French Word of the Day: voleur (vole-er)- thief

Although magical and slightly other-worldly, Paris is a city.  Like all cities, it has its share of crime.  I was one of the lucky participants this past Friday.  (Obviously I’m fine, or I wouldn’t be writing this entry.)

My friends and I went to a bar and I brought my purse.  I made sure it was safe at all times, but somehow during my time at the bar, someone managed to steal my phone and 15 euro.  They also stole 30 euro, a metro map, and a pack of cigarettes from my friend.  They decided that everything in Théo’s coat was uninteresting, but they did move a piece of paper from one pocket to the other.

Somewhere, some thief is smoking a cigarette on the metro, trying to use a phone that doesn’t work.

I felt really stupid until Arnaud told me that he once had his coat stolen off the back off his chair while he was sitting on it.  Parisian thieves just have mad skills.  Strange taste in what they steal, but mad skills none the less.

We were in the south of France (Avignon… très belle, but largely uneventful) all weekend, so I haven’t had time to update.  I had tests today and yesterday as a welcome back present from all of my teachers.  One of them was today.  It was a thirty-minute oral test on my business experience (for Business French).  They said I did very well. (I have 2 teachers: one for the oral part and one for the writing part.)

The oral French teacher finds my partner and I very amusing.  When she has us break off into scenarios, she usually ends up spending the most time around us.  Not because we need the most help, but rather because we’re the dramatic ones.

For example, the other girls have conversations like this:

Girl 1: I would like to return this camera.

Girl 2: Why?

Girl 1: It doesn’t work.

Girl 2: Ok, I’ll give you a refund.

Luisa (my partner) and I have slightly different conversations.

Luisa: I’m returning this awful product.

Me: What was wrong with it?

Luisa:  You sold me the wrong software and it made my computer malfunction.  What is this?  It’s not Windows.

Me: Do you have the original packaging with you, ma’am?

Luisa: Yes.  Here it is.

Me: The box clearly states this isn’t Windows.  Did you read the box before you bought it?

Luisa: I shouldn’t have to read the box.  Your salesperson told me it was Windows.

Me: Was was his name?

Luisa: Juanito Carlos.  You should speak with him.  He’s an idiot.

Me: The short kid?  Please wait here.  I’ll be right back….  I found Juanito.  He’s been fired for misinformation.  We are going to give you back your money.

Luisa:  Good, because I was going to call the police if you didn’t.  You should hire competent people next time.

Needless to say, our conversations usually take longer than everyone else’s.  Our teacher told us we have overactive imaginations.

Yesterday, Théo’s friends from school took over a bar (not the same one as the infamous voleur), and had a huge potluck-style dinner with couscous and wine.  (Nothing goes better with food than wine.)  Afterwards, several of them helped me prepare for the Business French exam I had today.

I find it interesting that going to a bar can be marked as “studying for a test.”  I recommend it.

I majorly heart all of Théo’s homedogs from school. (Homedogs… are that kids still using that word?  I’m so not hip.)  They’re all extremely nice and inclusive, and some of them come from the south (that’s a shout out to you, Louis), so I can actually understand them when they speak.  (People from the south actually pronounce some of the letters in the words.  It’s lovely.)

Also, one of them is named Pierre.  This excites me greatly.  I know an actual French person named Pierre.  I was beginning to doubt they existed.

Now that I’m friends with them on facebook and they’ve had time to stalk my pictures (which is why facebook was invented), they would like to know when my sisters are coming to visit.  Sisters, any comment?

Pain au chocolat count: 30

French Words of the Day: jeu (joo)- a game; feu (foo)- fire

I’m not willing to wake up early for just anyone, but I made an exception on my parents’ last day here.  Yesterday, we went for pain au chocolats at my favorite bakery early in the morning.

And then they left, which was sad, but I see them in a month.

Last night to make me feel better, Théo took me to his friend’s apartment for a mini soiree.  I was the only girl, but they’re French, so they didn’t care.  The guys were playing a game where you everyone writes down the name of a well-known person (dead, alive, cartoon… doesn’t matter).  You have a partner and they try to guess the person based on the clues you give them.

I was afraid to play because I had a feeling I wouldn’t know any of the people they wrote down and vice versa.  French people love soccer.  The only soccer players I can name are ones married to former Spice Girls.

They decided to be nice and write mostly American actors and characters along with Carla Bruini.  I only had to change one of mine because no one could guess his name.  It think it was probably the only time in my life where the males in the room had an easier time guessing Hugh Grant over Hugh Hefner.

