train station at the same time as two other girls, and Sarah’s mom was there to get us. Their house was small and humble, but very cozy, with lots of portraits of children on the walls, stone floors with rugs, heavy wood furniture and china cabinet. They had set up a table with a tablecloth and fruit juices and chocolate candy. However the very first thing that happened when we entered the house was that Sarah’s mom went to search for some slippers for each of us to borrow. Since she has mostly daughters, she apologized to the boys who were already there that she didn’t have slippers for them. It was then that I began to learn the importance of slippers in French culture. Sarah had spent what must’ve been hours preparing a scavenger hunt, with clues and riddles leading to “missing pearls” hidden all over the house. I wasn’t much help with this, and occasionally Sarah would lead the group in collectively translating or explaining some of the clues to me. There were 20 some pearls, so 20 some clues as well, and the hunt took us several hours. Finally we lined up all the clues on the floor to decode a secret message. We never actually got around to decoding it, however, because I think at this point people were losing interest. So next we played a very active game of charades. Sometimes I needed help with the word I was supposed to act out. Obviously if you don’t know the word, you can’t very well act it out....
We continued to play games, sing karaoke, and talk for a while Sarah’s mom finished with dinner. At around 8:00 her mom brought out trays and trays of snack-like foods, including chips, bruschetta with cheese, meat, eggs, or olives, pizza cut into squares, etc. All of this was followed by a large salmon paté and more horderves. The grand finale was a giant chocolate cake with “Joyeuse Anniversaire, Sarah!” written on the top. We turned the lights off, sang, and Sarah blew out enormous candles with fat, sparkling, whistling flames. Sarah’s mom served up enormous portions of the cake, so rich and huge that I thought I might get quite sick if I finished it. I’ve noticed that the French seem to have an extremely high tolerance for rich foods when it comes to celebrating or lunchtime. Almost all of the girls finished the cake, but there were a couple, like me, who set it down for 30 minutes or so and then finished it on round II.
It was interesting being the only anglophone at a relatively long lasting social event. There were times where I was quite frustrated or embarrassed that I couldn’t participate more in the games or help more with the scavenger hunt, but it’s true that the whole time I was fascinated by being in a French family’s old stone house eating their special celebration food and wearing their slippers. But the more I learn about France and the world, the more I realize how prominent English is even outside of English speaking countries. For example, about half of the songs for the karaoke were in English, at which time they would throw me a microphone and tell me to help them. I also had a long conversation with someone about books and movies, most of which happened to be originally written or scripted in English.
This party didn't differ in lots of ways from a typical birthday party in the US; there was still games, food, decorations, presents, and cake. However there were enough differences to be very interesting and culturally enlightening. I don't think in America we would find very many 20 year old birthday celebrations with salmon paté, capers, and slippers distributed to all the guests. What a lovely party it was, and all our feet stayed nice and warm!
December 27, 2011
IAS 380R Midnight Mass in Paris
Small Cultural Proof
A day
doesn't get much better than this. Christmas Eve in Paris was lovely.
Santons are a big
deal in France. They're handmade and painted clay figures that make a
Christmas village. You don't just have the manger and carolers. There's
the whole lot: the baker, the butcher, the cheese man, the doctor, the
gypsies, the teacher, the washerwoman, the blacksmith. The list goes on.
Because they're so expensive they're often given as gifts.
I
once heard a man at a Christmas market ask if they had any doctors
left. The woman said, "No, we're all out of doctors." He was kind of
upset and took off to continue the hunt. I guess someone was sick.
The Gallaries Lafayette theme this year was Rock and Roll.
We
got there earlier, around 9pm, so what we saw was not technically
Midnight Mass, but the presentation of baby Jesus. In France, baby Jesus
does not appear in the nativity scene until Christmas Eve. So it's a
big deal when he appears. The bishop in Notre Dame read some
announcements and scriptures, then brought out the most enormous baby
Jesus I've ever seen. Then he took the baby, holding him high above his
head, and walked around, kind of by the North Transept and placed the
baby in the crèche. Would've gotten a picture if I could've lifted my
arms. But it was really neat and the people followed him around to
watch.
Then everyone either waits for real midnight
mass, or goes home and puts their own baby Jesus in the crèche. Most
people left and a new flood came in. The whole process took less than an
hour. That's plenty of religion to last until next year!
However, after the more traditional French family eats a huge wonderful dinner, it's time for the Yule Log! This was strike two for the Americans. We forgot to get the Yule Log. HOW can anyone forget the Yule Log, you ask? Erm....I don't know. And believe me, we were sorely disappointed in ourselves. We knew all the bakeries would close early. So we just...forgot. I can't be held responsible. Far too many sparkly things around. Anyway, after we would've put the baby Jesus that we didn't have in our chèche, we would've eaten our Yule Log. The following picture is what my mother insisted on calling a Yule Log. I know. It's embarrassing. Tasted delicious, nonetheless. What can we say? We're American. We're innovative and creative and definitely know how to think outside the box and get a job done. Hello Yule Log. (Yes, that is pistachio ice cream that you see.)
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