windowdrop.com Blog

No matter what type of mastery I may someday exhibit over the French language, certain items in the realm of linguistics will remain hilarious.  Take for example this email I received regarding the company Christmas party.

There – now reading that email surely, no matter how mature you may think you are, you had a bit of a chuckle.  Maybe even a full-fledged chortle.  Which begs the question, what really is the difference between a chuckle and a chortle?  Both sound like they could easily be candy bars, maybe a revolutionary new delicacy by Nestle, but let’s leave such a discussion for a later time.

The name of the menu is incredibly great.  Incredibly.  It’s much better than an attachment called something like “Menu for TGI Friday’s.”  And as far as the link for the restaurant goes…tell me that it wasn’t necessary to read that more than once in order to get the name down correctly.  It sounds like a movie you may find in the back of a shady video store…with that second link being the director’s notes for said movie.

I have discovered some interesting facts regarding Spain since I have been here.  I already knew that Spain had seen its fair share of history, what with see-saw battles between Moors and Christians, the Spanish Inquisition, Christopher Columbus, Roman domination, and so on.  As a side note regarding Columbus – I encourage taking a look at http://www.1421.tv/the_book.asp.  According to this intriguing little book Columbus’ discovery is quite a sham.

What I discovered today was that Spanish has not one, not two, but at least five different unique dialects in Spain.  Remarkable given that Spain is probably the size of a couple states thrown together, and has a population of about forty million.  In addition to Castellano, AKA Spanish, you also have Catalán (north east part of the country, por ejemplo en Barcelona), Valenciano (south east – look, you can see Valencia on the map!), Gallego (north west, I do believe), and Basque (border of France and Spain). 

The most remarkable one is Basque, which is similar to just about zero languages and really quite mysterious.  In fact, according to several people that I chatted with tonight, Basque (or a version of it) is spoken only three other places in the world: Spain, some island close to New Zealand, and near Patagonia (South South America).

I ended up discussing this type of thing after wandering around Madrid with some of the Spanish folks at my office.  To stereotype, the Spanish are a laughy, friendly bunch.  I am unable to determine any veiled malevolence at the fact that I cannot speak fluent Spanish, although I hope they are accustomed to that given the language situation in their country.  What great people to pal around with, and in a city that is surprisingly beautiful!

My night ended sitting around a table with three others, one of who had ordered a bottle of yellow moonshine.  There was no label to be seen, and he mentioned more than once that people around Madrid consistently make this stuff in their homes.  We got a half bottle for 10 Euros, and proceeded to take shots of it for the next half an hour, and it was fantastically entertaining.  I managed to piece together some clues about this odd concoction, including its name: El licor de hierbas.  Translated, that means liquor of the herbs.  Delicious.

This beverage is created like something out of a terrible science fiction movie.  The herbalist / brewer crams a mix of Spanish herbs and grasses into a glass pot and then starts boiling the hell out of it.  As this sludge cooks, a noxious vapor is formed and travels through a maze of tubes, which just happen to be cooled, thus ensuring that the gas turns into liquid.  Eventually it flows into some kind of beaker.  Presumably, the brewer must then must wait for a fierce lightning storm to occur, which will send huge quantities of electricity into this beaker and magically turn this herbal mixture into something alcoholic that four people will drink in a crowded little restaurant in Madrid.

My favorite part had to be the customary toast that went along with these shots (no chasers, by the way – the Spanish method), and as an added bonus you acted out the toast while chanting it – I think you can imagine how it would go!

Arriba, abajo, al centro, al dentro!*

*Above, below, to the center, inside!

