Category: Life in Paris

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“Leben ist kein Ponyhof”

(Translation from German) “LIFE IS NO PONY FARM”

My last post was in December as I was preparing to exit Paris with Georgia and Roo. I was sad to leave. I had been excited to watch spring slowly chase winter from the ancient storied city. I knew balconies would bloom and overcoats would be shed to once again reveal the measured yet undeniable flamboyance of French fashion.

I was leaving just as I had begun to make some ‘friends’. It’s a term I use loosely to denote the charitably good natured people who chatted to me regularly at the gym and my usual cafes and haunts. The basic little conversations with me were a blip on their radar but formed a meaningful feeling of connectedness for me to my new home. By December, I had learned my way around the city more or less without needing to refer to my phone navigation, and that, in combination with what I like to think of as an improved attention to how I dressed even had people asking ME for directions to places.

I loved it when tourists would ask me for directions in halting French, and I would reply in English, that

“Yes, the Palais Garnier is the Opera house and yes, it is that big building up there with the gold on the roof”, or

“I would recommend Printemps. It is just up ahead to the right. Make sure to visit the two food floors at the top of the Mens building and plan to have lunch there if you can.”, or

“There are actually three Zaras (or three Starbucks) all close to here. Which one are you looking for…?”

Their faces lit with joy at their luck of having inadvertently asked an English speaker and my face lit with joy at having been taken as French.

So returning to our decidedly quiet corner of life on a West Coast Canadian Island was a bit of a reverse culture shock. I think the most alarming part was that it felt like nothing had changed at home. In fact the kids and I would marvel that the more days at home we logged, the more it seemed our time in Paris might not have even happened at all. But Christmas came and we enjoyed all the happiness and family togetherness that entailed and soon it was January.

Rupert slid back into school as if he had never left; Harrison went back to school, and Georgia was engaged in art school applications. It felt the world was ticking back along its indentured path and then Covid 19 came on the scene. Now life has changed for all of us on this spinning dot of blue.

But life for us personally in this little bubble of relative self-sufficiency and low population density has hardly been arduous. But as I follow my French ‘friends’ on social media, I feel pangs of sadness as I witness that ancient city of architectural beauty and continual motion, stop. The streets are bare, made so by roaming armed guards insisting people stay behind closed doors. A photographer friend sent me photos of the city as almost never seen before: entirely empty. (Credit to Marc Aussett-Lacroix)

The streets are in fact so empty that they almost appear photoshopped to me. Paris is NEVER empty. The City of Lights never sleeps.

Tour Eiffel
Rue de Rivoli
The Louvre
Place de la Concorde
Place Vendome

I’ve always thought Paris is its famous monuments and its other gorgeous buildings, its parks, the Seine, and the way the light dawns and sets on it all. But without its people, Paris appears to have become like a beautiful car without an engine. Navigating the streets with throngs of people, and so so many tourists was tiring and often frustrating for us, but I must concede it was also the people who brought the magic: magic in the form of windows piled high with spectacular cheeses and bread and pastries, people standing and chatting (and smoking) and laughing and looking. It was the people on loud scooters, in speeding taxis, on sidewalks rushing, in restaurants clinking, and the lines of them disgorging from endless buses that were a massive part of the city’s vitality. I think old buildings have a soul, but without the life of any people, they don’t have a pulse.

And while the world’s people stay behind closed doors, we have taken to entertaining ourselves in wild and wonderful and weird ways at home. We’ve had a few ‘sophisticated Sunday’ dinners, where we make a nice dinner and get dressed up and have a dance party afterward. Last Sunday was Mothers Day and Georgia suggested we embrace an 80’s German Techno theme.

In preparation for the event, Georgia and Roo decided to create their own heavily synthesized song. They wanted to incorporate proper German lyrics, so went to our friend, Google to find some phrases in German. Turns out there are some very intriguing German idioms. Georgia has a couple of German friends and she said it’s amazing how they have a word for things that in English take a number of words to say. For example they have one word to denote the feeling when something is on the tip of your tongue.

