Monday, January 30, 2006

Book Reports and French Bashing

My French stinks, okay? It’s worse than my Spanish, which is not good.

I spoke Spanish at an “advanced beginner” level when we left Argentina in 2001. Past tense was always dicey, the subjunctive was something I simply ignored, but I got things done. But 5+ years of only two weeks a year of practice has rendered me shamefully unable to produce the Spanish words for everyday things like postage stamps. (Tio Manuel, of the Casa Paco restaurant empire, tisked, sighed, and said, “Oh, Amanda,” when I asked him how to say stamps last August.)

So I am not the one to pass any sort of judgment on the French language. However, now that both daughters attend the French School of Bratislava, The Spouse and I have noticed some amusing things about the culture. I thought these were worth sharing.

We always knew that the French are a little delicate when it comes to the psychological constitution. We think this is because they are fatalist, aware of their mortality, which explains why their movies always seem to end with the worst possible outcomes. While the Hollywood version always has a happy ending, the dénouement of the (usually original) French version ends with everyone dying. Just as you think they are going to pull it out, they don’t. They just die and then “fin.” If you don’t believe me, check it out the next time. The fatalism might also explain why they let “kids be kids” and don’t seem to impose any limits on them, ever.

Youngest Daughter began attending the kindergarten in January. On Fridays they get sent home with a book, in French, that we are supposed to read with them over the weekend. This we have done, but we are noticing the same disturbing trends in the books that we had observed in respect to their cinema, their national child-rearing philosophy, and their glass psyches.

Book One had a title that translated to “Like the Sardines.” It was about three sardine sisters who get separated from their sardine school. They travel the depths of the ocean, asking various other sea creatures if they have seen the wayward sardine school. At the end of the book, all sardines are joyfully reunited. "Never again will they be alone,” exclaims the text. That is, until the next page, where a big fishing net scoops up all the sardines. Only the three sisters survive, they narrowly escape, and it turns out they WILL, in fact, be alone for the foreseeable future. That’s life in the big French sea. Fin.

Book Two was about a little ghost who, marching to the beat of his own little French drum, elects to stay and play in the house during the day, ignoring his parents' caution to scamper on home at dawn. This choice results in his being sucked into the vacuum cleaner, from which he ultimately escapes, but, because of the trauma, must take to his bed for a week to recover from the psychological stress of the situation. This story reinforced our stereotype that the French are all rather tightly-wrapped, emotionally-delicate creatures teetering on the brink of apocalyptic mental collapse at any given moment.

The latest volume, Book Three, concerns a crocodile who, to our way of thinking, over-dresses for a simple children’s party. At the party, the guests are completely unsupervised. Chaos reigns. The protagonist ruins her lovely sweater set while chasing a butterfly, but discovers that this fashion faux pas is okay, as all the other guests have ruined their clothing in the adult-free setting as well. This story seems typical of the French system of child rearing we have witnessed, although the French adults we know are perfectly polite and sociable, if tightly wrapped, and, quite probably, pre-destined for untimely death (oh well).

Le Spam
I follow this French bashing with an example of why we Americans are such suckers for the French, why we sigh at the thought of a French lover, and turn weak-kneed at the sight of French movie stars.

The following was a spam e-mail (le spam?) sent to me by French friends. Remembering my bad French, cut me some slack on my liberal translations. You’ll not only get the gist, but some remarkable insight into the culture and useful tips that might help you score on Valentine's Day.

Une fille demande à son mec s'il la trouve jolie.
A young woman asked her guy if he thought she was pretty.

Il répond non.
No, he said.

Elle lui demande s'il veut être avec elle pour toujours.
She asked him if he wanted to be with her always.

Il répond non.
No, he said.

Elle lui demande s'il pleurerait si elle partait.
She asked him if he would cry if she left.

Une fois de plus il répond non.
Again, he said, No.

Puis elle lui demande si il l'aime de tout son coeur.
A glutton for punishment, she then asked if he loved her with all his heart.

Il répond non!
No, he said.

Elle en avait entendu assez. Alors qu'elle s'en allait, des larmes coulant sur son visage, le garçon lui attrape le bras et dit :
Having totally messed with her mind and made her cry (perhaps an insight into the fragile mental state of the nation?), she makes to leave when he finally takes her in his arms and says :

Tu n'es pas jolie, tu es irrésistible.
(Okay, this is where it gets totally French.) You aren’t pretty, he says. You are irresistible. (Sigh.)

