I'm an adventurer in a strange land, trying to befriend the natives, as well as my fellow-travelers.
Still, it's unusual to be a foreigner; un etrangere. I'm the strange one who provokes funny looks when I make comments or observations which to me are perfectly ordinary.
For instance, the other day, I had my first crepe, from a stand at the Tours flower market. The man who made my crepe noticed my Anglophone accent (who doesn't?), and we had a good quick conversation. He reminded my of Mr. Anderson, but a French crepe-vendor instead of an American teacher, although it isn't too hard to imagine Mr. Anderson deciding to spend a year or two making crepes in France. He asked me about American pancakes; I told him that they were really only for petit dejeuner. I had ordered une crepe au Nutella, and I explained that Nutella, also, was not common back home. Here in France, everybody eats Nutella; it's more common here than maple syrup is in the U.S. and Canada. He told me that maybe he would go to New York, and make himself a fortune selling crepes. Pourquoi pas?, he asked me.
We were discussing job applications and interviews the other day in class. For homework, we were to formulate additional questions that might crop up in an interview. I thought of one that Andrew once told me was used so frequently at job interviews, that it was retired: how many leaves are in Central Park (Combien de feuilles y a-t-il a Central Park)? I brought this question up in class, and even once the literal meaning had sunk in, I still received looks of confusion. In France, in Russia, in Korea, in Italy, and in Australia, it seems, recruiters do not ask this kind of psychological question. The only person in the room who recognized the kind of question I was describing was Tadashi, the Japanese bonhomme who sits to my left. He said that it was the very kind of question which interviewers for the American corporations in Japan habitually asked.
I recently gave the Avertin grandchildren a few American coins, as souvenirs (I am now 52 cents poorer). Their uncle Jerome (Andrew's age) noticed, and asked "Ah, des dollars?" I replied that I was only giving away a few pennies. How to explain that the U.S. Federal government is unable to manufacture practical coins of a value greater than 25 cents, that dollar coins are few and far between, except on the New York Metro? Here, 1- and 2-euro coins are extremely practical, and very handy: I far prefer them to bills. Coins also last longer than bills, and are more cost-effective for the minter. In the US, coins are not "dollars," they are not real money; they are just spare change. Ironically, when paper money became gradually more popular in the 18th centuries in the US, nobody treated it seriously; it earned such epithets as "rag money," and such derisive comments as "money is money, paper is paper." Now, I want our old coins back!
I've been mildly harassed about the U.S.'s lenient gun laws, as well as its lack of free tertiary education. My Australian companion had only heard of Walmart in the context of "Bowling for Columbine," and told me that in Australia, the Constitution could be changed, and asked me why we couldn't just have a referendum in order to pass stricter gun laws. I explained to her, very politely, that, 1) we can change some parts of our Constitution, but not the 2nd Amendment, and 2) national referendums do not exist in the U.S. I didn't even bother to explain to her that, actually, many Americans don't want tighter gun laws, and would see such laws as infringements on fundamental human liberties. One professor told me that if there were an attempt to fully privatize French tertiary education, there would be another French Revolution. As it is, the French resent the measures of financial autonomy imposed by the Sarcozi regime in imitation of American policy
My class has planned a potluck breakfast for tomorrow morning, and guess who offered to bring a real American delicacy to class? Unfortunately, I needed two very exotic ingredients to whip up my favorite banana bread recipe. The Avertins told me that the best place to search for the first one was the epicerie at Les Halles, a local market. Epicerie is a bit difficult to translate into English: "grocery store" is one attempt, but the epiceries are not greengrocers; the word is cognate with our word "spice," but spices make up only a small portion of an epicerie's stock. Epiceries sell honey, jam, pepper, vinegar, olives, etc. "Gourmet shop" is probably the best definition, in this context. I visited the epicerie, and the shopkeeper didn't even recognize the word that I used; I described it, and for a moment, he thought that I was referring to maple syrup, but quickly realized that, in fact, I was not mis-pronouncing "erable" (French for "maple), and told me that they did not carry such exotica. He referred me to a somewhat larger epicerie. I asked the woman there; she gave me a stare as blank as a fresh Word document. At first, I thought that she could not understand my accent, and began to explain, but she told me that she understood, but that her store did not sell such that particular item, in the same manner that she might have explained that her washing machines were not for sale.
What rare item was I looking for? Molasses!
The same story for oatmeal: I visited four stores looking for rolled oats, and none were available. At what quick mart in the U.S. is it impossible to find a can of Quaker Oats? Later, I told M. Avertin the story about Prof. Kaplan and the Quaker Oats.
I did whip up some banana bread that smells absolutely delcisioso, and its smell attracted both Avertins (Stephanie is away) and Misaki all to the kitchen. What we call bread, the French call cake: in France it's only bread if you spread butter, jam, or Nutella on it. Mme. Avertin didn't know of that particular trick to use overripe bananas, and three different people have already asked for the recipe: the librarian, the Avertins, and Misaki. It makes sense that banana bread is an American recipe: we're close to South America, and wealthy enough to afford bananas. Around 100 years ago, specially-cooled "banana boats" began to transport the tropical fruit vast quantities to American shores, and so we probably have had more ripe bananas on our hands than the Europeans.
I hope that the bread is well-received tomorrow in class. Tadashi is excited to be bringing wine to our breakfast-picnic: I'll let you know if anything funny happens. Oh, and this afternoon, another American student, Katherine of the state of Massachusetts, moved in with the Avertins.
~JD
"Les paysans desertaient les marches et vendaient clandestinement leurs recoltes aux prix fort, parfois contre numeraire" [The peasants deserted the markets and discretely sold their harvests at full price, sometimes for specie] (Denis Woronoff, La Republique bourgeoise, p. 19).
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