“On fait combien de bisous aux Etats- Unis?“
Yesterday morning I was so proud of myself. I had managed to rush through my morning routine enough, after having lain too long in bed and hitting the snooze button too many times, that I arrived at the Gare Rue Vert bus stop in plenty of time to catch the 8:14 bus that goes all the way to my school, rather than stopping half an hour away (on foot). I even bought myself a congratulatory croissant. So, when the number 72 bus comes, naturally, I get on it, feeling all safe and cozy, and snuggle into doing something. Now, the display over the windshield said “Collège Verheeven- this should have been my first clue something wasn’t quite right, as my stop is considerably after that one, but no matter. I was quite aware things were not going as I had planned, however, when I looked up and say that, not only was there no one else on the bus, but the bus is heading back up towards my building. I jump up and rush to the front. The bus driver immediately begins to talk in a defensive tone. He apparently hadn’t seen me, I should have checked the windshield board (I had! And the inside one wasn’t displaying anything!), which now, apparently, read “Depot.”
Lesson: Always, always ask conductor if he is going to my school, or indeed the location. What else can you do?
The bus driver tells me to catch a number five bus to Hôtel de Ville and get on the next next 72. But by now I don’t trust buses farther than I can throw one, and the idea of getting on one bus to catch another seems quite counterproductive. I take the metro to catch the next 34 which doesn’t stop short of my school instead. Some lady mumbles to me in an accusatory tone, and continues to do so even after repeated attempts to let her know I don’t understand a bit of what she is saying. I finally ignore it.
I arrive at the stop for the 34 in time for the 8:49, just as the sun peaks over the hills surrounding Rouen. I ask the driver waiting there if he is going all the way to my school. No. Phew! Another disaster narrowly averted. Now I wouldn’t mind walking, except that every time I do, I manage to be passed by a bus. Hence, there must be quicker ways of getting where I am going.
I finally get on the correct 34 bus, verify it is indeed the correct bus, and sit down. The number and color for the 5 line are painted on the side. Oh well.
Have you ever pushed yourself so hard to do something you almost made yourself cry?
I was determined to speak to French and/or Catholic people today. I tried stalking some at mass today. Which was odd- some random lady kept trying to steal the microphone from the priest and the people talking about World Youth Day during the homily… anyway, the random lady was nice- offered me aperatif crackers at the little snack table afterwards- but she didn’t stay long. I’m a mess- cowering in the corner. The people I do steel myself to talk to don’t say much in return. I’m just about to leave, huddle myself into a payphone and cry to that poor boy who always has to listen to me when I’m in such a state, when a group starts heading back down into the church, as everyone else is leaving. What are they doing, I ask the lady ready to lock the door behind me. “Having a picnic dinner, she answers. Do you want to join them?” “Am I allowed to?” I snivel as I prod the spearhead of my desire to meet Catholics and speak French, no matter what, into my own back. “Of course,” she answers. I assume she sees that I have nothing to eat with me.
She doesn’t. Everyone has brought their own dinner. I’m standing around like an idiot.
Now, if you stand around like an idiot long enough around a group of well- intentioned people, they are bound to take care of you.
They gave me a sandwich to eat, listened to my halting French, repeated when I needed them to- everything I needed. They even walked me home. Or a group of us walked eachother home. At one house, someone pulled out a copy of HP et le Prince du sang mêlé. From that flowed a discussion and agonizing over the fact that we couldn’t remember Scabbers’/Wormtail’s (Croutard/ Queduver’s) real human name and it would bother us forever until we remembered. At another house, after saying goodbye and kissing each of my cheeks, the girl asked me, “How many kisses do people do in America?”
Anyway, World youth day either attracts or creates holy people…I was so welcome!
French words/ terms I’ve learned recently:
Le croquis: (n) sketch
“Ce n’est qu’un croquis, pas une vraie carte” (in Geography class.)
La bâche: tarp
“On s’est couché sur une bâche” (stories about JMJ)
JMJ: Journée Mondiale de Jeunesse- World Youth Day
Tirer la chasse d’eau: flush the toilette
“Les toilettes préfabriquées- où il n’y avait pas de chasse d’eau!”- more stories about JMJ
Le bizutage: hazing bizuter: to haze (first year university students)
“On a bizuté mon frère en l’obligeant à s’habiller de PQ, comme une momie.”
