Parlez-vous franҫais?

No, you don’t speak French? Well, don’t feel bad, because I don’t either. French is an extraordinarily difficult language to learn in my opinion. And it’s even harder to pronounce even sort of correctly. Believe me, I have no delusions of grandeur about the crappy Spanish I speak, but it’s crazy to me how much more comfortable I still feel even with my C+ Spanish compared to my French (which I would currently give myself an F-).


Why the sudden musings about this beautiful and complicated language? Well, because I have spent around 100 hours of dedicated study on French—even finished level 1 (of 5) of the Rosetta Stone—and yet I still couldn’t even ask a simple question like “What time is it?” when I really needed to know the other day (I now know how to ask that question). I also couldn’t tell a French girl the simple phrase, “this table is mine” off the top of my head when she thought I was clearing my trash from the only table left at a restaurant when I was really clearing the previous occupant’s trash in order to sit there myself (I was tongue-tied, but that’s a phrase I had already learned). I have learned to use 40 verbs in the present tense, and have a whole notebook full of vocabulary. However, what I’m trying to say is that even though I have spent a lot of time studying, I still can’t really say jack; I certainly can’t communicate well or carry on a real conversation. Anytime I even try to speak to people, they automatically revert to their halting, heavily accented English just because they can tell how much I am struggling. Or my favorite is when I tell someone in French that I can’t speak French, and they just repeat the same sentence over and over or say it slower, like somehow I am going to magically and suddenly know what the bleep they are saying to me. . .

I’ve only been here a month though, and it was six months before I started to feel o.k. speaking Spanish and that was trying to speak it all day every day.

Though I respect and admire French, I really, really love Spanish and feel somewhat indebted to it. No language is easy to master, and Spanish is no exception (I still haven’t even come close). However, I originally thought my limited knowledge of Spanish was hurting rather than helping me to learn French, especially when it comes to pronunciation. But now I know for a fact, it has helped immensely in the study of French. I am so grateful to have some Spanish-language background, so I didn’t have to start learning how a foreign language works from scratch. Spanish taught me what a reflexive verb is, about masculine and feminine nouns and how to make adjectives agree with the nouns they describe in both gender and number. Spanish taught me to rearrange my noun and verb when asking a question and how to structure a command. All super helpful with the French language.

So, though I feel really frustrated a lot, and stupid even more, at least I hope to learn quickly. I’m not going to give up, and it’s just gonna take a lot more time. I feel sorry for people who have to learn English. Talk about a difficult language. And, hey, at least I can say “Où sont les toilettes?” Sometimes, with three small girls, that’s the only thing I really need to know.

Slippery Little Suckers

Yesterday (Saturday, August 14th) was the first day the weather has been “bad” since we have been in France. It rained all day, and most of the time, it rained hard, of the cat and dog variety. My girls were so disappointed since all week we had promised them a day at the beach, but without checking the forecast first. All three girls in their swimming suits looking desolately out the window at the downpour reminded me of The Cat in the Hat. We still managed to have a little fun outside though when we noticed there were snails all over the place. The only snail my kids have ever seen is Gary from Spongebob, so to see this many was certainly novel. The girls were both fascinated and disgusted by them at first, but it soon became a game of who could spot a snail, or two. In fact, often there were two stuck together. Jenica and Jocelyn kept asking us why they were stuck together, and Jason finally answered, “Um, well. . .these snails are kissing.” That seemed to satisfy Jenica, but Jocelyn, ever aware of people and their feelings, insisted that the snails be given their privacy. She didn’t want us to pick up or disturb any of the “kissing” snails. Very polite of her, I thought.

Here are pictures of our “snail parade.” Some of the snails wouldn’t cooperate and stay in formation, and we certainly didn’t include any “kissing snails” in our line up, but overall it turned out pretty nicely. The least they could have done is throw us some candy or something. . .

