As we dangerously approach the end of the weekend (with an end-of-summer whiff as well), I want to sit down and let you know about these little things that lit my end of August. If you are an habitué(e) of the blog (which I encourage you to become!), you will remember that I had received a bomb full of bad vibs, courtesy of a psycho, as recently as Thursday. I think I forgot to mention it at the time but among other treats in my first ever hate mail was a threat to...scalp me! (What Tarantino does to sick minds!). So by Friday morning I wasn't exactly floating in peace-and-love space.
Daniel put me right back in there.
Oh? Who's that Daniel? Wasn't there a lumberjack in the picture?
Eh! Wait a minute! I am French but not everything has to be sexual, does it?
Daniel is the person who helped restore my faith in humanity. The massage he gave me on Friday was more than a long-needed pain relief. It was a treat (and a real one, this time!). It was an exchange. It was full of good energy. Finally, there I was in Washington with a person who's so easy to talk to, to open myself to and to trust. Have you ever felt this before? I am just happy someone put him on my path.
The bubble I walked out in prepared me to enjoy the mascots and kitty-dressed chicks of the fantasy world of the Flaming Lips, whose concert I headed to that same day. Escorted by two friends, I discovered the joys of an American show, where the concept of selling food and drinks is much developed than our "merguez in a baguette outside Bercy" (I guess merguez in baguette can appeal to some though. It's just that there's nothing else!). With my tea-infused vodka and lemonade drink (which I am told is called a John Daley) in one hand, hot dog in another and blackberry never far to have Lumberjack share the moment, I had a great time with my two busy bees (DC socialites!).
While we all loved the opening band Explosions in the Sky, Jessica couldn't get over the giant catfish mascot (who in my mind looked quite friendly) and dragged us out of the Flaming Lips actual concert before the encores, which was fine by me as I got to listen to Do you realize in the car and introduced them to Fatals Picards on our way back.
And then, it had to be all French for a day. And you know what? It felt really really good to be with Liviane and her two friends, touring DC, buying eucalyptus in Eastern Market that I carried all day long and a very rock n' roll bracelet, talking on and on from the metro to dim sum to Georgetown University, ending the day in a cafe with an excellent vib and live music.
Does all this prepare me for a new week? I believe so, but that's also because Lumberjack arrives Thursday.
And to show my positive spirits, I'll leave the last word to the Flaming Lips and "creepy" catfish:
You realize that life goes fast
It's hard to make the good things last
You realize the sun doesn't go down
It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
You've got (hate) mail
I had planned today to write about the warm feeling of meeting people from my "former life" in my new city. I'll have to reschedule. Nothing like breaking news to feed a new post. And nothing like a new post to vent and laugh about something otherwise upsetting.
So I got hate mail. Bah, what's new there, some will say? We read hate mail all day long on newspapers' blogs, opinion-based Web sites, and I have probably received hate mail once or twice at work. Except that it doesn't matter when you don't know the person and when you have enough distance to realize they're either racist or crazy or that they just hate the world in general.
My hate mail was personal.
I won't get into details, even though as a reader I would die to know more. Let's just say this is from someone I barely know, met just once I believe and who happens to be very insecure.
Hate mail, at least a good one, is like a multi-layer ice-cream that Ferran Adria would have crafted, I learned. You're so unprepared that the first impression is just surprise. Then you realize it's cold and it makes you wince. Immediately after comes this very bitter teste: what's wrong with this ice-cream? The bitterness lingers for a bit as you discover the other layers: incredulity, anxiety, and then, little by little, amusement.
That's when you start looking for the best excerpts, the ones you will keep in a corner of your mind to make friends and strangers laugh at parties. I already tested it on a few people today and that worked quite well. They couldn't believe, it made "ohs" and "ahs"and their reaction just keept me going.
They say laugh is the best arm against many things, including stupidity and that's true after all. When the text sounds like it's mid-way between a cheap teenage movie and a roman noir attempt, what else can you do?
That said, I like to diversify my good laughs. So one hate mail at a time, please.