Je ne veux pas être avec toi pour toujours, j'ai besoin d'être avec toi pour toujours.
I don’t want to be with you always. I must be with you always. (Double sigh.)

Et je ne pleurerais pas si tu t'en vas, je mourrais.
And I wouldn’t cry if you left me. I’d die. (Here's where I would start taking off my clothes. It's that easy.)

Et je ne t'aime pas de tout mon coeur, tu es mon coeur.
Finally, I don’t love you with all my heart. You are my heart.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why all American women want a French lover. Even if he smells funny.

The Obvious Conclusion
Both daughters have men as teachers. We refer to them as Monsieur Valdemort (that’s right, from Harry Potter. His real name is unpronounceable and similar enough) and Croque Monsieur (as in the classic French sandwich).

We are delighted they have men as teachers because this is such a rare thing anymore, at least in the US. Further, both teachers are extremely professional, charming guys who are clearly well-trained for a profession about which they feel passionately. As a parent, I couldn’t be happier.

Recently, however, I have noticed a significant attractiveness in Younger Daughter’s teacher, said Croque Monsieur. I say “recently” because she has only been attending the school for about a month. The other day he opened the door to the classroom and, wearing a black t-shirt and perfectly broken-in jeans, shepherded his students towards their respective parents. He looked extremely good. For someone who is well south of 30. The dude's got biceps.

Once I stopped drooling and collected my child, it occurred to me that men in his profession probably get hit on by “moms” all the time. I had this sudden vision of myself, as a letchy Mrs. Robinson, wearing real stockings with real garters and high heeled shoes in the middle of the day, elbowing other well-dressed and lecherous mothers away from the classroom door in order to flirt with Croque Monsieur and get my five minutes of pitter-pat for the day.

Eew. I can hear it now: "Madame Robinson. Are you trying to seduce me?"

So I am in danger of becoming Mrs. Robinson. The Spouse, who could barely contain his (not unkind) laughter at my confession, remarked that he, too, has noticed on occasion, a profound look of horror and revulsion in younger people (in his case, most notably wait staff) when he, The Spouse, thinks he is just being witty. The deer-in-the-headlights expression on the unintentional victim’s face screams “Back off, Creepy Old Man!” It is a sobering moment in one's workday.

So he now avoids a certain coffee bar for fear of being perceived as a veritable Humbert Humbert. I am not so likely to be able to avoid all contact with the children’s school. I’m not sure if this is going to encourage or discourage my interest in speaking French, either. Zut alors.

This is your faithful correspondent, Mme. Robinson, signing off. Bon soir!

Wednesday, January 18, 2006

Jolly Old England

Last year at Christmas, while we were driving around in Italy and Austria in the snow, I thought that this year I would like to have an English Christmas. So I invited myself to visit our friends, Carla and Richard, in the UK.

We met these lovely people when we lived in Argentina. Now they live near Winchester in a cute English village. They were willing to have us invade them for a fairly long period of time. Ryan Air (“The On Time Airline”! Not) flies there on the cheap. It cost almost more to get from Stansted Airport to Winchester than it did to fly from Bratislava to England.

A minor hitch arose when, the week before our trip, Baboo got the chicken pox. I kept checking Skittles on a practically hourly basis, to see if she had spots because, while Baboo would be done by the time we traveled to England, I didn’t want Skittles to have to travel while sick (and I’m sure the airline would not embrace contagious passengers either). Carla reported that her kids had been duly poxed before, so c’mon over.

We arrived on Friday Dec 23 to the news that this evening was their annual Christmas drinks party. About 100 people would be stopping by with snacks at 6:00. Would we mind helping to make sandwiches and drinks?

Ah, no. Of course not. But are you sure you want us here?

Yes, yes, it will be fine.

So The Spouse made peanut butter sandwiches for the hungry hordes of children while Richard and I set about squeezing limes for “vodka limes,” a tasty and dangerous mix of straight vodka, simple syrup, ice, and lime juice. Basically a vodka gimlet, but made in a blender. De-licious! The holidays were off and running.