La veillée: a vigil, as in for the dead; or a gathering around a camp fire to sing songs, often of a religious nature (Kumbayah, My Lord…)
Entraider: to help one another
Nationalities people have guessed for me (today):
Scottish
Irish
English
Polish
German
(I guess English, Polish and German aren’t too far off…)
Lesson: Always, always ask conductor if he is going to my school, or indeed the location. What else can you do?
The bus driver tells me to catch a number five bus to Hôtel de Ville and get on the next next 72. But by now I don’t trust buses farther than I can throw one, and the idea of getting on one bus to catch another seems quite counterproductive. I take the metro to catch the next 34 which doesn’t stop short of my school instead. Some lady mumbles to me in an accusatory tone, and continues to do so even after repeated attempts to let her know I don’t understand a bit of what she is saying. I finally ignore it.
I arrive at the stop for the 34 in time for the 8:49, just as the sun peaks over the hills surrounding Rouen. I ask the driver waiting there if he is going all the way to my school. No. Phew! Another disaster narrowly averted. Now I wouldn’t mind walking, except that every time I do, I manage to be passed by a bus. Hence, there must be quicker ways of getting where I am going.
I finally get on the correct 34 bus, verify it is indeed the correct bus, and sit down. The number and color for the 5 line are painted on the side. Oh well.
Have you ever pushed yourself so hard to do something you almost made yourself cry?
I was determined to speak to French and/or Catholic people today. I tried stalking some at mass today. Which was odd- some random lady kept trying to steal the microphone from the priest and the people talking about World Youth Day during the homily… anyway, the random lady was nice- offered me aperatif crackers at the little snack table afterwards- but she didn’t stay long. I’m a mess- cowering in the corner. The people I do steel myself to talk to don’t say much in return. I’m just about to leave, huddle myself into a payphone and cry to that poor boy who always has to listen to me when I’m in such a state, when a group starts heading back down into the church, as everyone else is leaving. What are they doing, I ask the lady ready to lock the door behind me. “Having a picnic dinner, she answers. Do you want to join them?” “Am I allowed to?” I snivel as I prod the spearhead of my desire to meet Catholics and speak French, no matter what, into my own back. “Of course,” she answers. I assume she sees that I have nothing to eat with me.
She doesn’t. Everyone has brought their own dinner. I’m standing around like an idiot.
Now, if you stand around like an idiot long enough around a group of well- intentioned people, they are bound to take care of you.
They gave me a sandwich to eat, listened to my halting French, repeated when I needed them to- everything I needed. They even walked me home. Or a group of us walked eachother home. At one house, someone pulled out a copy of HP et le Prince du sang mêlé. From that flowed a discussion and agonizing over the fact that we couldn’t remember Scabbers’/Wormtail’s (Croutard/ Queduver’s) real human name and it would bother us forever until we remembered. At another house, after saying goodbye and kissing each of my cheeks, the girl asked me, “How many kisses do people do in America?”
Anyway, World youth day either attracts or creates holy people…I was so welcome!
French words/ terms I’ve learned recently:
Le croquis: (n) sketch
“Ce n’est qu’un croquis, pas une vraie carte” (in Geography class.)
La bâche: tarp
“On s’est couché sur une bâche” (stories about JMJ)
JMJ: Journée Mondiale de Jeunesse- World Youth Day
Tirer la chasse d’eau: flush the toilette
“Les toilettes préfabriquées- où il n’y avait pas de chasse d’eau!”- more stories about JMJ
Le bizutage: hazing bizuter: to haze (first year university students)
“On a bizuté mon frère en l’obligeant à s’habiller de PQ, comme une momie.”
La veillée: a vigil, as in for the dead; or a gathering around a camp fire to sing songs, often of a religious nature (Kumbayah, My Lord…)
Entraider: to help one another
Nationalities people have guessed for me (today):
Scottish
Irish
English
Polish
German
(I guess English, Polish and German aren’t too far off…)
posted by Etrangère | 8:00 AM
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