At the Supermarché

The grocery store, or supermarché, is such an experience here. I have blogged already about needing a Euro just to be able to get a grocery cart, and how I keep forgetting my shopping bags, so I have to keep buying new ones (it’s STILL not a habit, and I haven’t remembered to get mine out of the car yet). Even flimsy grocery bags (think Walmart) are not complimentary here, and the cheapest ones they have are .10€ each. The largest grocery store here is called “Carrefour” (pronounced “car-4”) in Antibes, and it’s awesome. I really love it. I can find almost anything there. Anyone who comes to visit us here has to go there with me just for the experience. There are two huge aisles of just yogurt, and another two of cheese and butter. They have so many kinds of butter too! The bakery is to die for, and everyone, and I mean everyone, looks so stereotypical when they leave the store with baguettes sticking up out of their bags. (There is nothing better than a fresh French baguette. They are NOT good even a day old.)

Anyway, while at a smaller Carrefour here in Mandelieu, I saw this sign in French that just made me laugh out loud. I can’t possibly be the only American to find it funny, and it’s not just because my French is so poor. I already knew that “votre” means “your” and “ici” means “here.” The rest I had to look up in my dictionary. I’ll spare you the suspense. Here’s a picture of the sign:

So sadly, no, it doesn’t really mean “Demand your tampon here.” I think it just means “Ask for your stamp here.” Still. . .kinda funny.

Marinas, Miles, and Metrics

I have found the perfect place to go running in the morning. The Port Cannes Marina is just .25 miles from our house, and there are thousands of boats parked there. It has a great paved trail wide enough to drive on all the way around it, and I can run 2 miles or 10 miles around the marina (the most I have done to date is 3.75 mi). In just 3 weeks when we move, I will have to find somewhere new.

The only bad thing is the stagnant harbor smell sometimes—you know the salty, fishy seawater smell—but it only bothers me once in a while. These pictures are some of the views I have on my run. The population density of this area in Mandelieu must be high, because there are apartment buildings everywhere. Everyone wants to live close to the beach I guess. I don’t blame them.

 

Warning: the following paragraph is a little nerdy:

Just an aside about what I posted about the mileage I am logging while running: did you notice I reported my distances in miles and not kilometers? I bet none of you even gave it a second thought, right? I’ll admit that I am still way more comfortable with the American system of measurement, flawed as it may be. Thanks to my science background, I have some knowledge of the metric system, but it’s just not the same when you don’t use it regularly in the U.S. When the thermometer in our house read 28⁰C, I knew it felt uncomfortably hot, but until I did the conversion to 82⁰F, I didn’t realize quite how hot it really was. A kit for enchiladas I bought called for 500 grams of “poulet” (chicken) and 150 grams of “fromage” (cheese). I had no idea how much that was. Other package directions I was reading called for 200 milliliters of “lait” (milk). I have measured that amount a million times while teaching, but in my French kitchen here, I don’t have a beaker or a graduated cylinder. Needless to say, I overestimated the amount and ruined that dish. Don’t tell my students! A pizza we bought the other night on the street was advertised as 26 cm. I wasn’t sure if it would be enough for all five of us; we bought two; that was too much. It just goes on and on. It will take a while to get really comfortable with using the metric system exclusively, and I have studied it and even taught it for years. The average American would be so confused and annoyed. You’ll know I’ve really integrated into the culture here if I ever report my jogging distances in kilometers!

Jason wants me to add one more thing to this post. He went running on the same trail around the marina and found one of the nicer boats with a name on it he thinks is hilarious. He even made me and the kids take a walk to it yesterday just so we could take some pictures. So silly. His final words, “Tiff, you are not allowed to make friends with any rich, French boat owners.”

There must be more than this provincial life. . .

Yep, that’s my laundry hanging out on the line. Honestly, I feel like I’m taking a step back in time every single time I do my laundry here! It’s not too bad for the big stuff, but every little pair of my girls’ socks and undies gets to be a little bit time consuming. I also don’t mind line drying for things that are supposed to be a little crisp, like sheets, for example. But I miss how soft my shirts used to feel, how lint-free my towels used to be, and how quickly I could do a large load of laundry start to finish back home.

Some people have asked to see a few pictures of this house before we move, since none of you will ever visit while we live in Mandelieu. It’s really cute, but small, and every house around here is gated and fenced. The French seem to demand privacy whenever possible. I hear my next door neighbors on each side every day, and I know they have kids, but I have never seen them. I don’t know how missionaries could ever tract here—they couldn’t access anyone’s front door. Helps with solicitors at least.