Georgia and Roo got a kick out of researching these phrases and the song they composed, incorporating most of them is pretty fantastic. It ends with an inspiring ‘Happy Mothers Day’ and gave us some much enjoyed dinner chuckles. As the Germans would say, ‘now we’re in the salad’ with the state of the world. But it’s time to get over our ‘grief bacon’, and to recalibrate and remember what, or more importantly who is of importance to us in these journeys of life we are fortunate enough to enjoy. I don’t think it’s an ‘air castle’ to think there is still so much magic and beauty in the world and in ourselves. It’s important to remember that the challenges make the victories that much better. We can’t all ‘live like God in France’. We need to remember that ‘life is no pony farm.’

Hope you and yours are keeping safe, content and feeling loved. ❤️

German Idioms:

30 Weird, Funny and Unique German Words to Spice Up Your Deutsch
27 Funny German Phrases to Help You Sound Like a Native Speaker

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The Aftermath

‘Tis the season to be jolly but ’tis also the season for torrential downpour, transit strikes and Christmas shopping here in Paris. The cessation of mass transit seems to have filled the streets with more cars, and the related traffic jams and perpetual honking have reached epic proportions. But it’s still Paris…and it’s even more magically beautiful than ever.

Rue Saint Honore

The French favor understated holiday decorating and the streets are additionally attractive with tasteful garlands and tiny lights. The sidewalks however, especially in our neighborhood which features some of Paris’ most impressive department stores, are total chaos. Last weekend the streets felt cheek to jowl and I mostly opted out, and happily stayed in, enjoying a couple of movies backdropped by the sound of rain.

I can’t recommend highly enough the movie, The Aftermath with Keira Knightley, Jason Clarke and Alexander Skarsgard. It’s set in 1946 post-war Hamburg, a city which experienced more bombing in two days than London did during the entire duration of the war. The British government are requisitioning homes and Alexander Skarsgard plays a german architect forced to play host in his home to an English Colonel and his wife. Loyalties are divided, consciences are conflicted, and palpable grief over the dead engulfs the living.

“The Aftermath” Movie Trailer

The story is smart, sexy and suspenseful. I was glued to the screen the entire time watching this story unfold in the hands of the brilliantly talented Ridley Scott. Stories set in war times are so powerful because people seem distilled to their basest selves under intense duress, and I am constantly moved by evidence of demonstrations of impressive humanity in the bleakest of times.

It seems impossible to imagine Paris engulfed in the strife of warfare when I walk down the beautiful ancient streets of today. We return home in a week and the most solider-like things in our midst are the ordered line of packed suitcases panting beside the door. Rupert cannot wait to re-establish daily life in such relative peace and quiet, meanwhile Georgia is busily planning her next adventures, having done what’s become a very non-dramatic exit from Fashion school.

That’s a whole story unto itself but being wary of being sued for defamation of (school) character, I’m going to keep quiet on the matter, but I can say the administration was entirely unreceptive to the entire class meeting with them with its concerns about the quality of the teaching and that to date 12/30 students have withdrawn. I am very well versed in the ‘hazing’ period of institutions, having been in the military, and they are of course known to be exceedingly difficult, but hazing this was not. I can’t decide which was more bizarre or disturbing: what the kids witnessed and experienced or the fact that Georgia’s letter outlining her concerns to the school went unanswered except by them saying they would be informing the police and government of her withdrawal and that her visa will be revoked.

So we are all coming home next week and Georgia is then heading to the land down unda (…”where the women glow and the men thunda”…) to see my parents and to try her hand at all things ‘FM’ as my dad calls them. (That’s ‘Farm Management’ in case you wonder and it’s a full time enterprise managing all the critters, which include some new recruits of the poultry variety, nicknamed ‘The Chimbos’ (or chicken bimbos) because while they are very feathery and beautiful, they are very low in the brains department.) So Georgia is trading her thimble for a pair of overalls, and if anyone can pivot it is she. She is completing her applications for design schools for next year and until then is getting a working holiday visa to go walkabout in the Southern Hemisphere.

