In class we’ve been learning how to write a formal letter the French way. The first thing that struck me was the length and formality of the closings. There is quite an assortment of expressions with which you can sign off with, depending on the position of the recipient. For example, in closing a formal letter written to an elementary school teacher, it is suggested that you write the following:
“Je vous prie d’agréer, Monsieur/Madame, l’expression de ma considération distinguée.”
I have to admit that my jaw fell a bit on reading this thinking back to many of the more informal notes I have received as a teacher over the years. Even the English equivalents of “Sincerely” or “Respectfully Yours” seem quite casual in comparison . In fact, I think if I ever received a letter signed off with “I pray that you accept, Madame, the expression of my highest consideration”, I would be worried that it was an expression of sarcasm rather than respect, and it would have me a little freaked out all day.
The second thing that I initially found surprising was that you never, ever, use the name of the person to whom you are addressing the formal letter. “Monsieur le Président”, “Madame la Directrice” or just plain old “Madame or Monsieur” will do, but never with a name tacked on.
Then I got to thinking that maybe I shouldn’t find this surprising at all given our own experiences and observations regarding the use of names in France. For instance, even with very casual e-mails we receive from French friends and acquaintances, “Bonjour” or another brief greeting is used, but rarely with our names beside it. We’ve noticed this with verbal greetings also. People are most friendly and will say hello or “faire des bisous”, but not use each other’s names.
This is very different from interactions in Canada where greetings, whether written or spoken, are usually always followed by the other person’s name, or sometimes consist of only the name. In fact, in my opinion, culturally it’s seen as being more polite and personable to remember and greet someone using their name. And of course, it’s important to know someone’s name in case you ever have to introduce him or her. That’s the reason Barry thinks the french system takes so much pressure off: you really don’t have to remember names at all as a “Bonjour”, “Bon appétit”, or “Bon Soir” is all you need.
Anyway, back to class and the formal letter lesson. The professor brought me out of my internal musings on cultural differences with the in-class assignment of writing a formal letter to a fictitious director of the laundromat that has ruined a piece of your clothing. Let me add here that it was a sunny, warm Friday afternoon and I was onto my 5th hour of french instruction. I quickly decided that: 1) I wanted to know my French professor's opinion on my name thoughts; and 2) I wanted to avoid writing that letter. So I tried the ol’ “get the teacher talking and we don’t have to work” trick that even my Grade 5 students have down pat.
So, I commented on my perceived differences with respect to the use of names between France and Canada, and she confirmed that, indeed, the French don’t place such an emphasis on learning or using people's names. She explained that she has been chatting, even vacationing, with people for years without learning their names, and has never thought anything of it. She told us that for French people to have someone, even very politely, ask them their names, wouldn’t necessarily be seen as rude, but definitely “bizarre”. Also, to have someone use her name in a store, as in “Did you find everything you were looking for Madame ________” would just seem weird and even make her a bit uncomfortable, and that introductions are breezed over quickly, if done at all. She told us the story of her mother who, in order to do some business, was told she needed to visit a neighbouring bank branch and ask for a woman by the name of “Delphine”. Her mother couldn’t do it, explaining she had “la honte de” (shame at) having to ask for a stranger by her first name and even our professor confessed it a little off-putting to have to help her Mom out in that regard! She said they timidly approached one of the tellers and in almost a whisper asked if there was a “certain Delphine in the building”.
For me, it was a very interesting conversation and being the warm, intelligent and funny teacher she is, I really appreciated her sharing her french take on the issue. So, goal #1 successfully accomplished.
Goal # 2, not so much. She assigned the letter for homework.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Il Fait le Beau Temps!
My summer haircut came about three months earlier than usual but at least some of my hair might grow back by the time we return to Canada.
Enjoy the day and hello from Grace and Lily!