And so it continued through January 2 when we returned to Bratislava.

We ate mince pies (something I was sure I would not like, but found to be pleasant), Christmas pudding (the Brits do love a dessert soaked in alcohol), proper trifle, pheasant, pumpkin pie, Beef Wellington, lemon tart, walnut tart, birthday cake, a lovely pork with apples and cream, wonderful English cheddar with an apple chutney, and I can’t remember what else since most meals came with lots and lots of wine.

We went to see the Narnia movie (I never read the books, but it was interesting enough). We went to see the HMS Victory at the Royal Navy Museum in Portsmouth (http://www.hms-victory.com/) as it is the 200th anniversary of the Battle of Trafalgar. At the museum was also the HMS Mary Rose, the excavated wreak of Henry VIII’s war ship (http://www.maryrose.org/).

It was during an interactive exhibit about Trafalgar that Skittles began to ask to lie down. Richard proffered chocolate cookies, thinking a little sugar might do the trick, but I was suspicious. Carla and I left with half the kids and, once home, we discovered that the little one was poxed! Finally.

In spite of the disease, we kept to our plans for outings, and, actually, this and a healthy dose of an antihistamine helped distract Skittles. We had intended to visit a swannery near Dorchester, but realized it was closed for the winter. Still, we all went to the area anyhow and stayed here: http://www.bridge-house.co.uk/. I can recommend the food very highly!

The coast along this part of England is known for its fossils and is, in fact, called the Jurassic Coast (http://www.jurassiccoast.com/index.jsp). We did stroll the beach and found some excellent specimens. The area is also known for famous writers: Lyme Regis is the site of The French Lieutenant’s Woman, Jane Austen wrote near there, Dickens was born in Portsmouth, and Thomas Hardy set part of Tess in Dorchester.

We also visited the ruins of Corfe castle (http://www.isleofpurbeck.com/corfe.html). Bitterly cold, it was that day, but visually very interesting. I would share photos I took there, but I stupidly lost my camera on the trip back to Bratislava. Duh-oh.

All in all, it was a delightful visit. We were rather tame for New Year’s Eve, having decided that we were all of us, overfed. We only had steak and salad (and birthday cake) for our party, but we danced around in the kitchen to the soundtrack from The Full Monty while we were cooking, much to the great amusement of the children. I haven’t had that much fun since the New Year’s Eve The Spouse and I spent in Spain with people we barely knew, but totally enjoyed.

Now we are back at home, enjoying our Slovak central heating (why are English houses, even new construction, so darned COLD!?). We apparently missed a terrible snow storm here while we were gone.

Skittles began the French school in January. She has proclaimed that it is pleasant enough, but “very Frenchy.” Baboo is not fluent, but her first semester grades were remarkable, and she is certainly fully functional now. We hope her sister makes progress so that she can begin first grade in September in French. To sweeten the pot, we have a long weekend in Paris coming up in February. I’ll take my old-fashioned, film-using camera along and try not to let it get stolen.

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

Wham, Bam, No Thank You Ma’am

My car has been a target for other drivers, collisions, and general annoyances. It started with the Annual Tune-Up And Parting Of Large Sums Of Money. They are supposed to change the oil and follow a checklist in the Owner’s Manual, which is in Slovak, so I can’t really read it. I did get new wiper blades, I noticed.

So, the first Bad Thing that happened was that I got rear-ended on my way to the French school to drop off Eldest Daughter. No damage and the perp was French, which somehow made me less annoyed with him. The street, which has a significant downhill slope, was extremely icy that morning and had been untouched by local salt trucks (no self-respecting Bratislava salt truck driver would think of hitting the streets before 7:45 a.m.). The poor fellow was apparently doing everything in his power to keep from ramming the back of my car. I didn’t even see him back there, sweating and cursing in French, until I felt the odd sensation that I had just driven over a large chuckhole.

We delivered our kids to their respective classes and called the Traffic Police, who arrived, about 30 minutes later, in a van, but as if they were driving the General Lee or perhaps whatever Starsky and Hutch drove. They skidded into a parking space and practically hopped out through the windows. They refused to help us with the paperwork, claiming that they would be obliged to charge us some exorbitant amount in order to do their jobs. So, we did it ourselves.