And for yours truly, my chapitre francais has come to a close. I’m disappointed because there is still so much I’ve not experienced. I really wanted to see the first signs of spring pop out and waken the city from the chilly clutches of winter. There are places I haven’t seen, streets I haven’t walked, restaurants I’ve not visited, and cooking classes not taken. I can’t help feel there is never enough time.

In The Aftermath movie, Keira Knightley’s character laments her husband’s constant absence and says they need more time. He replies:

“I know. This is not what any of us wanted…but here we are.”

Yes, here we are. Any of us, and all of us, and aren’t we darned lucky to be here, living in the relative peace that most of us reading this do. It really is a common human trait to succumb to the feelings of regret when life doesn’t go as we hoped, but being in a state of constant change seems to be the very definition of life. Unpredictability is an intriguing enigma: it is one of the biggest constant challenges for most of us, and yet by its very nature it can propel us forward in ways we could never have dreamt. Constant change keeps us learning and it keeps life exciting. Tim Ferris reminds us:

“The opposite of happiness is not sadness. It’s boredom.”

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ZF2 = SA+SA

Today was an absolutely stunning day. The heavens opened last night but this morning the sky began clear, bright blue and cold. I regretted wearing a short coat and stuffed my hands in my pockets as I walked through the Jardins de Palais Royal in the late afternoon.

Like a cat, I have slowly expanded the circle around my house and I have what feels like a sizeable radius within which I can wander on autopilot and let the hamsters in my brain do what they do best. It’s come to my attention that the content of my blog has not landed well with a few people and I have been mulling since my last post exactly how to address that.

I’ve been told that given I am a very private person, it seems strange that I am sharing things about my life in a public blog. I’ve thought a lot about this one. My blog came to be because I used to write long descriptive notes to a friend of mine and he suggested that I could write a blog because my journey might be of interest to other people. I do enjoy writing. It’s a great outlet for me to work through some of the cacophony created by the hamsters upstairs. I also love reading, and as such I follow a few blogs that I think, dare I say, ‘enrich my perspective’ and by whom I’ve felt inspired.

My favorite blog as most of you know because I am incorrigible about sending it to people, is Jenny Lawson, author of 3 books, and author of a blog called The Bloggess. Not only is Jenny Lawson absolutely hilarious, but she is a brilliant storyteller. She is a passionate animal lover and it’s a wonder she gets any words to screen given the constant barrage by her menagerie. I find her to be incredibly witty and engaging with her style of writing and her topics are so uncommon and also seem so relatable.

Jenny Lawson is very open about suffering from a myriad of health problems, both physical and mental which sometimes cause her to feel like the walls are closing in. Sometimes her depression is so bad she cannot write. And yet she does..just a little, here and there when she can. The grace and good humor with which she handles all that life throws her is incredibly inspiring and impressive.

There are people who are fighting crime and slaying dragons in impressive displays in the arenas of athletics, academics, business, technology, medicine and others I’m sure I’ve forgotten, but what partly inspires me about the way Jenny Lawson is, is that she lives a seemingly mostly ‘typical’ life, being a daughter, wife, mother, pet owner, neighbor, friend etc and also dealing with (more than her fair share of) adversity. And from her everyday experiences and struggles with medical challenge, she makes her own kind of beauty and magic, and SHARES it with all of us.

If she eliminated the personal content of her blog, her story wouldn’t resonate on the very human level that it does. I believe it’s precisely her bravery and courage in sharing all the parts of her life that gives her messages their immense power. (Click here for an article about her.)

It’s also a wonderful example of giving because as a result of sharing her journey in such a truly authentic, touching and hilarious way, Jenny Lawson has created a huge fan base from whom she says she now feels tremendous daily support. It’s a perfect example of how the act of giving when done with pure intention becomes symbiotic with receiving.

I thank all the stars that shine that I haven’t had to deal with the sorts of obstacles Jenny Lawson faces daily. But like all of us I have had challenges. I had never known fear of imminent death for example like when I had cancer. It was crushing for me. The challenges of living abroad have paled in comparison, but I have certainly had my moments and the heartfelt notes of love and encouragement from you have meant the world. You know who you are, and I thank you and am so grateful to have you ‘in my orbit’ as one of my friends says.

