Thank you, nice ass!

Before I left for Paris, the most common question people would ask me was, “Do you speak French?” and my response was almost always, “Apparently.”  More often than not, that really confused people.  I would try and clarify by saying something like “I’ve taken four semesters but I’m not very good,” which wasn’t really what I meant but normally was enough of a response for someone to still look slightly confused but stop asking questions.  After spending a month in French speaking countries, I’ve realized that this is the best response I could have been giving people.  Because I do, kind of, speak French.  At least I think I speak French.  In reality, I’ve been speaking a kind of French-Lindy hybrid which makes sense to roughly 0 native French speakers.  For example, I found out last weekend that the way I pronounce “Merci beaucoup!” does not come out as “Thank you very much,” but rather, “Thank you, nice ass!”  So I’ve been unknowingly complimenting the behinds of just about every store clerk, waiter, and random person who’s held open a door for me in the last month.  Which is hilarious but also a major problem.  What’s worse is that no matter how hard I try I cannot seem to pronounce the “oup” in “beaucoup” correctly.  I just repeat “ass, ass, ass, ass” thinking I’m saying it right while Parisians laugh at me.  There’s roughly 8,224 ways to pronounce the sound “oo” sound in French.  To me, they all not only sound exactly the same, but for the life of me I cannot make my mouth differentiate between the o sounds in words such as “l’humour”, “l’amour”, “la mort” and “l’humeur”.  Which is kind of an issue because any time I try to talk about humor (l’humour), love (l’amour), or a mood (l’humeur), it comes out sounding like “death”.  Awesome.  Next thing I know I’ll be telling people I want to kill their nice ass or something.  My French professor finds my accent both hilarious and a huge nuisance and spends a decent chunk of our 3 hour classes trying to have me repeat words over and over until she eventually just accepts my horrible attempts and moves on.  At least I’m not as bad as another girl in class who actually sounds Chinese when she tries to speak French.  She’s from Oregon.  Sometimes it’s frustrating because I don’t understand why people can’t understand me, because to me, it’s so obvious what I’m trying to say.  But then I remember the Korean woman I tutored in English last spring who spent 5 minutes trying to explain to me what a “reeshard” was and how much her son liked them.  When finally I said, “OH! A lizard!” she looked at me like I was an idiot and said, “Yes, a reeshard.”  They were exactly the same word to her.  I guess that’s exactly how I sound to the French.  I still try whenever I’m out, but most people just respond to me in English.  Because people aren’t lying when they say everyone speaks English.  I was at a Salvador Dali exhibit the other day and a Dutch woman was speaking to the French receptionist in perfect English.  Neither spoke the others native language, but they both spoke English and had no problem communicating.  Crazy.

So while I’ve been trying to figure out how to make the switch from pseudo-French to real French, I’ve been busy exploring Paris and some different areas of France.  Last weekend (when I discovered my knack for complimenting butts), I spent Saturday and Sunday in Normandy with Kari (my big in Pi Phi) and her Parisian friend, Will.  Will picked us up on the Champs-Elysees Saturday morning and we drove about 3 hours to Normandy.  We went to The Caen Memorial (a museum dedicated to World Wars I and II, with a focus on the Battle of Normandy) Saturday afternoon before heading to the seaside town of Deauville (note: I am 100% incapable of pronouncing “Caen” and “Cannes” differently and Deauville was just DeVille as in Cruela in my brain).  Deauville was incredibly picturesque and reminded me of a hybrid between the town Belle lives in in Beauty and the Beast and where I lived in Germany.  Will had Kari and I try gaufre, after warning us that it “looks like an American waffle but it’s not a waffle and you may not like it but just try it, it’s very French.”  So I ordered a nutella gaufre, which was disguised as a waffle, and bit in to it to find that it was, in fact, a waffle.  Maybe Will can taste a difference, but Kari and I couldn’t.  Anyways, the gaufre/waffle lady had for some reason decided that I needed about half a jar of nutella on my gaufre, so as the three of us were walking along the beach, I literally had nutella dripping off of my gaufre and flying in the wind onto my hands/face/coat, while Kari and Will ate without issue next to me.  I finally understood why my parents banned me from eating chocolate ice cream in public as a child (I’m still bitter about this).

After our adventures in French cuisine, the three of us drove from Deauville to the middle of nowhere to where we were sleeping for the night.  Will had only made the reservation a day before getting there, and he had apparently found the only place in a 50-mile radius with two open rooms.  So we were all kind of braced for the worst.  But we were so pleasantly surprised when we got to Au Pressoir Pas Presse and found the most charming bed and breakfast, run by the adorable and incredibly welcoming owners, Oliver and Gregory.  Oliver showed us to our rooms and invited us downstairs once we were settled to try some pear cider and chat for a bit.  The house they lived in had been converted from an old brewery, which specialized in pear and apple ciders (kind of like apple or pear beer, in a way), and they were very proud of this fact and eager to introduce us to their unique pear drink.  It was delicious.  When we left the next morning, Kari and I each had bought a bottle and Will brought 3 home for himself.

After talking to Gregory and Oliver for a bit (who found it hilarious that I can’t pronounce “beaucoup”) we drove about 20-30 minutes to Cabourg (I think?) for a late dinner, before heading back to bed.  The next morning we got up around 9 for breakfast, which consisted of the standard baguette, croissants, etc, but also homemade cakes and this strange milk/honey/jam thing that was supposed to be sweet milk but it was brown and slightly terrifying until I tried it and then proceeded to question why we didn’t have something that heavenly in America. 

We reluctantly left Au Pressoir Pas Presse, cider in hand, for the Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial at Omaha Beach that morning, making a stop in Arromanches Les Bains on the way.  Omaha Beach was one of the most surreal places I’ve ever been.  Normally monuments don’t really get to me.  In fact I think it would be safe to say that the only other time I can remember being moved by a monument was the Vietnam War Memorial in DC.  But standing on a cliff overlooking Omaha Beach, surrounded by countless white marble crosses bearing the names of the young men who died on the ground you’re looking at, about to be standing on, is absolutely indescribable.  Scattered throughout the crosses and Stars of David are fresh roses, wreaths, and American flags left by loved ones.  Many more than you would anticipate seeing.  And that just makes it all the more real.  Every single day there are people visiting this cemetery from across the ocean to pay their respects to a loved one who died there.  And it’s so amazingly beautiful.  It’s tragically beautiful.  While we were there it was warm and sunny and looked so peaceful, it was almost impossible to imagine what the shoreline had looked like almost 68 years ago.  We climbed down from the cliff where the cemetery rests and wandered along the shore for a while before heading back to the car and driving 2 hours east to the gorgeous town of Honfleur. In Honfleur I made a second, more successful go at chocolate and banana gaufre, and the three of us strolled through the ancient cobblestone streets before deciding to drive back to Paris around 7. 

It was nice to get out of the city for a weekend, to be reminded that real people exist outside of the fairytale world that is Paris, and it was great to get a taste of France outside of Paris.  Because apparently all Parisians think that France is comprised solely of Paris and those from the rest of the country think the exact opposite. 

This coming weekend I’m spending Friday in Chartres and the weekend after that I’ll be in Amsterdam with a friend from Madison, so the next few weeks look just as exciting as the previous few.  Bon soir!

Struggling with my nutella gaufre on the boardwalk

Will and me drinking cider at the bed and breakfast!

Au Pressoir Pas Presse!  With their adorable dog, Elfie

One of the many crosses with flowers from a loved one

Kari on Omaha Beach

Gaufre #2, much easier to eat with a fork and knife and not walking