So I got hate mail. Bah, what's new there, some will say? We read hate mail all day long on newspapers' blogs, opinion-based Web sites, and I have probably received hate mail once or twice at work. Except that it doesn't matter when you don't know the person and when you have enough distance to realize they're either racist or crazy or that they just hate the world in general.
My hate mail was personal.
I won't get into details, even though as a reader I would die to know more. Let's just say this is from someone I barely know, met just once I believe and who happens to be very insecure.
Hate mail, at least a good one, is like a multi-layer ice-cream that Ferran Adria would have crafted, I learned. You're so unprepared that the first impression is just surprise. Then you realize it's cold and it makes you wince. Immediately after comes this very bitter teste: what's wrong with this ice-cream? The bitterness lingers for a bit as you discover the other layers: incredulity, anxiety, and then, little by little, amusement.
That's when you start looking for the best excerpts, the ones you will keep in a corner of your mind to make friends and strangers laugh at parties. I already tested it on a few people today and that worked quite well. They couldn't believe, it made "ohs" and "ahs"and their reaction just keept me going.
They say laugh is the best arm against many things, including stupidity and that's true after all. When the text sounds like it's mid-way between a cheap teenage movie and a roman noir attempt, what else can you do?
That said, I like to diversify my good laughs. So one hate mail at a time, please.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
What's wrong with my accent?! (Part I)
Here I am, back on this blog business, emboldened by my first few readers and feeling the urge to raise a very important question tonight: do I need to improve my accent?
I have a love-hate relationship with this French accent of mine. Ten years ago, when I first got here and started grad school, I would have killed to get rid of it, since my masterplan was to stay in this great country, make a career and blend in. One is so naive at that young age! I couldn't stand the friendly smile of people asking me where I was from, only to continue with "that's what I thought" when I grumpily revealed my nationality.
I have grown up, don't worry. I know, French accents are cute and mine is not even that bad. I know, it can even help me in my job. That's why I don't feel like flagellating myself every time I am spotted (anymore). I'm still asking Lumberjack to correct me when my pronounciation is wrong and I accept that at the end of a long day some words sound terribly French in my mouth. I've also come to realize that everybody, natives included, speaks with an accent, sometimes a very strong one! And that's not a bad thing! In short, I have come to terms with my accent.
Until yesterday, that is.
On my way to my first meal of the day (at 5pm, that day of blogging and twitting and etc... kept me very busy yesterday!), I decided to stop by the local theater, which is pretty famous here, and sign up for an acting class. I had studied the classes' description and I was really excited. It's been more than a year since I last was on stage, as I put everything on hold not knowing when I would leave France. So when I climbed the stairs to the registration office of that fancy/hip theater near me, nothing could have spoilt my pleasure.
But she did. The director of studies. Because before even considering acting classes, or at least in parallel to it, she STRONGLY recommened I took a "standard speech" class to make my accent "less thick." Now, granted, she was speaking in general, that it helped with thick accents. But at the same time she clearly included me in the category of people who need this kind of class before going into the acting one (let me remind you that taking an acting class is not a privilege but something I would pay for!)
So let me ask you: why am I told all year long that a French accent is sexy, only to be sent to a reeducation camp at that jail theater near me?!
And guess what? I signed up for it.
I have a love-hate relationship with this French accent of mine. Ten years ago, when I first got here and started grad school, I would have killed to get rid of it, since my masterplan was to stay in this great country, make a career and blend in. One is so naive at that young age! I couldn't stand the friendly smile of people asking me where I was from, only to continue with "that's what I thought" when I grumpily revealed my nationality.
I have grown up, don't worry. I know, French accents are cute and mine is not even that bad. I know, it can even help me in my job. That's why I don't feel like flagellating myself every time I am spotted (anymore). I'm still asking Lumberjack to correct me when my pronounciation is wrong and I accept that at the end of a long day some words sound terribly French in my mouth. I've also come to realize that everybody, natives included, speaks with an accent, sometimes a very strong one! And that's not a bad thing! In short, I have come to terms with my accent.