I think it’s important to note also that my blog is not meant to be taken as notes home. My writing here is my place to play with ideas and experiment with commentary about things that are of interest to me, and maybe others. My stories are not fictional, but may involve a little artistic license because that’s fun and makes things more interesting.

I think it’s of benefit to be in a public format and discoverable for people to come across because it means I can connect with those with whom my path might otherwise not cross. And isn’t that the whole point of our journeys through time on this floating blue dot?….to challenge the unknown in whatever form that takes for each one of us? It’s also been my experience that when I share authentically especially with others who I am just coming to know, they will often do the same. And if they don’t, they are probably not those with whom I wish to engage. I’m not a huge fan of cocktail parties for example because of their ‘small talk nature’ but almost without fail I end up finding a few like-minded people with whom to share a few really deep conversations.

So what does ZF2.0 = SA+SA mean?

Well I was thinking about the concept that’s bantered about so much these days of ‘giving zero f*cks’. There’s a book on it, and I have to say I found it to be excellent. And this image below just came up on my instagram and I had to laugh:

But joking aside, it’s a concept with which I wrestle so much. The idea of ‘giving zero f*cks’ about what others think is very difficult for me. Like most of us, I have always sought the acceptance and approval of others. So when I boil down the true nature of giving zero f*cks it means being so accepting and approving of ourselves that the opinions and judgments of others don’t hold any relevance for us.

Zero F*cks 2.0 = Self Acceptance + Self Approval

If I chose to write some commentary or other about something or to share my version of something that happened in my life, it is for my own artistic expression and as a way to consider the meaning of things as I move through life. Acting with kindness, respect and honesty is what is of utmost importance to me. I endeavour to do that with every interaction I have everyday.

When I make decisions, my rationale might not be obvious, clear or even discernible when explained to others, but that’s ok. And sharing things about my life is a form of expression that won’t ‘vibe’ with everyone as the modern vernacular goes. But I’m happy doing my thing here in my pink Mickey Mouse spandex. It works for me. I’m comfortable for travel, and maybe I’m on my way to Disneyland!? I’m going to fit right in, and be able to walk happily for miles in my dad sneakers, tank top and these vermin themed leggings in a color that will make me easily viewable in a crowd. 😉 #DisneylandOrBust

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“What” and “If”: Two Innocuous Words

Two innocuous words that when used together have the ability to put the brain into complete spiral.

Vanessa Redgrave in ‘Letters to Juliette’

Well, this is my fourth attempt at a blog post. I have been thwarted at every turn. Twice, the wifi cut out in the middle of me writing…once my piece was lost due to my own error in closing the window, and then the second time it was saved, but alas the moment of inspiration was lost.

When I create, whether painting or writing, I tend to work until the piece is done. I will go back and edit or modify a painting at a later time of course, but the initial genesis always comes out in its first iteration in one sitting. So I have a few posts now sitting in construction, and I will attempt to come back to them, but for now I am surging forward.

It has been a hard week with a few emotionally dramatic scenarios occurring. They are not my stories to tell, but they have been dramatic and traumatic. I think Roo will allow me to say that he was mugged. He is physically ok, but mentally quite shaken. A guy accosted him at the skate park (about 2.5km from our apt) and tried to take Roo’s drink off him. Roo stood his ground and then the man followed him into the skate park course and started to point and pull at Roo’s knee and elbow pads. Roo had the good sense to leave the park, but unfortunately the guy followed him…keeping out of sight. When Roo opened his cross body bag to retrieve his key card to enter the building, the guy sprang on him as Roo was closing the door behind him.

The guy grabbed him by the scruff and thrust his hand into Roo’s open bag and made off with some cash. He couldn’t steal the whole bag as it was attached to Roo so that’s at least a consolation. The loss of money was little consequence compared to the awful feeling of violation Roo felt being accosted in our own front lobby. So that has very much eroded his sense of safety and well being. And it’s really unfortunate because Roo was just starting to feel at ease, making small circles from our apartment to get familiar with the area. Our neighbourhood is very safe and it’s just very unfortunate that this crime of the skate park followed him home.