Shortly after this, on a cold, rainy Saturday afternoon when Ron was out of town, I parked in a city parking garage. When I returned, the car was dead. Nothing. Would not start. I called my good friend, British Restaurateur, and we examined the problem, but decided it was beyond our means and left the car there. On Sunday, we returned with jumper cables, tried to start it, but again were unsuccessful. Monday I was supposed to drive to Vienna to meet Mother-in-Law as she arrived from the US for an impromptu, but welcome visit. I finally got hold of the dealer on Monday afternoon and was informed that their usual towing guy would contact me the following morning.

Towing Guy apparently had some sort of medical emergency, as he was unavailable until late Tuesday afternoon. Further, the garage ceiling was too low for a standard tow truck. So he, Slovak style, tied a rope to my front bumper and pulled my car to the dealer. I couldn’t watch. The garage, very kindly, was unable to deal with my parking fee and just waved us through.

The problem turned out to be some sort of clogged air valve. Solved for about $20. Now why they did not discover this during the Annual Tune Up, which was barely two weeks before, is beyond me.

A few days later, with Mother-in-Law in the car, I turned into Younger Daughter’s school parking lot to find the entrance blocked by another driver. He seemed to be waiting for a parking space, so I sat, patiently, behind him, until I realized, to my horror, that he had his car in reverse.

He was not waiting for a parking spot IN the lot, but was preparing to park along the curb of the parking lot entrance. He threw that bad boy into reverse and slammed backwards into me before I had time to do anything other than curse. I saw something small fly up during the impact.

We both exited our cars and examined the damage. His car seemed fine. Mine seemed fine. He shook my hand enthusiastically and said “Everything OKAY!” and then went back to his car and resumed parking.

I was sure I had seen something fly. So after I delivered Youngest Child to class, I looked at my car again and, sure enough, there was a chunk missing from my grille. Backing Guy was gone, but his car was not. I wrote down his license number and went back inside the school, with Mother-in-Law, to find someone to help me call the police.

First attempt: Police tell us to call my insurance company. If the adjuster reports an appropriate amount of damage, the police will come out.

Second attempt: We call insurance company. They laugh and say, “That’s not how it works! Tell the police to make a report and then come see us. Bring the report.”

Third attempt: We call police again. This time they tell us “You must call us first. The Traffic Police van will be there shortly.”

Traffic Police van does not make such a spectacular entrance this time. They are serious and professional. They Breathalyze me. They raise an eyebrow at my American driver’s license.

“Look,” I explain. “I have asked about getting a Slovak driver’s license. I would PREFER a Slovak driver’s license, as it is good for life and an EU driver’s license. But I have been told I am not a permanent resident and therefore am not eligible.”

“Who told you that?” they ask.

“Today I got two completely different responses from your office regarding how to deal with this accident,” I reply. “So I think it is possible that I have gotten incorrect information in the past from official sources, no?”

They concede. I promise to investigate the driver’s license thing and to change the address on my registration (since I moved in August).

Next Mother-in-Law and I visit the insurance company. At first, my attempts to receive service are rebuffed by Customer Service Lady. There is nowhere for the Damned to sit in I Want to Make a Claim Office. You must cluster outside the door and wait your turn. Then you stand next to the desk of the next available Customer Service rep. Today there seems to be only one.

“Good morning,” I say in my bad Slovak. “I have car problem. I am sorry. I don’t speak Slovak.” I hold out my police report hopefully.

“Too bad,” she replied. “Only Slovak.” She makes to turn away from me.

“Hey!” I resort to English. “I just paid my 2006 premium. Big money. I am good customer. Who can help me!”

I assume a look of I’m Not Moving. She picks up the phone and two nice young women from another department are dispatched to deal with me. They inform me that I am to call them if I’m not treated nicely in the future.

Believe me, I will.

Car goes back to dealer the following Monday where it remains until THURSDAY! I insist on a loaner. They provide one (I must pay for it, but the price is reasonable), but I don’t think I have ever driven such a stripped down car. Nothing is power. No radio. No remote entry. Must use key to manually lock or unlock all doors except back hatch, which will only open with a lever by driver’s seat. No HUBCAPS! At first, the children think it is cute, but eventually even they start referring to it as the Merde Car.

I celebrate when my noisy, diesel tank is returned to me.