I was partnered with Théo by a stroke of luck (we drew from a bowl), and so I was able to play the game in franglais rather than français.  We didn’t win, but we weren’t the worst team.  That has to count for something.  I mean, there were French people in there I didn’t know- mostly soccer players.  Coming in second wasn’t bad.

We had a fire alarm today.  It conveniently started right around the time everyone starts making dinner.  Because of this fact, I assumed that it was someone who wasn’t very good at cooking.

It turns out it was a well-facilitated drill.

They had us all line up on the sidewalk in the cold (I grabbed my coat before exiting my room- go me), and afterward rounded us all up into the party room.  (It has another name, but who cares?  It’s in French.)  Waiting for us was a fireman.

I’m now positive that the timing was strategic.  The talk lasted for an hour.  The fireman showed us roughly 3,000 videos of things being set on fire.  By the end, I was convinced that my cellphone and computer were going to spontaneously light on fire over the night and that I was going to accidentally set my room on fire while cooking.

As we left, two of the directors were handing out cookies and fruit.  I assume this was their way of saying, “We know we terrified you to the point where none of you will be able to prepare food tonight.  Have a cookie to tide you over until the bakeries reopen tomorrow.”

Fear not, I have eaten tonight.  I had a little chat with my stove and we both agreed not to set anything on fire today.

Pain au chocolat count: 29 (thanks mom and dad!)

French Word of the Day: ballet (you already know how to pronounce this)- ballet

I’m writing this post, so I haven’t been kidnapped.  I hope you’re not all as upset by this turn of events as I am.  Really, the Phantom needs to step up his game.  Maybe he left because the Opera Garnier has become mostly ballets?  I suppose I can accept that.

During the last ballet I attended, Le Parc, I had no idea what was going on.  (to view my complete and utter incomprehension, go here: http://meghantravelstheworld.blogspot.com/2009/03/last-night-i-saw-ballet-entitled-le.html )  Although to be fair, it was entirely symbolic.  You can’t exactly find a plot when there isn’t one (but of course, I tried).

Paquita, however, HAS a plot.  Go Paquita!  I know this because I wikipediaed it.  I wasn’t having another Le Parc incident.  Wikipedia informed me that the main character was a girl named Paquita.  (Suddenly, the name of the ballet makes sense!)  Paquita is kidnapped by gypsies as a child.  She falls in love with a Spanish officer and saves his life when the gypsy king tries to kill him.  He returns with her to his family, and they discover that she’s actually of noble birth and (gasp) his cousin.  Incest has always been encouraged among nobility, so they marry.

That sounds like a play of a decent length, right?  I thought too.  I said, “AWESOME!  I don’t see any room for symbolism here.”

Eventually I’ll learn that ballets don’t follow the norms of literature what with the rising action and the falling action and the saving the climax until the very end to keep the audience enthralled.

The first 25 minutes didn’t involve an introduction of main characters or plot.  Instead, it was what I assume to be the ballet equivalent of break-dance fighting.  I was trying to figure out where Paquita and her Spanish officer were, but they hadn’t even entered the scene.

After the 25th minute, the scene changed and the gypsies entered.  A girl in a white dress came on who looked like Natalie Portman (from my seat at the back of the opera house she looked like Natalie Portman.  I’m sure at the front of the opera house she looks like Danny Devito).  I thought to myself, “Self, Natalie HAS to be Paquita!”  And then a man who was wearing pants more tight and more padded in the family jewels area than any of the other men on stage entered, and I thought to myself, “Self, only the Spanish officer would try that hard.”

It should be noted that he looked like Paul Rudd with a fro (or 70’s Ken; your choice).  Therefore, in my head I referred to the two main characters as Paul and Natalie for the rest of the play.

Because they’re both hot, Paul and Natalie fall in love right away and have the traditional holy-crap-I-love-you-after-two-minutes-together dance.

Then they exit and more break-dance ballet ensues.

I suppose at this point, the writer of the ballet said to himself, “I should probably get this plot moving at some point, shouldn’t I?  I mean, nothing really has happened for the first 35 minutes.”  So within the next ten minutes before the intermission, he threw in the arrangement of the murder of Paul Rudd, the murder attempt, and Natalie Portman’s brave save of Paul.

It was a rather eventful ten minutes.