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Soupe de Poisson
Early in the planning for our year away, Virginia gave me "The Provençal Cookbook" by Gui Gedda and Marie-Pierre Moine. It is one of the cookbooks that made the voyage with us but so far it has mainly served as a pleasant coffee table decoration as the photos within are spectacular. Now that we have been in Provence for 8 months I am feeling more adventerous in the kitchen (the kids are tiring of fajitas as well), I decided it was time to search a recipe from my beautiful book and prepare a provençal repas. Flipping through the cookbook I decided on Fish Soup. As "The Provençeal Cookbook" promises that one will be able to shop, cook and eat like a local, we decided to make a day of it and Grace, Lily and I began our Saturday morning search for the required ingredients.
Avignon has "Les Halles", a wonderful indoor market where one can find almost anything one could wish for at a provençal market. The girls and I always love exploring the stalls. The first stop was the tapenade stall as a visit to Les Halles is not complete if the girls don't recieve their little baggie of free green olives.
We headed over to the poissonnerie. I stated that my daughters and I needed some fish for a fish soup and the fellow there said to me "whoa you have some work to do today". I told him that wasn't really interested in working that hard and he told me that you can't have a good fish soup without the hard work. My friend Benoit came by to say hi and the first thing he said when I mentioned fish soup was of course "whoa you have some work to do today."
Avignon has "Les Halles", a wonderful indoor market where one can find almost anything one could wish for at a provençal market. The girls and I always love exploring the stalls. The first stop was the tapenade stall as a visit to Les Halles is not complete if the girls don't recieve their little baggie of free green olives.
With their olives in hand we then went next door to the spice shop as we needed three sticks of fennel. The spice shop is probably my favorite store from an aesthetic standpoint as it looks like it jumped out of the pages of my cookbook.
We purchased a pinch of saffron and we found fennel seeds and fennel powder but alas no fennel sticks. When I asked the owner where I could find them he began directions to what I thought was a store. The deeper he delved into the directions the more I began to have difficulties following his french. Words like "colline, sauvage, et faire un promenade" didn't seem to be leading me to a supermarket anywhere close. I was dismayed to find out that I needed to go into the hills and collect the fennel sticks myself (the title of my cookbook has no mention of foraging like a local). I was more than a little disappointed to be stopped so early into my search for the necessary ingredients but it turns out I just needed to go around the corner to a different spice store where the display was not nearly as eye-catching but there in a glass jar were the aforementioned fennel sticks for the low price of one euro.
Next stop was extra-muros or outside the city walls as every Saturday morning an excellent (and cheap) market sets up in the square beside the Prefecture.
We headed over to the poissonnerie. I stated that my daughters and I needed some fish for a fish soup and the fellow there said to me "whoa you have some work to do today". I told him that wasn't really interested in working that hard and he told me that you can't have a good fish soup without the hard work. My friend Benoit came by to say hi and the first thing he said when I mentioned fish soup was of course "whoa you have some work to do today."
Realising that I may have bit off more than I could chew, we headed over to the baker/butcher and bought the rotisserie chicken/ potatoes/ donut lunch special.
On our way out of the market my girls went into consummation mode as you can't pass by a table with shiny objects without buying something can you?
Upon returning home, I decided that fish soup sounded like a good activity for a Sunday morning.
Sunday morning, this motley crew of poissons stared me in the eye. My father knows that I am not much one for cleaning fish but with my dull knife and a bit of fortitude I began the task. Grace loved watching me gut these ugly, smelly minnows. I came to the conclusion that Fish Soup would be more aptly named by-catch stew. I was pretty proud of myself by the end of the process as I looked at the meagre flesh in the bottom of the soup pot.
The actual cooking took about 2 more hours so at noon all four of us sat down to a nice steaming bowl of fish soup and it was then that I realized that I don't really like fish soup. There was a reason why I have never eaten fish soup. Virgnia hit the nail on the head when she said "I like my fish to be not too fishy". That certainly did not describe my fish soup. It was fishy and then some. After the meal, both Virginia and I decided that if one liked fish soup then definitely my fish soup would have been delicious.
