Panic at the station

It seems I could devote an entire blog and all my postings to f%&*ing-up because of language blunders and the difficulties of being in a foreign country... it happened to me again, and I have another funny (but not at the time) story.

So, on Saturday Jonathan and I went into Paris together, we spent the day exploring some new areas, wandered around north Marais, Ile St Louis and St Germain, and achieved our aim of crossing off another highly recommended and tres cool eating spot. (A friend of ours who has lived in Paris for a few years and is a real foodie has compiled a list of must-see places which we are slowly getting through, but there are so many tres cool places that the list keeps getting longer and one year here is no where near enough!) The fun part for us is locating the places on a map, deciphering the metro system and then utilising the miraculous iphone google maps application to get us to the exact spot.

Anyway, the day was wonderful, exactly what a Spring day in Paris should be. We had a yummy lunch at Tartes Kluger, a trendy all tart restaurant in the third arrondisement, (http://tarteskluger.com/) lingered over a coffee in a bustling cafe close to the Metro Saint Sebastien Froissart, and spent hours looking at food in the marches of the Marais and Bastille, little fois gras and fromage shops in the cobbled streets of Ile St Louis and then still managed to oggle at the chocolateries in St Germain.Dinner that night with friends topped off what was all in all, a perfect day I would say. Then the fun started.

We planned to get the last train back to our little village (about 40 mins from Paris). We had checked the timetable and raced through dessert with our friends in order to make it to Gare De Lyon (the main train station from where our train leaves) by 11.30pm. We made it (with a small sprint at the end) and we sat on the train relieved and happy with ourselves. The rickety train sped past familiar stations and arrived at Moret, what is ordinarily the stop before ours (and where our car was conveniently parked). Preparing to get off, I stared out the window as the signs saying "Moret Sur Loing" disappeared into the dark night sky, and the signs saying "St Mammes"came into view. Oh Merde!!! (french for shit!!) It skipped our stop and was pulling into a station about 10kms from where our car was parked. There were no more trains, no way of heading back, no car, no taxis, no town. Basically, like most of the small towns south of Paris... it is the middle of f%&*ing nowhere! When we got off the train (because our instincts said just to get off before we get any further away) it was pitch black, not a single person was there, there was no town to speak of and it was dead silent. Panic started to set in. The next train was at 530am - there was no way we could sleep there! We considered walking (9kms and apparently, thanks to google maps, a 2 hour walk through the forest) and then even actually thought about stealing a bike that was chained up to a fence (we truly considered this and made ourselves feel better by saying that we would DEFINITELY bring it back once we made it to our car). I was not going to stay there on my own though while Jonathan pedaled his way to our car. Who knows how long that would take?

You would usually first think of a taxi, right? so would we, but you realise that this very "city-slicker" mentality is completely misguided when you are stranded in a small one-horse town in regional France. Taxis are not a common commodity! We tried calling though. Thanks to an iphone (a huge thanks to iphones!!!) we found a list of taxis in the area and just started calling, everyone on the list, even though it was now 1am. Most did not answer, a few had message banks (but of course I couldn't understand the message and couldn't really leave a message), one person answered. Then the real fun started with me trying to explain that we needed a cab, it was very important because we were stuck in the station without our car and the next train is in 5 hours, and that we were in St Mammes station and needed to get to Montigny Sur Loing.

Somehow, I got it across (probably in embarassingly bad grammer and pronounciation) but the taxi driver managed to explain to me that he could not come. It also took several moments for me to get the name "St Mammes" across to him because of my wrong pronounication. Who would have thought no one would understand St Mams because it is St Mamm-es (with a e-s at the end).Really?

More panic. I think I even said, "Non, pourquoi? tres important!s'il vous plait!" (a.k.a "no, why, this is very important! PLEASE") We did get another phone number out of him, of a taxi that did come, after waiting 20 minutes, and 45 euros later (because he made us pay for him to get to us and then kept the metre going until we arrived). In the end, 45 euros and about half an hour in the regional train station was a fantastic outcome! It could have been so much worse!

Now it is funny, then it was pretty scary. The good thing is that it gives me things to reflect on being here, and of course material to write about!

Merci,

Mel

Change is in the air

I haven't written in ages. I have to apologise. I have been really busy here and completely enjoying myself. Maybe it is a good thing when I don't write for a while. A sign of contentment, perhaps just laziness. I honestly don't know how I used to fit in work, because without it my life is so full. Each day goes past quickly and the weeks are rolling into one another. I cannot believe that it is already March and that we have been here since December.

We survived the harsh Winter (everyone tells me the worst Winter in 30 years! Trust us to move to France for one year and get that one). And without any notice Spring arrived, and you can really feel the change in the air. The mornings are lighter (when we arrived in France at 9am it was still pitch black outside), now when we get up the sun is well and truly risen and the birds are chirping. There has been a significant change in the temperature too. It is now hitting the double digits and this afternoon was a beautiful 16 degrees. It is hard to believe that a Sydney-sider is saying that 16 degrees is balmy, but oh, it is. And I am loving it. Maybe when I go back to Australia I wont be able to cope with a 25 degree day! Somehow, I think I will still be all right.


Two weeks ago it was still pretty freezing, but almost overnight the seasons shifted, slightly but yet dramatically. As I write this, the late afternoon sun is streaming in through the large windows in my cottage in Bourron-Marlotte. It is 6pm and the sun has not set yet, outside a man is planting trees and flowers in his garden. In the towns, people are also out and about. Restaurant terraces are opening up where we didn't know they existed, people are sitting out on the streets with their cafe and cigarettes, and everyone seems happier, more relaxed. I guess I do too. The trees haven't got all their leaves yet, and the early mornings and afternoons are still crisp, but I'm now experiencing a real Spring. I don't think I ever have before, and it feels good, satisfying.

Merci,

Mel

Thoroughly not French

Sitting on the street in a cafe with a cafe au lait and my laptop, makes me feel thoroughly French, and also so Carrie Bradshaw, or more likely, Bridget Jones goes France.It is a chilling Autumn day but I have found a sunny spot and the warmth from the sun is glorious. Even though I have spoken about doing this a lot (and even tried to do it several times) today is the first day it actually happened. Mostly because I couldn't hack into an unlocked wifi or find a cafe in the sun with free wifi, but today it all came together. And the sun is shining.

As I sit here and write, a woman is standing in front of me, dressed in fur coat and leather knee high boots puffing on her cigarette. She is the archetypal french madame. It is a real pity that I don't smoke. I probably look like the biggest foreigner right now. Even if I feel French in my sunny cafe, I probably couldn't get more foreigner-expat-trying-to-live-in France if I tried.

To make it worse, I went this morning to meet with a woman who runs painting classes because I want to start an art course. I emailed her earlier in the week, and realised then that her English is fairly limited. She had actually written to me in English but clearly had put her French email into Babel Fish or another translating program because it came out with weird words and she had actually left in the alternatives and synonyms spat out by i-translate. Still, I figured I would meet with her, look at the workshop in action, and work out if I could still take classes with her, even though we don't speak the same language.

Well, lets just say, it was a great example of lost in translation. She did not understand me and I did not understand her (aside from about every fourth word she said). The really awful thing though was that the women (mostly middle aged non-working french women) in the class thought it was funny, and proceeded to giggle at my attempts to understand the teacher. As I walked out, thanking her and apologising (this I can do well in French), I felt like a complete idiot, and at that moment just wished that I could speak and understand French properly. It is so bloody hard living in a country without language, it is completely alienating. Oh well, at least I can sit in a French cafe and sip on my French coffee and write my blog about France - in perfect english.

Merci,

Mel