When the curtain closed, I thought, “How are they going to spread out the end?  There’s not much else happening.  Oh!  Maybe Paul’s family is going to reject Natalie for awhile before they realize they’re related to each other?”

There I go again, thinking about capturing audience attention with plot.  Silly Meghan!

Jenna and I used the intermission to buy overpriced-but-fabulous glasses of white wine and drink them on the balcony.  It was the prettiest venue in which I have consumed alcohol.  Also, I wanted to make myself readily available in case the Phantom wanted to appear.

(We were on one of the balconies of the second floor- a.k.a. the PRETTY ones.)

When the curtain raised for the second act, Paul and Natalie rushed in and accused the general who plotted with the gypsy king to kill Paul, the general was arrested, Natalie saw a portrait of her father and made a gesture (people can’t talk in ballet.  it’s forbidden to have vocal chords) that she had the exact same medallion he was painted with in the picture.  Everyone realized that this meant she was his daughter and of noble birth (it doesn’t occur to them that she could have stolen it or that more than one medallion was made and she just has a copy).  They began planning her marriage to Paul after a minute of hugging, because while it’s not okay to marry a talented, beautiful gypsy dancer of no relation who just saved your life, marrying your cousin is awesome.

If that was confusing to read, it was also a bit confusing to watch.  Thankfully, I had wikipediaed it or I would have wondered why Natalie kept gesturing at the portrait and why she had fainted onstage.  Also, the white wine I had consumed at intermission added to my comprehension, because everything makes more sense after a glass of wine.

Again, this part took ten minutes.

I might have tried to spread the plot out a bit more, but the writer decided that 20 minutes of plot was sufficient for a 90 minute ballet.  Who really needs a plot for more than a third of the play?

Like I said, I would have done it differently, but then, I’ve never written a successful ballet.  Coincidence?

Despite its smashed plot, it really was a gorgeous ballet.  It made me wish I could dance like that.  And that I lived in the opera house.

Still waiting, Phantom.

Pain au chocolat count: 20

French Word of the Day: fantôme (phantom)- phantom, ghost

I’m going to Opera Garnier tonight for a ballet.

I’m telling you this so that if I never write another post again, you’ll know it’s because I was kidnapped by this guy:

Don’t worry.  I’m sure we’ll be very happy together.

Pain au chocolat count: 20, but I’m sure the Phantom has some in his lair.

French Word of the Day: l’air (lair)-  the air of, semblance of

Théo and I went to a party last night at his cousin’s.  One of her friends began talking to us and said, “Wait Meghan, you have a slight accent.  Where are you from?”  And when I told him, he said, “You have the air of a Frenchwoman.  Coming from a Frenchman, this is a compliment.”

Yessssssssssssssssssssssss.  Life’s mission accomplished.  Got a real compliment from a Frenchman.

He’s not kidding.  In French eyes, anything French is automatically the best.  Food?  France is best.  Fashion?  The best.  Soccer?  Not so much, but we can pretend.

We then met some of Théo’s friends at a bar.  They were all intensely fascinated with my Americanism.  I’ve never been drilled so thoroughly on my culture.  (I take that back.  Arnaud, you are the all-time, undisputed most-questions-about-America champion.)

At one point, they had me pick a song.  When I asked what kind of song, they said, “Something that’s popular in American now that will be popular in France in a month.”  I haven’t been in America for a month, so it stood to reason that they would know whatever I chose.  I told them to look on the American section of iTunes.  We did break out into some “Barbie Girl” and “Cotton-Eyed Joe.”  Neither was my influence.  They chose that on their own.  The music choices degenerated towards the end of the night when more alcohol had been consumed.

It’s Sunday, so everything’s closed, but Théo and I attempted to find pain au chocolat.  All the bakeries were closed.  We went to many different neighborhoods in search of a pain au chocolat.  The only ones we could find looked like they would taste awful (Théo is also a pain au chocolat guru).  We decided to go with “the best crepe place in Paris” (which also equates to the most expensive).  I can settle for a crepe with nutella.  It was a pretty darn good crepe.  I don’t know if it was worth 5 euro, but it was pretty darn good.

To top off the day, we saw this:

It’s blurred, but yes, that is Batman next to the girl in the white coat.  Why was Batman hanging outside a French movie theatre when he doesn’t have any movies coming out?

I don’t know.  Gotham is boring right now?  If I was a billionaire like Bruce Wayne, I’d go to Paris all the time.

Pain au chocolat count: Still 20 (not for lack of trying)