Next up "Hunter's Rabbit" on page 179 or maybe not.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Gordes, Glanum and Carcasonne
The time with my parents sure did fly by. The girls got lots of grandparent time and we spent 2 weekends exploring some new sights. Barry, buoyed by his great success driving into the alps, felt he was ready to rent a car for a week-end. So, we not only visited the very picturesque provencial towns of St. Rémy, Les Baux, Roussillon and Gordes, but stopped to see the most impressive Pont du Gard, the best preserved Roman mausoleum, and the Glanum archeological site, all in two days. I’d say we got our money’s worth on the car rental! The Roman history and ruins have yet to get stale for me, but Grace figures it’s time to mix it up a bit. At the city ruins of Glanum she told us she had had enough of these Romans and was ready for some Mexican history.
The second week-end we were back to our regular mode of transport: the train. We spent the week-end exploring the medieval town and castle at Carcasonne in the Languedoc region. This time it was Lily’s turn to be disappointed, as what’s a castle without a princess or two!!?? Luckily a toy bow and arrow set purchased nearby rallied the under ten crowd. If you ever find yourself in southern France, a city to put on your list.
The second week-end we were back to our regular mode of transport: the train. We spent the week-end exploring the medieval town and castle at Carcasonne in the Languedoc region. This time it was Lily’s turn to be disappointed, as what’s a castle without a princess or two!!?? Luckily a toy bow and arrow set purchased nearby rallied the under ten crowd. If you ever find yourself in southern France, a city to put on your list.
Pont du Gard
The Glanum Archeological Site
Gordes
Our night-time view from our rented apartment in Carcasonne - definitely nothing to complain about in the scenery department!
Monday, March 7, 2011
Deux Canadiens Errants
Well, here we are - Joan and Lorne - having safely arrived in Avignon, we're enjoying our time together with Virginia, Barry, Grace and Lily. I thought I'd try my hand at blogging and tell you a little about our travels.
After a happy reunion in Toronto airport with Lois, David, Mandi and Robin, we said our goodbyes and boarded the plane for the long overnight flight to Paris which began auspiciously as the doors closed and the loading ramp pulled back right on schedule. Then five minutes of nothing - no sense of motion, no hum of starting engines, no “Please fasten your seat belts for takeoff”. Instead an announcement from the fight deck - one I’ve never heard before. The plane needed to take on some water and there would be a short delay while we tanked up. I had a sudden mental image of us steaming our way to Europe.
An hour later the Captain informed us that we had taken on the required water but there would be an additional delay because the water hose had frozen to the airplane. This was another late departure excuse I’d never heard before. You have to give them 10 out of 10 for originality I thought to myself as I watched a gigantic hair-dryer-like trailer pull up to the tail. Thirty minutes later the engines spun to life - for about two minutes, then wound back down. This time we had a more typical delay - a fault indicator light had come on. Finally, after a visit from Air Canada’s friendly Maytag repairman, we were on our way - almost 3 hours late.
This time, fortified by the experience we had acquired during our arrival last August, we negotiated safely the confusing labyrinth that is Paris’ CDG airport and boarded one of France’s slick Intercité trains for Normandy - the first leg of our vacation.
I’m really impressed with the trains in France. They leave and arrive exactly on schedule, they’re smooth as silk, quiet enough to converse in whispers, and they go like a scalded cat - especially the well-named TGV (Très Grand Vitesse) trains. Our 1st class coach out of Paris was at the tail end of a long train, and we raced in quiet luxury across the already-green fields of western France. The first stop was in Caen, and as I watched people disembark onto the platform beside our window, I was full of excitement about our upcoming visit to this historic part of France.
We were to spend 5 days in Bayeux, the next stop. As we approached the city, the PA system announced our imminent arrival, and I was quite pleased that I understood what was said. A nice feature for nervous travellers is that you are constantly reassured by scrolling signs in each car of the stops along the way - and there was Bayeux showing up exactly as expected. At the announcement, the lady in the seat ahead of us, clearly intending to get off at Bayeux as well, put away her book, donned her sweater and headed back to the ladies’ room to freshen up before arrival.