Roo’s courage and resilience has impressed me no end and I am pleased and relieved to see him recovering. This incident has however lessened his love of this city, and he is struggling with not wanting to remain here. This is a familiar predicament for me because I was an exchange student to Venezuela and I had some exceedingly traumatic events occur and I was desperate to leave. I didn’t disclose to my parents the full extent of what had happened so they didn’t know what I was dealing with, and insisted I stay. My mom grew up in the Middle East and a day where bullets didn’t ruin the family’s good sheets while they were drying on the line, was a victory. My mom is made of tough stuff and I know wanted me to grow from my challenges of living abroad.

But do I think leaving Venezuela would have been the right choice for me? I do. I stopped going to school in Venezuela because I was harassed there by the boys, and I turned to exercise as a means to cope. I lived in a tiny gated community of about 6 houses in the mountains and we had a shared driveway that was about 1 km long at about a 40% incline. So I sprinted up it. Again, and again and again. I also found a gym I could go to and feel safe and so I worked out. Class after class after class. When I arrived back in Canada I was wiry and lean (and absolutely totally mentally wrung out.)

My physical prowess inadvertently put me in perfect condition to hit my next chapter of life which was starting in the Canadian Navy as a Fighter Pilot trainee. I arrived being able to surpass all the physical fitness standards set for (women and for) men. I could do chin ups for days and as the smallest person was always the ‘marker’ when we formed up. (The marker was the one around whom everyone else had to keep the proper distance so the squad stayed in perfect formation while in motion. It was kind of a thing of beauty to be honest, but I was often shrieked at to slow the pace while we ran for miles as one.) So perhaps the challenges of South America prepped me well for military life, but Rupert is not training for military forces and he is also only 12. So we are working our way through finding what will feel like the right path forward for him.

Regardless of what we all decide is the right choice for Roo, I know this experience of living in Paris (regardless of the length of time) will inform him for the rest of his life….and I don’t just mean the being mugged part. That was an unfortunate experience but there have already been soooo many good ones. So it’s a matter of finding the balance of how many good ones we pack into his bucket before he returns home to Victoria.

As I sit writing this, my hair is in a wild mess on top of my head. We are now at day 3 without hot water and feeling like I’m back in the military, on a multi-day field exercise where personal hygiene isn’t a priority. But I have to take a moment and let off some steam, and say, ” ummm, WTF?!…last I checked I am living in PARIS….one of the largest metropolitan cities in the ‘modern’ world. Why on God’s (still mostly…) green earth is it taking 2-3 days to get a part for a boiler in a building that has just been gutted to the studs?! ”

This is a rhetorical question, because in France in this situation one just shrugs one’s shoulders and simultaneously exhales whilst also saying ‘Ufffffttt….’ and trailing off. I mean honestly I would expect this from some enchantingly quaint town in rural Italy, but not in the freaking centre of freaking Paris. Sorry there is a lot of ‘freaking’ happening here, and let me just say that I’m actually toning it down.

I wrote about the challenges of the French bureaucracy….I accidentally typed that as ‘bureaucrazy’ and really, no spelling mistake could be more apropos. In order for us to ‘validate’ Georgia’s student visa we need to pay a small ‘administrative’ fee and present her visa and passport to our local city hall. In order to pay the aforementioned admin fee, however, we need to have a French bank card or credit card to pay. Those are the only two accepted forms of payment.

I am now about a month and a half into the process of getting a bank account. I’ve given them copies of everything under the sun, I even have my IBAN number AND have given them 800 Euros to open the account. I felt like I was just about there, but do you think I can get the bank to give me the bank card to be able to access my bank account?! Absolutely not! That appears to be a whole different thing. I’ve been to the bank four times. They now know me there. They actually KNOW my first and last name just by seeing me. At least I have that going for me, except they just shake their heads and give me the French ‘uffffttt’ about where my bank card is. Apparently they are waiting from authorization from the heavens. God, if you are listening….I know you have WAY bigger fish to fry….world peace, starvation, environmental peril, the ill and the suffering…..they all take priority, and I want them to, but…..I just kind of really need that bank card in order to get some $hit done down here in the earthly realm.