Until yesterday, that is.
On my way to my first meal of the day (at 5pm, that day of blogging and twitting and etc... kept me very busy yesterday!), I decided to stop by the local theater, which is pretty famous here, and sign up for an acting class. I had studied the classes' description and I was really excited. It's been more than a year since I last was on stage, as I put everything on hold not knowing when I would leave France. So when I climbed the stairs to the registration office of that fancy/hip theater near me, nothing could have spoilt my pleasure.
But she did. The director of studies. Because before even considering acting classes, or at least in parallel to it, she STRONGLY recommened I took a "standard speech" class to make my accent "less thick." Now, granted, she was speaking in general, that it helped with thick accents. But at the same time she clearly included me in the category of people who need this kind of class before going into the acting one (let me remind you that taking an acting class is not a privilege but something I would pay for!)
So let me ask you: why am I told all year long that a French accent is sexy, only to be sent to a reeducation camp at that jail theater near me?!
And guess what? I signed up for it.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Of Jellyfish, expatriation and Washington DC
Voila. On a Monday well past noon, when I should be at work. Work!
Instead I've been in bed jumping from a twit to another and asking myself if it was worth leaving Paris and seven weeks of vacation for an office in DC that's, to say the least, not very "rock'n'roll," (like we say in French). And don't even start me on my number of days off.
My family, or at least my cousin Beber, the best versed in anything remotely computer-related, has been pushing me to start a blog. "So that we can see where you live, what you're up to,etc..."
Sorry kiddo (yes I call kiddo my 6'1 cousin, I'm the oldest of that side of the family after all!), but last thing I want is to post pictures of me and Lumberjack smiling on a beach of New Brunswick, as nice as it was. And forget the French, too. I might as well try to write in the language of the country I live in, as far as training goes. It looks like family will have to make do with Skype, which my mother loves anyway. Looking at her and dad giggling while trying to set up the camera the other day was more touching that my sighing impatiently showed.
So what is it that I want to do with this blog? Keep a trace of my return to America, almost nine years after I graduated here? Yes. Vent a bit when officials and colleagues make the day too absurd? Absolutely. Force my friends to practice their English? Pourquoi pas? (At this stage I am wondering if I even want my friends to read this blog).
But one reason I am doing this is also because I hope it will nudge me to discover DC more than I would have otherwise. Force myself to make the extra effort to meet people outside my natural circle. And then report about it.
Jellyfish like caves, didn't you know? And I like taking my time on a weekday. So here we go. I hope I get a little support so that laziness, or the every day life, won't take over.
Instead I've been in bed jumping from a twit to another and asking myself if it was worth leaving Paris and seven weeks of vacation for an office in DC that's, to say the least, not very "rock'n'roll," (like we say in French). And don't even start me on my number of days off.
My family, or at least my cousin Beber, the best versed in anything remotely computer-related, has been pushing me to start a blog. "So that we can see where you live, what you're up to,etc..."
Sorry kiddo (yes I call kiddo my 6'1 cousin, I'm the oldest of that side of the family after all!), but last thing I want is to post pictures of me and Lumberjack smiling on a beach of New Brunswick, as nice as it was. And forget the French, too. I might as well try to write in the language of the country I live in, as far as training goes. It looks like family will have to make do with Skype, which my mother loves anyway. Looking at her and dad giggling while trying to set up the camera the other day was more touching that my sighing impatiently showed.
So what is it that I want to do with this blog? Keep a trace of my return to America, almost nine years after I graduated here? Yes. Vent a bit when officials and colleagues make the day too absurd? Absolutely. Force my friends to practice their English? Pourquoi pas? (At this stage I am wondering if I even want my friends to read this blog).
But one reason I am doing this is also because I hope it will nudge me to discover DC more than I would have otherwise. Force myself to make the extra effort to meet people outside my natural circle. And then report about it.
Jellyfish like caves, didn't you know? And I like taking my time on a weekday. So here we go. I hope I get a little support so that laziness, or the every day life, won't take over.
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