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Browsing Tags American expat

Standing on American Soil in France

August 6, 2013 · by Nikki

[NOTE: Originally written on August 6, 2013] Today marks the anniversary of the D-Day Invasion by Allied forces in France. Since I have recently visited the very area of the world where the invasion took place, I felt today would be the perfect day to share about the sights and sounds in Normandy.

I’d heard about the Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial quite a few times over the course of my life, but it wasn’t until last year when a dear friend made a visit and happened upon a grave site that bore not only my family name, but the middle name of my father, as well.

Ernest Lavoie: American Cemetary of France

After that, the memorial site was a no-brainer to be added to My List, as I was curious to discover more about the history of the war and the sacrifice of so many soldiers.

Although the cemetery wasn’t the only thing we visited on the trip, it was by far the most moving. Normandy is a beautiful region, with gorgeous seascapes, cute tourist-towns that dot the shores, and weather that is reminiscent of being back in New England. But nothing impacted me so much as the museum on-site at the cemetery.

The museum was designed to immerse visitors into the soldiers’ experience, and it does exactly that. Everything from personal objects to videos containing real footage and photographs to interviews with soldiers who served and family members of those who were lost is on display, and does nothing short of transporting you into what life must have been like around the time of the infamous D-Day.

Here’s a look at some of my favorite shots from Normandy and its impressive dedication to the soldiers who gave their lives:

On a lighter note: The Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial is actually staffed by American (and British) employees, and their presence is immediately felt. As soon as we pulled into the cemetery parking area, something stood out that was distinctively un-French: order and organization. From parking in designated rows (not just wherever you want), to lines that were actually kept and moved at a reasonable pace, I was easily reminded that I was on American soil. Needless to say, my short run-in with orderliness was very refreshing!

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A Trifecta of French Frustrations

August 1, 2012 · by Nikki

They say things happen in threes. I hope that’s true, because if I experience another run-in with the Parisian rudeness that I have been actively assuring others doesn’t exist, I might just lose my mind.

After gaining the confidence to try to speak some French in public, I have been surely and swiftly knocked off of my little pedestal. For a city that is known for its culture and class, the people here certainly can lack tact. Here’s a recap of my descent from moderately confident to fearing foreigner:

At my neighborhood grocery store, an old lady asked me where she could find a “boite de sel,” or, a box of salt. Not knowing the answer (or what exactly a BOX of salt was), I told her, in French, that I would ask someone. She understood me and thanked me for offering to help. I found the nearest grocery store employee, to whom I said: “Je cherche une boite de sel…?” knowing that I was looking for something rather odd. His response: “Vous n’êtes pas français, hmm?” (or, “you’re not French…”). He then laughs, and follows me to the aisle where the old lady is searching. Um… did I make a mistake here? Am I speaking so unintelligibly that you cannot understand me? Obviously not. So stop focusing on the fact that I’m not French and tell me where we can find a freaking box of salt, damn it!
At a restaurant ordering lunch last weekend, a waiter makes a joke about what I’m ordering in French. I smile politely and nod, not even realizing he was making a joke, which prompts him to ask Frog Prince why I didn’t get the joke. He of course responded that I don’t really speak French. At the end of the meal, the waiter looks me in the eye and asks me in French if my plate was good. I responded “C’était bon!” Meaning, it was good. At which point he proceeded to sarcastically ask me if it was “bon ou bonne?” in an attempt to correct my French, and he was in fact, making a mistake (insert French grammar lesson about masculine and feminine forms, here). Nice try, buddy. I didn’t realize French teachers also worked as waiters on Sundays.
On the same day as incident number 2, we were at the lake enjoying the rare Paris sunshine. Somehow we started playing football (soccer) with a little boy nearby. The great thing about little kids is that I can speak to them in French, probably making plenty of mistakes, but they totally understand me and don’t judge me at all. However, a group of pretentious mommies who arrived after our game of football had started, who sat themselves directly adjacent to our playful little match, proceeded to tell us we were playing too close to their children, and DO like to judge. Apparently they heard me speaking to the little boy and felt that my French was sub-par and felt it necessary to talk among themselves about my poor language skills. After being informed of their comments to each other, overheard by Frog Prince, that I should learn how to properly speak French, we decided to ignore their warnings and played until they left. Hopefully, they went to find something better to do, like pay attention to that baby they were so damned worried about that they strategically placed him near an ongoing football game.