Since I have arrived here in Europe I cannot escape the feeling that I have been living, as I can most eloquently describe it, in a perpetual state of what “what the shit just happened.”  That may just sound like a confused American, and in all likelihood that is all it is.  But take for example one of my most recent experiences…

It was a beautiful Parisian dawn at 5:30 in the morning on Monday.  Not a train could be heard rumbling - not because of a strike, but because the trains were sleeping and would not be operational for another hour – and not a single person wearing a scarf could be seen wandering the sidewalks of La Defense.  I was on my way to Madrid, the capital of Spain, for the week and I was somehow already tired but simultaneously lusting for an Egg McMuffin.  I found the taxi driver that I had called several minutes ago - looking irritatingly alert and chippy – and fell into the backseat of the cab.  This is where I had my first of several “what the shit just happened” moments of the next hour+.  Despite being in the cab for literally less than fifteen seconds the meter already displayed a fare of twelve Euros.  Perplexed and incapable of arguing in the French language I have yet to master, I simply gave up and stared out the window, my only thought centering on the hope that the one 50 Euro note that I had left would cover the fare to the airport. (It did, by 2.50 Euro)*

The next “what the shit” moment happened forty minutes later when I was dropped off at Orly West, the other big airport in Paris.  My destination had been determined by the following conversation:

Rip Off Taxi Guy (in French, but I cannot type it): “What is your destination, foolish American?”

Confused Christian in Bad French: “Madrid, I hope to God I said that word correctly.  Madrid.  Spain.  Espana.”

ROTG: “Ahhhh, Spain!  Iberia Airlines it is then for you!”

CCIBF: ”No no no, I am on Air Europa.  Air E-U-R-O-P-A.” [At this point I engaged in some frantic flipping through my dictionary in a vain attempt to find alternative words for 'Air Europa.']

Needless to say the guy dropped me off at the wrong terminal.  Maybe out of spite for making him drive his car at 5:30 in the morning, maybe I pronounced Madrid wrong.  You never truly know.  All I do know is that when walking through Orly West the only airlines I could find had exotic names like “Tangier Express” or “Come to Africa and Get Bit By a Snake Airways.”  Iberia Airlines wasn’t even in this terminal, so who knows how I ended up here.  After twenty minutes of pointless searching I discovered that I required Orly East.  Of course.  Mercifully, I was able to find an automated train that would be happy as a squirrel in a walnut factory to take me there.

My final “what the…” moment of the past eighty or so minutes popped up shortly after arriving at Orly East.  The passengers in every single other car was able to get out and wander off to catch their flight.  Meanwhile, I stayed behind, trapped in an evil automated train that wouldn’t unlock the door.  In fact, I couldn’t even navigate between cars – every door was somehow locked up tight.  I had just about given up hope of catching my flight, when two – I kid you not, two – uniformed airport guys walked by the train and literally pried open the doors.  They had to stand there, each with their back up against asliding door of this devil train, while I made a mad dash for freedom. 

Fifteen minutes later, as I stood there panting and sipping an espresso filled with a massive quantity of sugar, I realized that over the course of the next six months or so nothing was probably going to change.  Next week I would possibly walk into a Metro stop and get cajoled into buying a three week old Moroccan pineapple, or maybe I would attempt to cross the street and get hit in the head by a croissant thrown by a cantankerous Parisian.  And really, that is ok with me.

*Let it now be known that Paris taxis begin running the meter as soon as they leave to come get you.  So if they are five minutes away, you will actually be charged for that.  Maybe that will help someone avoid a “what the shit just happened” moment.

It is ironic that a day after celebrating a holiday named Thanksgiving I am spending the majority of Sunday cursing my fortunes.  It’s not that Thanksgiving was bad this year - far from it!  There were about twenty of us Americans jammed into an apartment, and as one could imagine there was enough food to feed a stable of French horses (I did find it comical that nearly everyone had the revolutionary idea to bring a loaf of French bread – there was quite a pile by the time everyone arrived).  My fury is instead directed at the sizable hangover that has been kind enough to take up residence within my head, and now refuses to leave.  I blame the Overgaard Thanksgiving Punch, combined with wine, champagne, and a bizarre Spanish lemon liquor – they have all conspired against me, joining forces for the purpose of pain.