I’m not one to watch many movies, but lately I’ve just needed to escape into some kind of feel-good screen therapy. My latest drug of choice was a delightful little movie called ‘Letters to Juliet’. I am most certainly NOT recommending it because I don’t want to hear from anyone who says it’s a cheesy giant cliche. Maybe it is, but it offered a little bit of welcome happy magic to me as I feel like I’m floundering in a french quagmire of challenge.

Letters to Juliet is the story of a young girl played by the absolutely gorgeous Amanda Seyfried who stumbles upon ‘the secretaries of Juliet’ who are the Veronese women hired by the city to reply to all the letters written to the famous Juliet Capulet. In a lovely twist of fate involving her ill-suited fiance, she ends up replying to an overlooked letter from 50 years ago and setting off a chain of events that leads to the search of one woman’s unrequited love.

The story is a beautiful adventure through the most absolutely stunning Tuscan countryside. It is everywhere I would like to be right now. And it gives me pause.

When I was looking at being an exchange student all those years ago, I had wanted to go to Australia, but my mom insisted I go somewhere where I would learn a different language and expand my cultural awareness. So I went to Venezuela.

When Georgia was applying to design schools, it’s no secret that I thought the ‘right’ choice for her was the Design Academy in Eindhoven in Holland. But when she got the nod from Paris, everything else faded to black. She was determined to be here, and I wanted HER to make her own decisions. But I also didn’t think it would be a great idea for her to hit Paris alone. After all, Paris is a big city, with the propensity for danger. ( #MuggingMuch ?! ) So I wanted to accompany her and ease in the transition.

I’m not sure I’ve succeeded thus far with easing much, however. I think my frustration with most things French hasn’t been very easy for her (or Roo) to endure. And maybe it was a mistake to think I could handle the chaos of all things big city-ish nevermind, en Francais. Big cities and I are not bosom buddies. I question my sanity in being here every time I head to the gym to out-run my thoughts and to enjoy the gym’s wonderful peace and quiet.

I was on the treadmill the other day and my favorite Prince song came on. I couldn’t believe the flood of memories the song brought back. These must be some of the best song lyrics I know. (I know I don’t get out much, but the whole ‘Trojans/horses’ analogy is still as amazing now as it was all those years ago.) I was close to Rupert’s age when the Purple Rain album came out. My beloved aunties bought me the cassette for my birthday and I played it non-stop on my waterproof bright yellow Sony Walkman.

Anyway, with one thing and another I find myself daydreaming about the ‘what if’s’. And if Roo and I happen to disappear, I can tell you where to find us. I will have found us a bright orange Ferrari California and we will be racing through the rural Italian countryside in search of the next best olive oil, with Prince’s “Little Red Corvette” blaring in the offensive way in which only North Americans are capable.

“Buckle-Up Bitches!” (as my favorite fashion design student in Paris is known to say…)
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Parles Francais?….

Bumbling along in one of the most beautiful cities in the world with my rudimentary language skills.

One of my dear friends (and my former boss back in my advertising hey day…😄) has the most amazing brain that is always curious and hooked into whats happening here, there and everywhere. She is coming to visit and I couldn’t be more excited to trail her around this city that she knows better than me. She has also been a wonderful resource sending me so many interesting articles about living in Paris/France.

When one moves to a foreign country, one of the best ways for it to cease to feel foreign is for you to be able to converse in the language. Well, I have a little experience in speaking French but I am definitely not where I would like to be. That said, I keep plodding away with lessons and enthusiasm. (I suspect both are of equal importance! ;o)

But my aforementioned friend sent me an article about the French and how their language informs how they communicate. I found it super interesting.

Apparently the English language has 500,000 words and French has 70,000. I am sort of stumped to hear this. French is rumoured to be THE language of love afterall….maybe keeping it simple makes it sexiest?! I have no idea but as always, color me intrigued.