A photo from our day at the lake – which would have been exceptional if not for some mean mommies 😦

To be completely honest, after getting home from the lake and having all three incidents hit me at once… I cried. For the first time since moving to Paris, I cried solely because I felt so completely frustrated with living here. On the bright side, it took me almost a year and a half to reach this point.

But have no fear, friends, family, and faithful readers… after my pity party passed, I have made a resolution: I’m gonna learn the SHIT out of this language, if for no other reason than to go back to that waiter and tell him what I think of his français de merde. After my meal is finished, of course.

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Paris Photo Quiz

July 31, 2012 · by Nikki

For my most recent article for MyFrenchLife, I decided to mix things up a bit and pose a small challenge to readers. Here is the quiz… enjoy!

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Paris Cupcake Wars: Berko’s Bakery

July 27, 2012 · by Nikki

For the latest installment of my cleverly devised scheme to allow me to binge on cupcakes while in Paris, I bring you the full report of my experience with Berko’s Bakery.

The setting: We had plans to host some of of the Prince’s Royal Family for dinner, and we thought it would be a great idea to introduce some other Froggies to cupcakes and to get their valuable feedback. So on the day of our dinner I ventured over to the Berko’s location in the 18th arrondissement, just a short walk from the Moulin Rouge, to sample their wares.

At first glance: Both the website and the storefront were promising. The website lists a huge variety of both cupcakes and frostings, sorted by type (buttercream, cream cheese, mascarpone, mousse and ganache), which sufficiently wet my appetite. Once inside, their selection of cupcakes vastly outnumbered that at Scarlett’s Bakery, and I was eager to make my selection. The shop was very nicely decorated, evoking a feeling of vintage-esque Parisian sweetness. They also offer wedding cakes (among other things), which is typically a good indicator of a bakery that knows how to make a cupcake!

Berko’s storefront – in French 😉

At second glance: Although the selection was large, I was double-disappointed with it! Not only were they not carrying the classic flavors I seem to be always hunting for, but the selection of buttercream cupcakes was so much smaller than any other type, and buttercream is my favorite. The cupcakes here are also minis, and the box they offer is designed well and holds your goodies in place like a trusty sports bra.

Keepin’ everything nice and snug

At first bite: The disappointment continued. The frosting was moderately tasty, but the cupcakes themselves were average. At Scarlett’s, you get cupcakes that are either the same or a corresponding flavor as the frosting, giving you a really flavorful experience for each bite. With Berko’s, you’re typically getting a plain cake with fancy frosting (if you can call it that). In some cases, the cupcakes had some sort of filling inside that, while yummy, doesn’t exactly make up for the lack of attention paid to the cake itself. Our guests reflected my sentiments by saying that the cakes were a bit dry and plain, and Frog Prince has asked me not to go back.

So much promise, so little flavor

Overall: Their prices are higher than Scarlett’s for a lower quality product. The best thing about Berko’s is the box, and that’s obviously not enough to make it worth your time or money. My recommendation is to save yourself the hassle, and DON’T GO to Berko’s.

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Excuse My French!

June 21, 2012 · by Nikki

I love this phrase. I use it liberally as an excuse to swear. I find it especially effective when talking to my mother who, in the not-so-distant past, used to “speak loudly” (yell) to (at) me using my entire name (you know–in that way that only Moms can) for merely mentioning the word “crap” (don’t worry, Mom, I know you’re supposed to do that 🙂 ). I suppose perhaps part of why her disdain for my linguistic shortcomings has subsided over the years stems from the fact that now I’m an adult (or so they say), so swearing has become slightly more acceptable. Even still, I find that a well-placed “excuse my French” after the choice words I had reserved to describe, say, the French postal service, for example, seems to lessen the blow that a vulgarity can deliver.

Not too long ago, I was talking to Frog Prince about some issue or another and a swear accidentally tumbled across my lips. I immediately followed the surprising slip-up with “excuse my French,” which garnered quite the confused look from him. I tried to explain to him what this term means, and how it’s used. The conversation went something like this:

“Well, when a person swears but they don’t want to offend someone, they might say ‘excuse my French,’ or sometimes it’s ‘pardon my French.'”

“Why? S#*% isn’t a French word.”

“Umm… (calling on my skills of balderdash) I think it’s because a long time ago, people thought swears sounded like French words. Or something.”

“???????”

“Yeah, I don’t know. I’ll look it up.”

