Le Franco Phoney

Before you study this photo, look at the logo for my blog. A beret-wearing cow with a curly moustache, holding wine and a baguette. It’s missing a bike and a stripy top, but it’s pretty stereotypical of the French. I did once see a man in a stripy top riding a bike with a baguette in his backpack, but only once. I’ve done a mean thing and embraced an unfair stereotype about the French.

Now, let me rewind a little. When I first arrived in France and spoke only English, the most I could explain to people was “Australian”, complete with full Aussie accent and a finger pointing back at myself. Those who finally figured it out would usually say “Ahh, kangourou” (because the French do spell it differently), and just in case I didn’t understand the exact same pronunciation, they would often mimic a kangaroo with their hands pulled up near their chest. I love this aspect of human nature, and I’ve used a variety of hand gestures to mimic various words I don’t know in French when trying to communicate.

However, none of those French people ever said “Ahh cactus” for a reason.

I can only guess that some French man with no moustache who doesn’t like bread, refuses to own a bike and prefers soft drink to wine whilst wearing only solid colours without lines has got his revenge on at least one nation who keeps the French stereotypes alive. I can hear him now: “Bof! Zeez or-strah-lianz sink zhey are so smart. I will make up a stupit stereotype about zhem.”

And so, here is an American native plant stuck next to a sign about kangaroos. Good work, Jean-Michele (or Jean-Paul, or Jean-Philippe or Jean-Pierre or whatever his double-barrelled name is). I, for one, deserve it.

Out for a coffee the other day, I was surprised to see I’d scored myself a sugar daddy, so I took a photo. Here is my sugar daddy. Actually, it’s a ‘sucre daddy’ (‘sucre‘ is French for sugar), and as you can see, it’s the name of the sachet of sugar that came with my coffee.

The anglo meaning of sugar daddy does not translate as ‘papa du sucre‘ in French at all. As far as I’m aware, there’s no name for a sugar daddy in French. So, this translation is lost on many of the French people I know who don’t really know the phrase in English even if they’re fluent.

The person/people who came up with the sugar sachet name should give themselves a hearty slap on the back as it made my day — and no doubt the days of many other English speakers.

April Fool’s Day in France is known as Poisson d’avril (April Fish) thanks to a bizarre tradition of sticking paper fish to people’s backs. Perhaps equivalent to ‘Kick me’ signs in English, the fish should only be attached on 1st April, and retailers encourage such behaviour by baking fish-shaped pastries and making fish-shaped chocolates. So how and why did this start? Nobody seems to know for sure but there are many theories, ranging from the date’s proximity to the Pisces astrological sign (although it falls smack bang in the middle of Aries) to when mackerals are good for eating to a French king’s change to the calendar year start date, which had been 1st April prior to his change, with many of his subjects refusing to let go of the day as a deay of celebration. And what better way to celebrate than to stick a fish on your mate’s back?
So, I gave it a go this morning. My cat, Bruno had no idea when I slapped this paper fish on his back while he slept, curled up, on his favourite soft toy (which happens to be a dog – double ‘hah!’). I giggled away and taunted him with ‘poisson d’avril‘ as I took this photo. Then I realised that the fish looks quite like a dolphin and I think the cat may have had the last laugh.

Anyway, I’m off to the bakery to pick up some fish-shaped pastries before they’re gone for another year.

It helps to speak the local language when living in a foreign country, but that takes time. France is probably less English-friendly than some other countries, so praise those kind souls who translated this defibrillator sign at a hospital in Savoie from French to English! It’s great to know that in that vital moment where someone is lingering between life and death, the instructions are there to help. First of all, dial emergency, then open the box. Are you ready? Now follow the French recorded instructions.

Got a sore throat? Dry cough? You need Drill. That’s right: there’s a brand of throat lozenges in France called Drill. The word has no meaning at all in French, so I’m not rubbishing the French here, but I do find the brand name amusing given its meaning in English. Can you imagine a brand of soothing throat lozenges called ‘Drill’ in English? Apart from nasty images of giant drills in throats filling my mind, various horror movies involving drills and carnage are in there too. This is one brand that might struggle to do well in any English-speaking country.

