One contributing factor to my French ineptitude: my French teacher. Yesterday was tolerable, today was literally insufferable. For the last 20 minutes of going over the formation of the passé composé, which, for you non-Francophiles, is the second verb tense one learns in French 101 after the present tense. Plz kill me. It wasn't even like review either, it was literally explanation after explanation of -re verbs and -er verbs and verb families and how they are formed in the p.c. For 2 hours. I stared at the gorgeous apartment building outside. Our facility is right across from Notre Dame, something none of us will be able to get used to, despite our 10 hours a week in class there.
After class I was so unbelievably zoned out that I immediately ran from the building, changed my last bit of American cash and strolled up to Rue Rivoli, headphones on (No Age's latest album - so wonderful), to find me some decent boots for a decent price. Thinking that the latter would be my biggest challenge proved to be false: there were SO MANY STORES with cute and functional boots for under 30 Euros. It was pretty overwhelming. But, I quickly realized that not only are women in France about as slight as my skinny wrists, they all have teeny tiny feet. Size 40 is the largest size carried with any regularity, which is equivalent to about a 9.5 in the US. As you may or may not know, I wear nothing less than a size 10. Religiously. This required me to search through 4 different 5-story department stores to find the extremely rare pair of boots for under 70 Euros that would even allow my foot to enter the mouth of the damn things.
Found some pairs. Of course, they were hideous. They must assume that girls with big feet are fat and un-fashionable, and therefore could NOT be French. The black calf-high ones I selected to try on were like moon boots: puffy and unflattering. The gorgeous light brown leather (my favorite kind!) knee-high ones were adorable but for someone with legs the size of baguettes. I finally found a pair not unlike the ones I scrounged from Charlotte Russe last winter: ankle, light brown leather, buckles, small heel. But these are French! And were on sale!!!!!!
SO went to find a desperately-needed heavier sweater. (In the men's section, since women are slaves to the fashion industry that would take your first born for a pair of heels.) Found some cute ones that reminded me greatly of the ones that my host brother's girlfriend wears: tight sleeves, v-neck pullover knit. I selected the royal purple initially, then upon the sad realization that they were out of Mediums (even men are much smaller in France), found a gorgeous lavender twin behind it! Size M! Yessss! AND ON SALE! The sweater's adorable and I think it's quite flattering even while being assez French (not an easy feat).
I have to be at the Foyer International at 9h00 tomorrow for a screening of La Belle at La Bete by Jean Cocteau for my film class. Then a test on our first two walking tours (which dedicated readers might remember me mentioning and saying that one of which was conducted in French by the very soft-spoken Dr. Costello and I failed to understand a single word of the entire tour. Can't wait to be tested on "the French that I should have known when I started the program that everyone else speaks and I do not!"), which I am really looking forward to having out of the way. The real truth: I don't care!
This program is going to hear it from me once I leave, saying things like "you don't have to know French when you arrive." Yeah. Fucking bullshit. But the real truth about the test, to restate: I don't care. It's about Parisian geography as well and we all know how I feel about maps (hint: I love them all, and not just the Yeah Yeah Yeahs song).
A bientot!
Padawan. You are slowly learning the ways of the French. And by that I mean 'literally being over everything.'
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