I suppose it is only logical, then, that I am writing this while sitting in La Taverne de Cluny.  I figure that my only weapon against a Thanksgiving hangover is beer.  I will admit though, I’m a bit nervous about this plan of mine – there is a band setting up literally at this second, and I’m seated about five feet away.  Mercifully I don’t see any drums yet…

I have just spent the last six and a half hours at the the same bar with a multitude of co-workers, which may seem like a long time but they’re a fun bunch.  The night ended, unexpectedly of course, with two bottles of champagne apparently better than the Andre that I am used to.  That may be true, but I’m still not sure about the Leffe vs. the Boulevard.  That’s still a pretty close call…

I’ve also decided that I despise the Euro.  It’s not just that it is at steroid strength in relation to the dollar, but rather that shop owners who partake in the economy of the Euro prefer to give out lots of coins.  There is a one, five, ten, twenty, and fifty cent Euro coin, as well as a one and two Euro coin.  What all this means is that whenever I stroll about the office I loudly announce my presence to everyone in a thirty cube radius.  I would love to remove all the non-paper Euros from my pockets and stash them somewhere in my desk, but I cannot escape the fear that if I do some member of the cleaning crew will bilk me out of my precious Euros.  And I need them to buy Kinder Buenos.

I have just returned from several days of showing off my mad consulting skills (over here, that consists of me hanging out in a room while everyone else chatters away in French) – my first ever trip to a city in France that isn’t Paris.  The town is called St. Etienne, which I can still barely pronounce correctly despite having to say it a dozen times a day.  I was envisioning my first client site located in the midst of a lush vineyard, sitting peacefully at the foot of a mountain, or maybe by a lake.  Instead, I ended up in a town (16th biggest city in France, thanks Wikipedia!) that was literally called “the most depressing place I’ve been” by the Venezuelan guy (I had been calling him Spanish for the last two days) that was also on this little excursion.  I wouldn’t go that far, but it did appear that at one time the city had a mass surplus of concrete, and called up all the world’s second tier architects and encouraged them to have a “Who Can Build the Shittiest Looking Building” party.

But of course, it’s never all that bad.  For example, I had the best French dinner since I’ve been here.  I was also the only one in the restaurant, but that’s neither here nor there.  And I discovered that Craig David is back (but did he ever leave!) with a new single.

One of the things that St. Etienne made me realize is how much more often I have been drinking by myself.  Now, two things here – first, it’s not as depressing as it may sound.  It can actually be quite nice to sit around with a book and a beer, or sit near a window and watch people in a new city run around about their lives, and it really is amazing how many new people you may find yourself talking to if you walk into a bar by yourself.  Second, when I say drinking I’m not talking about Kansas City drinking.  Kansas City drinking typically consists of taping 40 ounces of malt liquor to your hands, or mixing up warm (or worse, microwaving them to make them even more warm) shots in a kitchen before heading out to inflict even more damage upon yourself.  No, when I say drinking I mean like a drink or two, and that’s over the course of an hour.

But if you still don’t believe me, let me illustrate the above points via an anecdote.  And while I’m at it, let me also reiterate the point that either A) French people actually don’t hate Americans, or B) I continually have good luck and only meet friendly French people.  While on my magic high speed train back from St. Etienne the other person I was with decided to fall asleep.  I was sitting there, contentedly rockin’ out to Craig David, when I decided that a refreshing beer was required to correctly cap off my trip.  I thought for a second about waking up my fellow associate but decided that he was probably tired of speaking English, so I left him alone.  I made my way to the dining car, which is an awkward thing to do.  You know how when you board an airplane and all the people sitting down already just stare at everyone trying to get to a seat?  That’s how it is on trains too, except when you’re trying to get to the dining car you have to do it over and over again.  Anyway, I finally reached my destination and proudly announced “Bonsoir, un seize s’il vous plait!”

Now I don’t remember exactly how I started talking to Rosa, because I was so astounded that the bartender understood me and had brought me my 1664 beer, but she speaks a bit of English, a bit of Spanish, and a lot of French (she’s French.  And married, for anyone who is curious).  It’s quite entertaining to have a conversation in three different languages, I would recommend it.  In fact, we even got the guy that was standing next to me involved in the conversation.  By the end of the conversation I had a napkin full of places to visit in Paris, as well as an email address should I want a French guide.