The train slowed as we passed through the city’s outskirts, then stopped. The lady in front of us looked out the window then settled back in her seat. There was no platform in sight - the train had stopped short of the station. "Probably waiting for a signal light to clear", I said to Joan. After a minute we pulled slowly forward, and I watched as the station house came into view in our window, and then disappeared out the back of the window as the train picked up speed! We had missed our stop!
The lady ahead of us sat serenely in her seat. Clearly she had never intended to get off at Bayeux - her whole preparation routine had been a ruse! I took off down the aisle in search of the conductor. One car, two cars, three cars - finally I stumbled into four of them conversing quietly in the front coach. “We missed our stop at Bayeux”, I said breathlessly. They exchanged quick glances of disbelief, and one said, “But, Monsieur, how did you miss your stop?” I answered, “There was no platform - we couldn’t get off. The train stopped short of the station.” “Monsieur, in Caen, the platform is on the right of the train. But in Bayeux it’s on the left. Did you look on the left?” I have seldom felt more foolish than at that moment, as the four conductors stood looking at me with mixtures of sympathy and incredulity on their faces.
Then one of them said, “C’est pas grave, monsieur.” And he explained that his colleague would arrange for us to get off at the next station, Lisson, where we could catch the next train back to Bayeux. We had 30 minutes. Whereupon the young lady of the group said, “Suivez- moi. Vite”, and we were off, hurrying back to where Joan awaited in the last coach. Back through the long line of swaying cars. In each one, passengers, having seen me rush forward, now watched with obvious curiosity as the two of us hurried back in the opposite direction. What could be the matter? Perhaps a fire in the back? A medical emergency? A murder? I’m sure none guessed the real reason for my distress.
As we drew into Lisson the young conductor scribbled something on our tickets and told me to tell the station master what had happened. Inside the waiting room I explained for the second time that we had missed our stop in Bayeux. The station master’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Mais monsieur, comment avez-vous raté l’arrêt à Bayeux?” Now, my French is not exactly eloquent at the best of times, but when stressed it becomes even more garbled. Nevertheless, it was apparent from the smiles that were appearing on the faces of those standing around that the good bourgeoisie folk of Lisson were understanding me quite well. As I finished my sad tale of ineptitude, I tried to make light of it all. I pointed at my temple and moved my finger in circles to make the universal sign for craziness and said, “Comme les touristes sont idiots, hein?” The station master showed remarkable restraint but I caught a couple of the spectators out of the corner of my eye nodding in agreement.
As we gathered our suitcases to cross the tracks for the return train, an elderly grandmother with her attractive young granddaughter smiled at us and asked, “D’où venez-vous?” (Where are you from?) Clearly she had picked up on some subtle indication in my behaviour that we weren’t from “around here”. Reluctantly I confessed to being from Canada, and by so doing I may well have given rise to a whole new genre of French humour - the kind where the jokes would start with “Did you hear the one about the Canadian who ....?” or “Why did the Canadian throw the clock out the window?”
After a happy reunion in Toronto airport with Lois, David, Mandi and Robin, we said our goodbyes and boarded the plane for the long overnight flight to Paris which began auspiciously as the doors closed and the loading ramp pulled back right on schedule. Then five minutes of nothing - no sense of motion, no hum of starting engines, no “Please fasten your seat belts for takeoff”. Instead an announcement from the fight deck - one I’ve never heard before. The plane needed to take on some water and there would be a short delay while we tanked up. I had a sudden mental image of us steaming our way to Europe.
An hour later the Captain informed us that we had taken on the required water but there would be an additional delay because the water hose had frozen to the airplane. This was another late departure excuse I’d never heard before. You have to give them 10 out of 10 for originality I thought to myself as I watched a gigantic hair-dryer-like trailer pull up to the tail. Thirty minutes later the engines spun to life - for about two minutes, then wound back down. This time we had a more typical delay - a fault indicator light had come on. Finally, after a visit from Air Canada’s friendly Maytag repairman, we were on our way - almost 3 hours late.