I also have to admit to feeling weirdly grateful to have english as a my first language if the bit about word use is correct. I am someone who LOVES words. I love learning vocabulary and I am weirdly obsessed and delighted with knowing as many of our words as possible. Afterall, the ability to very precisely articulate my thoughts and ideas is of great importance to me.

I just enjoyed a visit from a very dear longtime friend and we were speaking about our human frailities. She said she had realized she has a deep desire to be liked and accepted. I said I could understand that, and that my own fraility is similar but with a twist. I have a deep need to be understood. And for that reason, the ability to hold an arsenal of vocabulary to enable articulation of my perspective is a huge joy.

So this means the discovery that the French language, again…perpetuated to be one of the most endearing and romantic in the world, contains only 70,000 words is so surprising to me. Mais, ce n’est pas possible! How do the French manage to sound so damn sexy and beautiful with their, can I say it, *limited* language?!

So of course now I’m thinking, and I’m observing how our languages differ.

I went to the gym today after 5 (very sad) days off because of a very unfortunate mancold. (I am really getting some milage out of this whole mancold thing. Usually I get a bug and throw it off, but this bug really grappled on with a vengeance and definitely deserved the ‘mancold’ moniker, but i digress…) Do the French “digress”? More likely they ‘step’ or ‘pass’ or something else that they also do in 25 other situations.

For that is what I have determined is the difference between French and English. In English we are super specific and super direct. We have a specific word to describe precisely what we mean. The French are more laissez-faire with the whole concept of words. The same word can be used to mean a few different things depending on which words precede it and which come after.

I love this concept of french language because in practical terms it means you are playing russian roulette on a daily basis, haha. Here is what I mean….getting back to the gym. (See I always loop around even if it takes me a while.)

So I’m back at the gym this morning and the lovely gentleman there asks how I am and I can tell by his intimation that he recognizes I’ve been absent. I’m not in the habit of whining about maladies but I do like to try and make conversation and I could tell he had noticed my absence so I prepared myself to say ‘I was sick.” I said “J’etais” and paused while I searched for the word ‘sick’.

He looked on with interest as I paused. In my mind I knew I had said “J’etais…” as in “I was” but it also sounds like ‘jete’ (or jetee, or jetes, or jetees) which google (translate) tells me, means ‘throw’, but years of ballet also tell me it means ‘jump’, as in ‘Grand Jete’, so while i paused for a micro second to search for the word ‘sick’, he was actually no closer to knowing what I was about to say.

It took the word “malade” after the “j’etais” for him to know I was whining about having been sick, as opposed to saying something weirdly random about throwing or jumping. And this examplifies EXACTLY what I have experienced in blundering around trying to speak French: that the specific words mean less actually than their context and relation to the words on either side of them.

I am happy admitting that I am a total weirdo who thinks of things like this, but it is a really fascinating concept to me about the power of context. It also explains why the French are perceived as being ‘subtle’ and perhaps a bit ‘circumspect’. Their subtlety comes from their lack of word choice I think. Can I say that?! It’s not meant to be critical, it’s just meant to be an observation. I am constantly surprised to type different things into Google Translate for help in relaying what I want to say and seeing the same words for different meanings.

In the article my friend sent to me,

“context includes tone, body language, setting and situation.” INSEAD Business School Professor Erin Meyer identifies 8 scales to demonstrate how different cultures relate. She says countries like the US and Australia are low-context cultures where people generally say what they mean. However France, like Russia and Japan, tends to be a high context culture, where good communication is sophisticated, nuanced and layered. Messages are both spoken and read between the lines.”

Meyer explains that because the French have access to fewer words than English speakers, Francophones must string together a series of words to communicate their message. “This not only forces the French to be more creative with language, it also allows them to be more ambiguous with what they want to say.”