This is our front gate. It says "Villa Modesty" if you can't read it.

Once you go inside the gate, there's a long driveway of white gravel to the garage. This photo is the view of the back of the gate while I'm standing in front of our garage. 

 Here's the front view of our house and pool.

Here is our gigantic garage--our car barely fits in it.

 Here's where we have dinner outside most nights:

And here's our quite expansive back "yard:"

















Here's the only inside shot I included of the kitchen:













See, now it's like you've all visited me already and you know exactly where I live!  I'll keep telling myself that as I keep missing everyone. . .

Jocelyn, the Collector

This post is mostly for my Mom to see Jocelyn's latest feather collection in France.  She and my Mom are both collectors at heart, and they both love feathers.  Jocelyn asks to go for a walk every day so she can find feathers for her collection and also to find feathers for Grandma's collection back home.  Though I know my Mom won't want any of these old mostly pidgeon feathers, it's cute of Jocelyn to want to share with her.  We collected these 46 feathers in just two outings.  There are birds here everywhere. 

Church in France

We made it to church our second Sunday here when we could finally look up the location and directions to the meetinghouse via the internet. I hadn’t packed a single church dress for myself (stupid), so I had to buy a simple skirt and knit top at the Carrefour (which is like Walmart) the night before for 30 Euros.

Jocelyn, Tiffany, and Jenica ready for church: August 1, 2010

LDS map locator said the meeting (it’s the Cannes ward) began at 10:50, and after a few wrong turns, we arrived at 11:10. It was embarrassing to walk into the chapel 20 minutes late after the sacrament had already been passed. More embarrassing to later learn that we weren’t just 20 minutes late; we were over 2 hours late. This ward has its auxiliary meetings before Sacrament meeting, so church actually had begun at 9:00. By this time there wasn’t a single parking space available, so we parked illegally in a handicap spot. Then as we walked in, there wasn’t anywhere to seat all 5 of us together, so a missionary by the door quickly rearranged some people in the back of the chapel to make room for us. All eyes were on us, including the bishop’s who was at the pulpit announcing that it was testimony meeting. Mortifying.

Luckily my girls were well behaved in this extremely quiet ward. Lots of people are supposedly on holiday, but it still had good attendance of at least 85 adults and young adults and maybe 25 kids (a vast difference from my ward of 700 with 300 kids back home). There were no pews, just chairs, and inside the chapel was the first time I have seen carpet since arriving in France. Even though I didn’t understand a word of what was being said, I enjoyed the meeting. Apparently the youth had just returned from EFY (they kept saying “EFY,” so that’s how I know) and about 8 or 9 were all bearing their testimonies one after another. I was very impressed with them; some even made me cry a little. They seemed sweet and sincere, and I could tell they had really been affected by the experience. (Afterward, a lady behind me said about 450 total young adults had attended it somewhere in France.) I couldn’t help but notice how simple everything was. People were not super dolled up; women had minimal makeup and little if any jewelry; little girls just had their hair brushed out straight (nothing fancy like bows and ribbons). Everyone appeared to be unassuming and down to Earth. I liked them all immediately. The closing hymn was “Come Follow Me,” and I did my best to sing along in French the best I could. 

 After the meeting, a lady behind me named Corinne introduced herself. She spoke beautiful English with a British accent and said she was 1st counselor in Primary. She introduced us to the Relief Society President (who speaks no English), a member of the Bishopric who speaks English, Italian, and French, and his wife. The wife’s English was good too, and she had even served a mission in England somewhere. They were telling us the nearest temple is in Bern, Switzerland, and it’s about a 9-hour drive by car. They said even if a temple is built in Paris, they will still go to Switzerland. We then met the Bishop who was very nice (also speaks some English). He got our membership ID numbers off our temple recommends and said he can easily get our records from Utah. 
 
The girls were disappointed that we had missed Primary, but overall, I think it went well considering how flaky we felt. The people of our new ward seemed accepting of us, and they were warm and welcoming. It also seems like a pretty high-functioning ward from what I can tell, but then again, I only observed it for 50 minutes.

Maisy and Jason - in the driveway of
our home in Mandelieu, France