Her Big Big Smile

I have just returned from a weekend in the French countryside.

Doesn't that sound lovely?

There is no internet in the French countryside, and very little spoken English. One is therefore forced to "relax," away from the computer, usually through HOURS of conversation.

Have I mentioned that I don't love French Meg?

French Meg smiles and nods a lot. She also laughs on cue. There are times when French Meg understands what you say, but she won't ask a single question. You may have covered that point already, and she probably already laughed.

Nod, smile. Ha ha HA!!

Not only am I a bit slow, I am indiscretely so. At 5'10'', I'm only slightly taller than average when playing on the home court. In France, however, I am walking talking circus show.

The result is that, in addition to babbling and smiling, I am often dressed kinda funny. It's not always my fault.

This weekend, the countryside hostess offered to lend me her slippers. I pantomimed something like "I don't think they fit!" looking at first disappointed, then smiling enormously.

She suggested that I just wear them over my toes, and I was unable to respond with anything other than a smile. I spent the next two days mincing around in her elfinwear, falling down (two times), and smiling.

Outside the chalet, her XS parka hit me just below the bra line. Even the mountain sheep were rolling their eyes. "It's cropped," I gestured in return, grinning madly the whole time.

My finest performance of the weekend can't be blamed on size. It came one night when I was too tired to climb the stairs for toothpaste, and instead started fishing around in the hosts' bathroom drawers.

Do I even need to type this? It's really too predictable...

I used their Fixodent.

It was exactly as you imagine.

And yet I kept on smiling, even with globs of waxy red stuff stuck in my gums.

Upon leaving, my soft-spoken host raised himself up to faire les bises and to say his parting words.

"Merci pour venir et... pour ton sourire... ENORME."

At least I think that's what he said.









* * * * *

For a different take on The Language Problem, please click on the veryfunny following from Paris blogger Kung Fu Dana.

Mucho Macho

Paris is a cultural capital for many, many reasons. An abundance of karaoke parlors is not one of them. And so it is with great anxiety that I announce the following:

I may no longer be welcome at L'Echanteur.

The city's best (only?) karaoke is in the basement of a dive bar in the Marais. Its management and clientele are "hetero friendly," but it helps to be accompanied by one of the Stars of Gayraoke.

One such Star was supposed to meet us at the bar last Saturday night. I arrived just after midnight with two boys and my new travel editor at the Wall Street Journal.

(Was that vulgar?)

Anyway, this distinguished visiting editor needed little encouragement, putting her Snoop Dogg slip in straight away. My inspiration came more slowly, but when it did I scribbled my song choice and found myself on the stage only moments later.

And that's when things began to turn ugly.

A "normal" karaoke night would find me taking to a stage much later, after several watery beers and having already witnessed other people's shame. On this particular night there was no posse to shield me from the unknown members of the audience. There was no former session singer at my side to do the backup. I was nearly - gasp! - sober.

But none of that would have mattered had I chosen the right song -

...had I NOT chosen to sing Macho Man

...in a gay bar

...without really knowing the words.

Who knew there were words? Besides the chorus, I mean. They're actually (don't laugh), kind of hard. Which is why I found myself staring out at the horrified audience and mumbling "body... body... body? It's so hot my body? body... body.. check it out."

The editor, in an ill-considered moment of great compassion, rushed to the stage and began to gyrate in circles around me and, I think, to pantomime the macho man's chest hair.

"...check it out, my body."

That went on for far too long, the opening verse, but I was just SURE that when the chorus came we would all throw our heads back and our arms in the air and unite as macho men together.

It was dead quiet as Nikki and I, the two white girls in the gay bar, threw our heads back and began to scream the chorus.

.....

And then the song went on another three or four minutes.

.....

The DJ, who has seen me perform many challenging numbers in the past, actually said, "Goodbye Meg" instead of "thank you" at the end of the song.

And that's when I dropped and shattered my glass.

.....

Nikki never got a chance to perform that night, her name seemingly blacklisted by association.

A shame, really, because I would have killed to watch her Drop It Like It's Hot. I had a clear image in mind of my employer rapping "I'm a bad boy, with a lotta hos," as I booty danced behind her. "SnooooooooOOOOOOP!"

Because I have no video of my disasterous performance, I offer instead this treasure from Brazil - two 22 year-old boys dancing Macho in their living room. The long-hair is my new summer crush and the spiritual twin of this guy. Where was HE when I needed him at L'Echanteur?

Bacon Sluts, Your Time is Now

I felt both indignant and justified when I saw this today on BuzzFeed, via meat husband* Mike Cosentino.

Indignant because I thought I had invented the bacon cocktail at a brunch last summer.

Justified because everyone at that brunch was looking at me like I was crazy. In fact, I was super cutting-edge. A bit tipsy...

In any case, I'm not sure which is most perverse:

1) The intense desire to claim 'bacontail' as my own,

2) The possibility that there may be a collective baconsciousness, or

3) The fact that a site promising Step by Step Photos of the Bacon Vodka Enfusion Process is so popular that it has exceeded its bandwidth and temporarily shut down.

I have no such uncertainty about the following product:


I mean, seriously - who wouldn't want a Bacon Scarf for Valentine's Day?

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* a meat husband (or wife) is one who, with full authorization from the vegetarian spouse, adopts a surrogate dining partner for the purpose of eating carcass.

You Are a Ham Sandwich

The "what city do you belong in?" quiz was recently brought to my attention by Bookpacker, and I took it this morning as a break from tally-watching.