So, what’s one of the first words you learn in French? For me, ‘merci‘, was one of the few I already knew before the battle with this lovely language began. For years, I’ve been using this word to thank people for everything from giving me a free chocolate to getting a receipt for some work at rip-off prices, unknown to me at the time. That mechanic in Thônes who charged me €100 for literally wiggling an ignition fuse must have laughed heartily after my gracious thankyou. If only my skills of communication had been greater at the time to go back when I realised he’d done nothing. Instead, my lovely mechanic fixed the problem properly – for merely the cost of the replacement part (which was much less than €100). You learn as you go.

Anyway, let’s get back to ‘merci‘. Beware, beware! ‘Merci‘ can also mean ‘not thanks’.

As if  using ‘terrible‘ isn’t hard to understand, along comes one of the most basic words used in any language to represent gratitude about something, and it can also mean: ‘Nope, I don’t want what you’re offering’ in French. So, how can you tell the difference? Sometimes, when someone says ‘merci‘ to indicate ‘no thanks’, they’ll raise the palm of their hand — a handy sign for us non-native speakers. Unfortunately, the hand gesture is not mandatory, and then it all depends on the intonation. I often sit confused in a restaurant trying to figure out if a friend meant yes or no to having their glass refilled when I offer. It’s an ongoing struggle for my ears to hear the difference in this intonation, but the ‘no thanks’ version of ‘merci‘ seems to start low and go lower, whereas the ‘yes thanks’ version seems to start low and go higher. Would you like me to go through it again? What’s that you say? ‘Merci‘? Err…..

For years, I’ve lived in France and been confused about a few signs on cars (and on roads, but we’ll save that for another time). I thought this black and white sign was a graphic version of ‘Baby on Board’ with a mother and a baby, or maybe a pregnant woman. I never looked closely enough to properly check. Turns out it’s a steering wheel rather than a baby.

So what does this sticker mean? The steering wheel clue has probably given it away. The text, if you speak French, has probably also given it away. I’m just not that observant. It actually means that the person driving is learning how to drive, and it’s known in France as conduite accompagnée or ‘accompanied driver’ in English. In other words, the driver is being yelled at in French by someone who already has a license to drive. However, there’s every chance that the person driving has a license already: it’s not obligatory to remove the sign when the learner driver stops driving.

Now here’s a tricky one. When I first moved to Annecy, I thought that perhaps this sticker was an A for Annecy. That would explain its popularity on so many cars, right? Wrong.

My next guess was a learner driver (remember, I thought the previous sticker was a pregnant woman), because the French word for the verb to learn is apprendre, which, of course, begins with an A. Sorted! But also wrong.

This sticker stands for apprenti which pretty much translates to ‘apprentice’ in English. Basically, when someone has finally jumped through the gigantic hoops required to get a license (including trick questions on the theory), this sticker must be displayed for either two years or three years, depending which French person you ask (there’s a 50/50 split amongst my French friends). Either way, it’s the equivalent of a the good old P plate I had to display when I got my license in Australia, and requires drivers to drive more slowly than the speed limit allows. I’ve yet to see any car with this sticker going at less than 10km over the speed limit, let alone that much under.

Although it’s not mandatory to know what these things mean (I managed to get through years of living in France with no clue about them), it’s handy to know what they are anyway. Otherwise, you might be wondering why so many people in Nice are fans of Annecy.

One of the interesting things about learning French with native speakers all around me is their use of words that they never teach you at school. Take terrible for example. It has the same meaning as the English word, but is pronounced “tair-ree-ble”. However, terrible can also mean good. I know that in English we’ve got slang words for good such as “phat” and “cool” but they don’t mean the opposite of good.