After doing some research on the web, I came across a possible explanation of the origin of the term (though no official citation is included so I’m not sure about the credibility of this account):

In the 19th century, when English people used French expressions in conversation they often apologised for it – presumably because many of their listeners (then as now) wouldn’t be familiar with the language.^[1]

If you think about it, this technically makes my initial attempt at an explanation for the term somewhat correct. People apologized for French expressions, so at some point someone started apologizing for a swear, either thinking it was French or trying to pass it off as such. Either way, I’ll chalk this up as a minor victory. (Side note – can you imagine what the term “excuse my English” might be apologizing for?)

But the funniest part of this little phrase doesn’t come from it’s origin or common use by English speakers. The hilarity, for me, now comes from it’s new use in my life here in France. These days, “excuse my French” is a good way to apologize for the fact that my French still sucks. Go figure. 🙂

Guess I’m not the only one using the phrase this way…
copyright: BBC

“Excuse my French.”1 The Phrase Finder. http://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/130800.html (11 April, 2012)

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One Year Later: An Honest Recap of my Time in Paris So Far

May 22, 2012 · by Nikki

Saturday, May 19th marked the one year anniversary of my arrival in Paris and of becoming an expat. It has taken me two full days to recover from the celebrations to be able to write something about it.

At the six-month mark, I wrote a little check-up post, outlining the things I had accomplished and the things I still wanted to. I thought about writing this post in a similar format and addressing all of my “wish list” items from six months ago to see how far I’ve come. I may still do that, but for now, I wanted to write something a little more honest and authentic about what it has really been like for me to be an American living in Paris.

First, I want to emphasize that this past year has been one of the best years of my life. I’m having a great time, meeting wonderful new people everywhere I go, gaining a ton of valuable work experience at my job, and expanding my sense of independence and adventure. I wouldn’t trade this year for anything, and I realize I’m very fortunate to have this opportunity. Living and working abroad has always been a dream of mine, and I’m lucky to be in the category of people who gets to say they are really living out one of their dreams.

You’ve seen this one before… some of the friends I’ve met during this past year!

That being said, there is a down side to living in a country where I’m still (slowly) learning the language. I’ve written enough posts about my struggles with French–some funny, some expressing frustration–so I’m sure those who follow my blog closely enough realize, to some extent, the role that the element of language plays in my life. But over the last few weeks, I have really started to struggle with something: my identity as a non-French speaker (yet!) in this country.

Have you ever had one of those dreams where you’re in a group of familiar faces, everyone having a good time, and no one can hear you? The dream starts out fine–you know the people you’re with and you know you’re about to have fun with them. When you realize no one can hear or understand or see you, you become confused, and maybe panic even starts to set in. And then, after several desperate attempts to be heard, the only thing left to feel is frustration. This cycle is my life.

Despite this dream being the perfect analogy of what I often experience here (being in a group of friends speaking to each other in a language I can understand but cannot express myself in), not being heard in a group isn’t the issue that’s been weighing me down lately.

What a lot of people don’t understand, is that even though I’m lucky enough to have such friendly and kind people speaking to me in my language while I’m in their country, is that I often have to change everything about the way I communicate: my vocabulary, my body language, my accent, the subjects we talk about… in order to be understood.Although I’m doing what I can to learn French while working full time (in English), I can still only converse on the level of a five-year-old. It took me months to figure out why I haven’t been feeling like myself in this country, and then it hit me: I am NOT myself here. Nor can I be, until I can fully express myself in French.

Maybe the closest I’ve felt to myself in Paris: watching the Patriots, at a Canadian bar, with my Dad 🙂

On the day of my six-month anniversary in Paris, I left for a trip to the US. On that trip, I had the strangest feeling. Of course I missed my friends and family and was happy to see them all, but it was more than that. Recently I realized what the “more” was. It was relief. Relief because I could once again be the outgoing, sometimes funny, always quirky, opinionated, non-wall flower that I’ve been for most of my adult life. When I read that sentence back, those adjectives do not resonate with the person that I am here in Paris. I have been reduced to a shy, insecure, quiet, easily-intimidated young woman who needs assistance to do a lot of things. Sometimes, I literally feel like another person has taken over my body and the “real me” is forced to sit in silence and watch the whole thing play out.

I know a lot of people who have lived abroad and who have struggled as they adjust to cultural and language differences. But most of the people I know who have embarked on a similar journey have had one important difference: they didn’t do it alone. They either moved with friends, classmates, a significant other, family, or at least knew someone well enough in the new country that they could count on. This is not to say that none of those people faced the challenges I have. On the contrary, I’m sure they did, and I know I’m not alone in feeling like I am another person while in a different country. And I definitely have people I can count on now. But the people who really know me well are a 6 hour plane ride away at best.