Wow….I have to sit with that for a moment. I already feel duped somehow. I am not someone who favors ambiguity and it’s a challenging concept to realize it’s a fundamental underlier for some of the world’s languages. I can see this needs to be a new challenge for me: to accept, and groan….’learn to enjoy’…lack of clairity. Gaaaaa, it makes my eye twitch just even considering it….wink, wink. Why would less clear be better?!

In the article Meyers explains how these differences affect how different cultures conduct business meetings. The French have grown up with the concept that no doesnt mean no (and I’m NOT making reference to consent during sex but that is an interesting aside I now think.) Anyway, in French, ‘no’ may mean no, yes or maybe. Apparently it is taught in school to argue one’s point from both sides and then to draw a summary, hence when French business people say ‘no’ they are often actually meaning to open and invite a discussion for debate. Huh. Is that so?!

And….apparently there are a bouquet of ‘no-s’ which can mean a variety of things.

Groan!…a bouquet of ‘no-s’ which mean a whole host of differing things?! Mon Dieux! I am clearly such an Anglophone!!! I thrive on clear specific precise communication. This whole ‘no might mean 10 things situation’ does not make immediate sense to me….especially because as a Canadian, I was raised to be ‘respectful’. Generally speaking, if Canadians are told no, we tend not to argue the point, and instead ‘behave ourselves, and retreat.’

This cultural difference however does help me to understand how and why I felt so much irritation and frustration trying to get visas and then more recently trying to get a bank account and do other basic life activities.

Researchers suggest that the ‘no’ so favoured by the French comes from a cultural obsession with not wanting to be blamed for being wrong. Hmmm. And the practice of saying ‘no’ a few times before saying ‘yes’ seems so ingrained in culture that people factor it into their conversations and planning, even within families between husbands and wives.

Cultural consultant Polly Platt describes a scenario whereby she convinces her husband to go on a vacation to the place of her choosing. Platt says she knows her husband will automatically say ‘no’ to her first few suggestions so knowing this she puts out some decoy suggestions that are not her actual choice. As predicted her husband says no to her first 3 suggestions and then finally agrees on her last suggestion…which was actually her first choice.

OH. MY. GOD. REALLY?! This is a CULTURAL NORM?! Wow. I had no idea how North American I really am. I don’t have interest or patience for these kind of ‘games’. I know it risks sounding judgemental to refer to a cultural norm as being a game but I struggle to see it differently. (And Oh Dear, I hate it when I am confronted with how set in my ways I really am. It’s indeed a sobering thought. I thought I was adaptable and open minded. Apparently not…)

I can’t help but wonder if this same strategy relates to shopping for women? Does this mean she shows her male partner 3 items she has zero interest in before showing him the 4th item which is actually the one she covets? Good lord….what a time suck?! Who can be bothered with this farce?! My motto for shopping is ‘Get in, get the thing you want, get out!’ Wow…I am SO not French!!!

In the French language, “I love” and “I like” are the same?! What the actual heck?! I’ve seen that “I feel” and “I think” also have one translation…and yet they are NOT the same thing I would argue! I will start to keep track of other examples because there truly have been so many, already!… (And I’m pretty sure Ms. Meyers is waiting with baited breath for my elucidating perspective complete with examples to hit her inbox….bahahaha.) And it is only because I have a little prior experience with French that I can read the suggested translation when it’s offered to me and then go back in and search for an existing French word that better articulates what I want to say.

But for now whether I like or love something remains for the listener to decide. No wonder the French are considered some of the world’s best lovers?!…. 😉✨

This article (link below) explaining how/why the French don’t get ‘excited’ is also fantastic. It explains how the French live in the verb of ‘to be’ whereas as North Americans we live in the land of ‘to do’ or ‘to have’. We live in the future and it could be argued it’s to our detriment. We are always planning and looking forward, often forgetting to just sit and enjoy the now.

The article further articulates our cultural differences. It is also a great reminder never to tell a French person you are excited unless it’s intended as a romantic overture because in French ‘excited’ references physical stimulation or arousal. In French ‘arousal’ and ‘emotional enthusiasm’ must share a verb. C’est vraiment dommage, non?…

http://www.bbc.com/travel/story/20181104-why-the-french-dont-show-excitement