If, for example, someone says to me that they’ve been given a pay rise, I could say: “Ah bon? C’est terrible. (“Oh really? That’s great”). I’m still loathe to use such a phrase when someone says they have a new haircut. However, it all goes downhill from there. Take the following phrases:

“C’est pas terrible” (“It’s not good”)

“C’est pas si terrible” (“It’s not so bad”)

That’s right, if it’s not hard enough to learn that a negative word means a positive, you then have to remember that adding in a “pas” which basically means “not” changes the phrase again to mean it’s not good, and then including just two extra letters, “si“, flips the meaning yet again from negative to positive. Confused? Join the club.

So, when someone uses a phrase with “terrible” in it, make sure you listen very, very closely. Or do as I do: raise your eyebrows, purse your lips and make a short “mm” sound. Works every time, even if I have no idea what’s going on.

Here is a photo of Vernazza, one of the five villages that makes up the Cinque Terre in Italy. I was there last month, walking the paths —  often just some stones raised off the slanting ground to flatten it — between the five villages. I could go on about the pesto, the gelati, the welcoming atmosphere, or the loudness of children, but this is a blog about France, not Italy. So why am I mentioning Italy? Because it’s only through going to a country where none of my (two!) languages are spoken that I realised just how much improvement I’ve made in French. The Cinque Terre itself is full of American tourists even at low season, so getting around the five villages isn’t so difficult (and walking on the paths, you never know whether to say “hello”, “buon giorno”, “hola”, “guten tag” or “bonjour”). However, on the way to the Cinque Terre, I was in a restaurant where I wanted a fruit juice. I know the word in French, but not in Italian. None of the Italian staff knew the English or the French word, so I followed the staff to their drinks fridge and pointed. I ended up with iced tea. Apparently, juice is just not available in some restaurants in Italy. The language frustrations continued right up until we reached the border back to France: we stopped just before the Frejus tunnel to fill up with petrol (there was a petrol strike happening in France at the time). There was some problem with my bank card and the man said something in Italian. I asked if he spoke English. Nope. French? Yes. Result! We managed to establish that the card was fine but the machine’s connection sometimes played up, and fears that he was charging me twice were alleviated when he explained in French what the writing on the first cancelled receipt said. Thanks Italy — for the food, the welcome and for the reassurance that my French has improved more than I realised (but your kids really are very loud).

I’ve always been impressed with how many languages flight attendants speak on international flights, and in the past, easyJet has been no exception. On my flight over to England from Geneva last week, the two flight attendants greeting passengers were both unable to speak any French. I don’t think the attendant at the back could either because they asked me to translate for a French lady who had a problem. Her daughter had left her doudou (normally a soft toy, but hers was a scarf) in her pusher and she only realised once she had boarded the plane. With less than half the passengers loaded, I explained to the flight attendants that the French lady’s daughter would cry for the entire flight if she didn’t have the scarf. Apparently, they’re not allowed off the plane so cue ten minutes of difficulties in finding someone who could walk back along the short platform to where the pushers has been left for loading. Finally, a member of ground staff boarded the plane to ask what he was looking for, then explained the pushers were already loaded. Don’t they have contact with the people at the gate? The French mum gave up and returned to her unhappy daughter but the flight attendants were so grateful for my translation that they offered me a free hot drink. Yes, I scored a tea bag, cup, some hot water and two long-life pots of milk from the easyJet flight attendants! Fine, that doesn’t sound like a big deal, but this is easyJet, who charge extra for basics such as checking in a bag, using certain bank cards for booking the flight, food and drink on the plane, and now the horrible ‘speedy boarding’ (which allows people to pay to board the plane before the rest of us plebs race on to get a good seat). I’m not criticising them for their approach: they provide a fantastically cheap service for quick trips away (even if their staff aren’t as multilingual as I previously thought). But I’m pretty sure anyone who has flown easyJet will understand my satisfaction at being offered a freebie out of gratitude. Hooray!