Monday giggles.

Everyone who knows anything about France is aware of the predominance of racism in this country, but I wasn't aware that it was celebrated so openly*...




Another quick laugh for you... This pair were walking in front of me today. I snapped a sly photo.




*KKK joke... for those who are a little slow...

Quel accueil.

An english girl in France, with only moderate french speaking ability, is treated in one of two ways. Even if you manage to fool a native at first, with a few of your well-rehearsed opening lines, your inadequacy is going to catch up with you eventually, and then you be revealed for what you really are, the typical second-language-intolerant English. For the most part, our european stereotype is complete truth, we are inutile when it comes to other languages, and when presented with the option of speaking in our own vernacular, we either accept it readily, or the other speaker allows no other alternative, upholding the belief that when it comes to dealing with foreigners, its always going to be their english that's better than your french.

The second is comparable only to the relationship between a woman and the man she wishes to file a restraining order against.

-Est-ce que je peux m'asseoir ici?
-Oui, vas-y.
-Eengleesh?
-Oui.
-From where do you come?
-Je viens de Newcastle, c'est dans le nord de l'angleterre.
-Would you like a french keeeeesssss?
-Non, merci. Au revoir.

Les bêtes noires.

translation: Pet hates.

Facebook comments.
Why do people sign their own names at the end? Is it a matter of self-esteem? Is the level so low that they believe the person reading their comment will be so disinterested that they will have forgotten who wrote it by the time they reach the end?

I know I haven't written anything for awhile, so apologies to the small collection of people who have agreed to read this blog...

Bisous.

Barriers.

Listening to: Bert Jansch - Courting blues.

My parents visited last weekend. Being a part of their english tourist experience made me realise how much I've already learned. I'm still obviously a long way off any real true level of competence, but it was a linguistic pat on the back of sorts - an encouraging 'keep at it!' everytime I was able to act as their translator.

'Pat on the back... keep at it' ... that brings to mind something I've been thinking a lot about of late. As non-nationals attempting to integrate, we must always be aware of phrases that are non-translatable. That is to say we must screen the idioms and the slang of our own langauge when talking in another language, if we don't want to seem crazy.

The brazilian females intimidate me a little. Watching them 'on the pull' is like watching one of those animals in the wild programmes on the discovery channel. There is a phrase in spanish that translates to 'they have red in the eyes', I guess it's their equivalent of 'on the prowl' or 'in for the kill'. I then taught the argentinan 'SCHLAG', and he offered me (no idea how to write it in the vernacular, sorry) the spanish equivalent. It translated to 'quick knickers'. C'est fantastique, n'est-ce pas?

On tuesday I spent my lunchtime attempting to explain the associations of white vans in england, to a french friend. I think I was eventually successful, but it was a bit of a challenge.

By the end of the weekend, after spending each day and evening with my mother and step-father, I started to realise that it isn't only between languages that we must filter our idiomatic choices. I realised that language barriers exist between generations. My parents often misinterpret my style of speech as rude and negative, when my intentions lie elsewhere.

Is it the case that there is a generational language which is incomprehensible to other generations, or is it merely that I'm a bitch in denial? J'espère pas...

Bon soirée.

a quick write.

Best served with 'un café - fleur d'oranger', listening to Beirut, Nantes.

I've been spotting these all over town...

I'll write something, hopefully of interest... tomorrow.

Surreal(ist)

The room in which I was supposed to have my aesthetics lecture changed this morning. Noticing there were a lot of new people in the room, and an older man I didn't recognise sitting at the front, I assumed it was a guest lecture, for the philosophy department. Satisfied with this I happily began doodling.

Then a man played the flute, and another played the wood blocks.



Next time I'll pay more attention.

Here's a photo of the university tramp, I think he's some sort of bagman mascot

Voila...

Blog post #1 - attempt #3.
Day #45 in Nantes.
This week, I have been mostly... mixing drinks.

This blog is best accompanied by: he Magic Numbers & amadou & mariam - all i believe in.

Travelling convention dictates I blog my adventures. Firstly I'm no Indiana Jones, I don't plan on having too many adventures, so don't come to expect too much, and secondly I'm not entirely sure I have a firm grasp on what it is 'to blog'.
To continue this theme of inadequacy, the only photos I've taken so far are photos of recurring nintendo graffiti I keep spotting around Nantes, so as yet I don't have much to offer in terms of
visuals.

Since this is my first blog, I think I'll use this post to share a few of the cultural differences I've noticed thus far.

Culture find #1: Square Pillows.
I regret to inform you it's not just a hotel phenomenom. They're standard. The bedding department of the french IKEA is unsettling. Why square over rectangle? Perhaps it's just a case of historical habit but they're far too big to be practical. I have a theory that they're needed to accommodate the larger sized head of the arrogant frenchman.

Culture find #2 Squared Paper.
Lined paper is like the holy grail in France. While average maths workbook style squared paper can be found, the continental norm is imcomprehendable, nonsensical, minutely squared paper. Witty explanation for this? Currently unknown. Although the French do like to protest a lot, perhaps their independant nature extends to a refusal to write on regimented lines.

Culture find #3 Street Names.
The most simple things seem more sophisticated in france. Their street names are a perfect example of this. Streets here tend to be named after famous/historical figures. Rue Voltaire, Rue Moliere, Rue Rousseau... et cetera... In England we have Crotch Crescent and Slutshole Lane (fact).
I was asked by one of the germans to explain binge drinking. He expressed an interest in trying it and wanted to know what it entailed. I hope that somewhere in england there's an equally hungover french girl typing her blog about les oreillers rectangulaires, le papier avec lignes, et les noms drôles/drôles noms* des rues.



*funny haha/funny perculiar.