My result should come as no surprise:

You Belong in Paris

Stylish and expressive, you were meant for Paris. The art, the fashion, the wine! Whether you're enjoying the cafe life or a beautiful park... You'll love living in the most chic place on earth.

What City Do You Belong In?

What did come as a surprise however, was my result in the "what kind of sandwich are you?" quiz. I tried over and over again to rig the results, but got "ham sandwich" every time. I always fancied myself as more of a grilled cheese.

Other valuable information to be gleaned from this site:

• What's your rapper name? (dirty money)
• Can you make anyone fall in love with you? (no)
• Are you running on adrenaline? (yes)

And finally, some clear evidence against that Best Writing nomination:

Your English Skills:

Punctuation: 80% Grammar: 60% Vocabulary: 60% Spelling: 40%

Does Your English Cut the Mustard?

The Brest of Me

I could feel with my eyes closed that the train was slowing, and pulled down my headphones to hear "terminus."

I had only 30 minutes to wait before my friend's arrival in Brest, and then our hosts would arrive to collect us. The first leg of this journey had seemed to pass without incident, and I was looking forward to some time outside of Paris.

I trundled out of the train and was surprised to find a party. A band was screeching some traditional music and a cidre was placed in my hand. A sturdy Breton gal shoved some sort of finger-glistening dessert at me and I wondered if perhaps I was dreaming.

"What is all this?" was the first question that entered my mind.

"Where the hell am I?" was the second.

These festivities, you see, on the eve of Ascension, had been organized for visitors to Lannion.

"LANNION"

Had I not boarded a train for Brest? Had the conductor not punched my ticket? Was I maybe just a little bit drunk?

I considered these possibilities while the party moved off toward the exit. I looked back and forth between my bag and the sign, and before long was alone on the platform. My watch read nearly 11pm.

The conductor whistled past me. "Excusez-moi" I mewed, and explained my total confusion.

He put his hand in his pocket and then passed me some chocolates.

chocolates...?

This was intended to soften the blow, I suppose, that I'd be stuck overnight in Lannion. Brest was two hours away, he said, and there would be no more trains before morning.

but...?

My train, it seems, had separated while I slept. Train A, which included my assigned strapontin, broke off and went to Brest. Train B, which contained the all-important bar car, had continued on to Lannion.

And I, after downing a beer near Rennes, had found the first available seat and passed out.

I could picture my friend Andy, as I checked into a hotel, just shaking his head and muttering "Mahgan, Mahgan, Mahgan..." Which is exactly what he did when I recounted the story yesterday.

"Did they know that you... y'know... do this sort of thing?"
"They do now," I said, and we shook our heads together.

The bathtub, it turns out, was all I saw of the hotel. My rescue team insisted upon arriving that very night, and then promptly got a flat in the parking lot.

"It couldn't get any worse!" said our cheerful host, who clearly imagined that these would be my only antics. I didn't have the heart to argue as he changed the tire in the dark.

His naive optimism was shattered en route to the Ile d'Ouessant, on what will now be referred to as "the pizza boat."

"You threw up on the ferry - what are you, ten?" Andy teased.
"It was choppy!" I protested.

"Mahgan, Mahgan, Mahgan..."
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*TGV photo swiped from the dishy and talented Rion

The Weekly Gaffe: A+

[The Weekly Gaffe is a non-weekly series about french foibles.]




Overheard recently:

le Meg - You know, I really like Peter.

le mec - And why is that?

le Meg - The way he signs his emails; it's just great. When everyone else is full of "pas mal" and avoiding hyperbole...

le mec - Meg?

le Meg - ...he says "A+". I mean, it's almost transgressive. Top of the morning, nothing could be better...

le mec - Um, Meg?

le Meg - ...allright it's a little bit dorky, but...

le mec - Meg!!

le Meg - Yes?

le mec - See you later.

le Meg - Where are you going?

le mec - à plus tard.

le Meg - Well, then, when are you coming back?

le mec - à plus...A+...get it?

le Meg - Fine. Don't tell me. I'm not your mother, anyway.

Ring My Bell

Today's episode in nincompoopery unfolds with our heroine pedalling happily to work along the Canal St. Martin. The sun is shining, but not hot enough to warm the unwelcome smells of the sidewalk. Everything seems to be perfect...

When all of the sudden, Old Man appears in the bike lane. "Pardon!" I chirp, but the white hair doesn't see me. "Excusez-moi!!" I yell with more force as the distance narrows between us. It is only when I begin to squawk "Ding-DING! ding-ding-ding!!!" that Monsieur raises his head and takes the necessary steps to avoid being flattened by my machine of terror.

Moments later, it occurs to me: "I could buy a bell." Epiphany strikes just as I am crossing the doorstep of Atelier Go Sport, a bike repair shop along avenue Richard-Lenoir.

I wheel my bike in and say bonjour to the repairman who is airing some tires. I select my bell for 2.90 and join the line of women at the register. It's slow-going, as each customers' purchases are taken out of the package and attached somewhere on their bike. After 20 minutes, I'm up:

"Hi," I say in french. "Would it be possible for you to mount me?"

Eyes widen. I repeat, "C'est possible de me monter?"

"You're not shy," he tells me.

Shall we review a little french?

Vocabulary: monter - to assemble... to organize, set up (hey, that's right!)... to climb; to ride (oh, Christ.) as in a horse; to go upstairs.

Grammar: direct object pronouns - the bell receives the action. Not le Meg.

What I should have said was "C'est possible de la monter pour moi?"

What I did say inaugerates a new Blagueur series, the Weekly Gaffe. Tune in next week as I continue my reign of error among the people of Paris. Ring-a-ding-ding!