The best part is that when I was leaving the dining car these two random French people stopped me and wanted to talk.  The first thing one of them mentioned was that he sold lamps, and showed me his lamp catalog.  I spent the next few minutes looking at lamps and quizzing him on the price and reliability of his products.  Anyway, they were adamant that I get beer with them later.  I’m not sure if it was a lamp sales pitch or if they just wanted to talk to an American.

So, in a long, drawn out mess of words (which is sadly typical of me) we eventually come to the moral of the story, which is it is ok to drink a beer or two by yourself!

I really enjoy French radio.  They played the entire “Ghostbusters” theme tonight, which I just found stunning.

(more…)

Against my better judgment I decided to venture out last night, and venture out I did.  Although I am happy that a mini bar crawl was initiated (on which I discovered that it is possible to purchase beer by the liter), I also ended up dancing with a broom at three in the morning.

CREPE COUNT = 4

Apparently in Paris even the escalators join Metro strikes.  That’s right, on the first morning of the great Save a Train Strike of November 2007 the escalator outside my hotel decided that, in a show of solidarity, it too was going to take the day off.

If you have never witnessed a Metro Strike before you will probably not believe me, but I swear to you – dozens of full grown, suit wearing professionals were tearing around La Defense today on little scooters.  It was quite a sight to see, made especially silly by the fact that every person over the age of nine is required, by French law methinks, to wear some type of colorful scarf around their neck.  To sit and watch middle aged men and women skating around office buildings with scarves flapping in the wind is a grand reason to be a bit late for work.

I must admit that today was one of the first somewhat shitty day in Paris.  It wasn’t because of the Metro strike – in fact, the non-functional escalator impacted me more today than any single train – but a combination of accidentally ordering some type of fish pastry at lunch and being denied my dream apartment an hour later.  I’ll be honest, I’m moping around a bit right now – you really should have seen this apartment, it was phenomenal – but of course that will soon pass.  It just sucks for the moment.

Victim of Wednesday’s Metro strike…

I woke up today just a little hung over and also convinced that I will be the only one in the office on Wednesday.  I had decided to honor the Metro’s impending demise by going out to La Tavernne de Cluny the night before, where I ran into several beers and also a group of Spanish girls that couldn’t speak any French.  It was the first time since I arrived that I felt mildly smarter than anyone, since I could speak English along with some bad Spanish and worse French.  Unfortunately, I think I ruined any potential cross-country friendship when I answered that the best way to get to the airport with the Metro shut down would be via bicycle.

To celebrate the lack of a train I decided that tonight would be a good day to do some laundry. After doing so I’m surprised there aren’t more absolutely filthy people walking around the streets of Paris.  It cost me 12 Euros (about $18) to wash one load of clothes and dry them for thirty minutes.

The most infuriating thing about the whole episode wasn’t even the outrageous sum of Euros that it cost, but that thirty minutes in a hotel dryer is not long enough to dry a single sock.  I am forced to use one of those stupid drying racks that I found in the closet.  I miss being able to cram ever article of clothing I own into a small machine, removing them an hour later and tossing them (dry) onto the nearest couch or floor.

RANDOM NOTE OF THE DAY, 1 = I just noticed that the kitchen in my hotel has twelve wine glasses and four other all purpose glasses.

I used to dread getting up on Mondays, but that was before my workday decided to start at nine in the morning.  In my former American life I only had time to smash the snooze button on my alarm clock once, maybe twice, before I had to either get up or start scheming up an elaborate excuse to tell my boss.  Over here I’m afraid that I’m going to develop tennis elbow.

The big news of the day was that the Paris Metro was going to go on strike Tuesday at eight o’clock in the evening.  From what I can gather, a Paris Metro Strike is like a snow day for adults.  Every cubicle in the office contained a fully grown individual dreaming of the day later in the week that he or she would be able to lounge around their apartment, clad in a t-shirt and shorts, drinking some type of hot beverage and pretending to work.  The thing to know about a Parisian Metro Strike, by the way, is that it’s not just a light dusting of snowflakes.  It’s really more similar to an unpredictable blizzard, and none of the weathermen know when it’s going to end.  There are people are already making plans not to come in the office until next Monday, and that actually may be too soon.  Rumor has it  that the Metro employees are contemplating extending their strike into next week for the purposes of joining up with some teachers who decided it had been to long since they had striked (strick?  stricken?  strucked?). 