This time, fortified by the experience we had acquired during our arrival last August, we negotiated safely the confusing labyrinth that is Paris’ CDG airport and boarded one of France’s slick Intercité trains for Normandy - the first leg of our vacation.
I’m really impressed with the trains in France. They leave and arrive exactly on schedule, they’re smooth as silk, quiet enough to converse in whispers, and they go like a scalded cat - especially the well-named TGV (Très Grand Vitesse) trains. Our 1st class coach out of Paris was at the tail end of a long train, and we raced in quiet luxury across the already-green fields of western France. The first stop was in Caen, and as I watched people disembark onto the platform beside our window, I was full of excitement about our upcoming visit to this historic part of France.
We were to spend 5 days in Bayeux, the next stop. As we approached the city, the PA system announced our imminent arrival, and I was quite pleased that I understood what was said. A nice feature for nervous travellers is that you are constantly reassured by scrolling signs in each car of the stops along the way - and there was Bayeux showing up exactly as expected. At the announcement, the lady in the seat ahead of us, clearly intending to get off at Bayeux as well, put away her book, donned her sweater and headed back to the ladies’ room to freshen up before arrival.
The train slowed as we passed through the city’s outskirts, then stopped. The lady in front of us looked out the window then settled back in her seat. There was no platform in sight - the train had stopped short of the station. "Probably waiting for a signal light to clear", I said to Joan. After a minute we pulled slowly forward, and I watched as the station house came into view in our window, and then disappeared out the back of the window as the train picked up speed! We had missed our stop!
The lady ahead of us sat serenely in her seat. Clearly she had never intended to get off at Bayeux - her whole preparation routine had been a ruse! I took off down the aisle in search of the conductor. One car, two cars, three cars - finally I stumbled into four of them conversing quietly in the front coach. “We missed our stop at Bayeux”, I said breathlessly. They exchanged quick glances of disbelief, and one said, “But, Monsieur, how did you miss your stop?” I answered, “There was no platform - we couldn’t get off. The train stopped short of the station.” “Monsieur, in Caen, the platform is on the right of the train. But in Bayeux it’s on the left. Did you look on the left?” I have seldom felt more foolish than at that moment, as the four conductors stood looking at me with mixtures of sympathy and incredulity on their faces.
Then one of them said, “C’est pas grave, monsieur.” And he explained that his colleague would arrange for us to get off at the next station, Lisson, where we could catch the next train back to Bayeux. We had 30 minutes. Whereupon the young lady of the group said, “Suivez- moi. Vite”, and we were off, hurrying back to where Joan awaited in the last coach. Back through the long line of swaying cars. In each one, passengers, having seen me rush forward, now watched with obvious curiosity as the two of us hurried back in the opposite direction. What could be the matter? Perhaps a fire in the back? A medical emergency? A murder? I’m sure none guessed the real reason for my distress.
As we drew into Lisson the young conductor scribbled something on our tickets and told me to tell the station master what had happened. Inside the waiting room I explained for the second time that we had missed our stop in Bayeux. The station master’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Mais monsieur, comment avez-vous raté l’arrêt à Bayeux?” Now, my French is not exactly eloquent at the best of times, but when stressed it becomes even more garbled. Nevertheless, it was apparent from the smiles that were appearing on the faces of those standing around that the good bourgeoisie folk of Lisson were understanding me quite well. As I finished my sad tale of ineptitude, I tried to make light of it all. I pointed at my temple and moved my finger in circles to make the universal sign for craziness and said, “Comme les touristes sont idiots, hein?” The station master showed remarkable restraint but I caught a couple of the spectators out of the corner of my eye nodding in agreement.
As we gathered our suitcases to cross the tracks for the return train, an elderly grandmother with her attractive young granddaughter smiled at us and asked, “D’où venez-vous?” (Where are you from?) Clearly she had picked up on some subtle indication in my behaviour that we weren’t from “around here”. Reluctantly I confessed to being from Canada, and by so doing I may well have given rise to a whole new genre of French humour - the kind where the jokes would start with “Did you hear the one about the Canadian who ....?” or “Why did the Canadian throw the clock out the window?”
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