Some of the people that know me best! ❤

At the end of the day, all I can do is try to be as close to the “real me” as possible, and hope that the more I learn French, the more my true personality will come out. Then my next concern will be if all of the French friends I’ve made will still be able to stand me at that point 😉 I’m not homesick, and I have no intentions of leaving France anytime soon (sorry Frenchies!), but it’s good to reflect on the challenges you face every now and then. If you don’t recognize why you struggle, how can you know where to concentrate your efforts?

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London

May 16, 2012 · by Nikki

Better late than never? Here are my fave photos from my trip to England’s capital:

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Home Sweet Box of Home

May 4, 2012 · by Nikki

Dorothy went through some pretty badass trials and tribulations in order to learn that “there’s no place like home.” Fortunately for me, there was no Wicked Witch to drench, no poppies to overcome, no flying monkeys in pursuit, and certainly no egomaniacal old man trying to masquerade as some omnipotent being with an over-sized green head. All I did was open a box. Well, technically two boxes.

Apparently, to my delight, two of my best friends from home decided to get together and send me some of my favorite things (not surprisingly, most of the items were food). As soon as I opened the package, it was as if I had clicked my heels three times. I was immediately transported away from the City of Lights, away from the Eiffel Tower, away from the Seine, and back to a familiar place filled with the faces of people I know.

Click, click, click…

It’s true that since I moved abroad I often feel like my home is somewhere in between here and there (and sometimes I feel like it’s nowhere). But, there’s nothing like a few little things put together with care to make you remember what “home” is supposed to feel like. I love my friends, I love my family, and it’s thanks to them that I can continue being a Perpetual Passenger and maintain any trace of sanity. Thanks to everyone who plays a part, large or small. It doesn’t go unnoticed.

Image copyright: FIDM museum shop

How to Survive the Paris Metro

May 2, 2012 · by Nikki

For those who need a few tips on how to get around in Paris, I wrote a short article about navigating the metro for MyFrenchLife. You can read about it here.

Happy traveling!

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Fear Factor, French Style

February 1, 2012 · by Nikki

You know that show where people do absolutely terrifying things in the hopes of winning money? Well if I was a contestant, the method of torturing me wouldn’t involve sticking my hand in a nest of angry bees, eating a tarantula or walking a tight-rope from one very high point to another (though I’ll happily say “no thanks!” if offered the chance to willingly do any of those things). All the producers of the show would have to do is plop me down in the middle of a crowded area filled with French people that I know and say, “…aaaaand: SPEAK FRENCH!”

My version of Fear Factor

It’s true. I suffer daily from what I not-so-lovingly call Glossofrancofamiliophobia–similar in root to “glossophobia,” which is a fear of public speaking, but with a specific reference to speaking French, and speaking it to people I know.

It’s almost entertaining, really. I can run to the boulangerie and order some bread or a tasty pastry, grab some lunch to go from some local dining establishment, or even catch a ride home in a cab and everything turns out fine. But take me out to dinner with a group of friends–or worse, my French boyfriend–and that’s when the trouble starts. My pulse quickens, my face explores the warmer shades of the rainbow, my brow starts to sweat, and suddenly it’s as if I’ve never studied a word of French in my life.

I freeze.

I get stuck.

I shut the hell up (and trust me, you know there’s a problem when my mouth stops moving).

Sadly, there are no commercials with animated figures who go from sad to happy in a matter of seconds thanks to a miracle pill for this condition. There are no therapists specialized in this field, nor are there rehabilitation centers that can get me on my feet. No, my friends, this phobia is one that has to be tackled alone. And hard.

No doubt the root of this issue lies in confidence, and I make small steps every day to boost mine. Frog Prince helps a lot. He doesn’t laugh at me or make me feel bad when I try and say the basic sentences I have the nerve to muster. But I just can’t shake the idea that the people I’ve come to like and respect will stop reciprocating those feelings once they hear my sorry excuse for French. Unrealistic? Probably. Terrifying? Absolutely.

So, fellow expats, francophones, and bi-linguists: please do feel free to share how you may have gotten over any of your personal barriers to speaking another language. In the meantime, I’ll be on the lookout for a life raft to save me from succumbing to the 20,000 leagues of lexicon I seem to be sinking in (or getting eaten by un requin français).

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