If you think about it, I bet that’s really the only thing that can ruin the Metro strike for a Parisian adult.  You’ve got all these grand plans of sitting at home on your couch, watching the morning football match with a nice bottle of Chablis and the next thing you know your kid is sitting right there next to you because his teacher wanted in on the striking fun.  That’s like having the blizzard hit your neighborhood just as your wife walks in the front door with a giant snow shovel.

The maid service came to clean up my hotel room at noon.  I was in the bedroom still sleeping, clad only in boxer shorts, and didn’t know how to say “Please get out so I can continue sleeping, or at least put on pants” in French.  My solution was to go back to sleep.

Ahhh, Saturday in Paris!  I took advantage of the weekend by moving from my posh hotel, located maybe fifty feet off the Champs-Elysees, to a hotel in the La Defense area.  The good news is that the new hotel is about a ten minute walk to the office.  The bad news is that my previous hotel was about a ten minute walk to the Arc de Triomphe.  Understandably though, I had to move.  I had been paying 330 euros a night for the first hotel and would be paying about 200 less for the new one.  That’s not to say the new hotel – the prestigious Fraser Suites – is bad, by any means.  For one, I’m excited that the Fraser has a kitchenette area, which means I will no longer have to pay 19 euros for dinner at a café.  I can make a mess out of my hotel kitchen instead.

La Defense is a sizable office park to the west of all the major historical sites in Paris.  It’s quite bustling on a Thursday or Friday, but on the weekends it is relatively dead.  Today that was ok, as I had made it a point to wander down to the street that my future apartment would be – Rue de Ecoles.  That means School Street, for all us English types. I spent the whole afternoon gearing up to dominate a crepe stand.  As much as I like crepes, I had only eaten one since arriving in Paris, and I feel like that may have let some friends down at home.

All my afternoon plans went up in smoke when I walked past Les Oudayas, a Moroccan restaurant on Boulevard Saint-Germain.  If you are ever in the mood for a challenge, walk into a French Moroccan restaurant and try to figure out what the heck the menu is offering.  My only complaint about Les Oudayas is that I got abandoned by my waiter, which I know is common in France.  No one seems to care how long you sit at a table.  My problem was that I was by myself, and my only source of amusement besides playing with the silverware was my French for Travelers book, which is a dictionary.I was quite pleased with Rue de Ecoles once I got there.  There were numerous cafés and bar sightings, and the street had a healthy dose of bookstores sprinkled in as well.  I’m not sure why the bookstores matter, as I’m sure that my preference will still be to purchase books written in English, but it made me happy nonetheless.  As I walked east down Rue de Ecoles I could feel myself getting very giddy – every corner seemed to host a crepe stand!

CREPE COUNT = 2 

The night could have very well ended up on a bad note.  While enjoying my Nutella and strawberry jam crepe (a first, according to the creper – but I find that hard to believe) I had an accident.  You see, crepes really are quite flaccid – I mean, it’s a thin pancake type thing crammed full of whatever you choose, so it’s inevitable that it’s going to flop around.  I had the misfortune of choosing a crepe with two ingredients that were more than happy – ecstatic, I might say – to ooze out all over my hands and coat sleeves.  I am convinced that these types of mishaps could be avoided if the French crepers would make the decision to wrap their crepes in an incredibly recent invention known as aluminum foil.

Stunningly, aluminum foil was first produced in Switzerland back in 1886!  It’s not like we’re demanding a revolutionary new product here.  In fact, it actually replaced tin foil in 1910.  Why I can’t get a crepe wrapped in tin foil, let alone aluminum foil, is beyond comprehension!

But therein lies the amazing duality of the crepe…with each tiny bad cloud it may feel compelled to send your way, it rewards you with a magnificent silver lining!  In my agonizing search for running water (any historical fountain or McDonalds bathroom will do) I stumbled across a bar that I’m sure I will find myself visiting again: La Tavernne de Cluny!  Not only does it have an unabashed love for Jamiroquai (I must have heard four songs in the hour that I was there), but it was also the site of my very first Paris Tabasco sauce sighting!  I also learned how to say “on the rocks” (avec des glacons), which I promptly put to good use.

Even though I had only put in one day of real work this week, I was ready for the weekend.  Flying to a different continent, moving close to two hundred pounds of awkward baggage back and forth from airports to taxis to hotels, and stumbling around a new city had exhausted me.  As soon as 7 pm rolled around, I was ready to head back to my room and watch some good French television. 

Fate placed a bar directly outside my office building.  How devilish.  I had nothing going on that night, so I walked into Le Nouveau Monde (translation = The New World) and drank a beer with my new co-workers (I ordered with a Belgium brew, which I’m told is very good this time of year).  This time I was joined by another American, a Moroccan, a Frenchman, and a Spaniard.  Inevitably, the conversation turned to

A) the Spanish – Moroccan debate about what should be done with Gibraltar, and

B) how all the Americans mispronounce the French guy’s last name so that it sounds like they’re saying “jack-off.”

All in all, an enjoyable manner in which to spend my first Friday in Paris!

Ah, the first day of work!  I sprang up from my hotel bed at the godforsaken hour of 7:45 am, which was plenty of time to get to the office by nine.  The standard French workday begins between 9 and 9:30 and ends at 6 or 7 at night.  Personally I’m fine with the late start to the day, but finishing up at 7 pm isn’t my idea of an evening well spent.  I’m having a difficult time figuring out why the Parisians start late and end late – my theory thus far is that folks seem to enjoy their time carousing in the cafes, drinking carafes of wine and enjoying dinner, and they do this for a good couple hours.  By the time one gets home, it is a bit late and in no way should one be forced to rise early after a late night of Bordeaux and roast duck.  Of course, this begs the question – if work began at eight in the morning, hypothetically the workday would end one hour sooner, which means getting to the café an hour earlier, and thus getting to sleep an hour before usual – which would put you in a good spot to hit that 8 am target the next day. 

I was lucky enough to begin not only on a Thursday, but on Wine Thursday.  This is a great day, one which I would encourage all mankind to celebrate, on which bottles of wine are delivered to the office at the conclusion of the day.  Your duty, as a loyal associate, is to drink them along with everyone else in the office.It was after this Wine Thursday event that I found myself on the Metro speeding toward the Louvre.  I had been easily convinced to join several co-workers at an Italian restaurant that sits next to the most famous museum in the world.  Eating pasta within a quarter of a mile of the Mona Lisa had sounded like a brilliant idea, and who was I to resist.  I was with two other Americans and two Spanish guys from Madrid. 

On the plane ride over to Paris I had thoughts on what type of dinner discussions I would soon be having – international politics, the European Union, the Euro vs. the American Dollar, literature, all that jazz.  Of course none of these conversations materialized, at least on this night after Wine Thursday, and we instead chose to debate questions such as – is an ox really just a castrated bull?  America says no, Spain says yes.

On previous adventures to Europe I never got jet lag.  This time I did.  I managed to pull myself out of my hotel bed literally ten minutes before I had to meet a friend downstairs for lunch, somehow managing to take a shower and clothe myself properly without being late.  The plans for the day had had been to snag a crepe and find out the directions to my new office, of which I’m sad to say we only accomplished the office part.  I had to settle for a breakfast soufflé, which really is just a step down from a crepe.

Did you know that jet lag is classified as a type of dyssomnia, which as far as I can tell is just a classy way to say sleep disorder?  In fact, there are all sorts of types of disorders underneath the dyssomnia umbrella – think of a big organizational hierarchy, and dyssomnia is the CEO.  Jet lag happens to be stuck under some middle manager named Circadian Rhythm Disorders.  Jet lag toils away with several co-workers, one of which is Shift Work Sleep disorder.  I find Shift Work Sleep disorder interesting because its symptoms include difficulty concentrating and lack of energy.  So there, now you have an excuse for your lackadaisical job performance.

Posted in November | No Comments »