Vocab Friday: Veuve

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No, today’s vocab word has nothing to do with my beverage of choice. But it does have everything to do with a certain little soccer tournament that’s about to ruin my life.

You all know how I feel about le football to begin with. So imagine my joy when World Cup creeps around every 4 years, and Husband starts planning out his life in 90 minute increments.

Seriously, it’s getting a little weird over here. I found him a few days ago intently bent over his official World Cup Guide magazine, highlighting which games he could watch and when. He told me with a straight face to cut our vacation short by a day so we could get back to watch the semi-finals. When they announced the US team roster, I think Husband was actually a smidge sad that he didn’t make the cut.

So yes, it looks like my first summer in Paris is going to be a lonely one. If I do decide to suck it up and join Husband on the couch, I can only hold out hope for another head-butt drama or many, many close-ups of this guy with his shirt off. Allez USA!

Ok, time to learn:

veuve

Pronunciation: vuhh-ve

Definition: Widow. Plain and simple. As in:

“I’ll be a veuve du football for the next month, but I’ll have these hot soccer players in their underwear to keep me company.”


What the…

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Recap of my conversation this morning with our French bank, which confirms that I am living in an alternate universe:

Madame, there is a problem with the account. I think someone tried to cash a check, and there isn’t enough money to cover it.

Uh, ok. I didn’t write any checks though. Can you tell me who the check was written to? Or for how much?

No.

Um, you can’t tell me anything?

No. I could have told you yesterday. But now I can’t tell you until tomorrow. Because that’s how the system works.

Right.

Faim de loup.

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So I was packing up my bags as usual after french class last week, trying to make a swift escape before my teacher could make any indecipherable comments in my direction. See, I think he tries to joke with me, but my brain doesn’t register french humor yet. So usually I’m left standing there gaping while my multi-lingual classmates cackle around me. Yes folks, learning is so much fun!

Anyway, as I shuffled toward the door, the guy who sits next to me caught my attention — and to my surprise, he began speaking to me in halting english. “Is ok that I walk with you?”

Wha? You speak english? It was all I could do not to throw my arms around him and shout “F*** YEAH!” And then smack him upside the head for not translating the jokes for me.

So we continued to the metro, my new best friend asking about Obama and Washington and American movies. So cute! He told me about the one person he knew in Virginia, and asked if I knew her. Even cuter! He proposed that we start meeting up after class to practice english/french together. Awesome! I clearly need help! It was all pretty cool until he said this:

“I has wanted to ask since beginning of class: What does Mrs. Willson eat to make her so beautiful?”

HAAAAAAAAAAA! Ha ha ha…ha. He wasn’t laughing with me. Just waiting patiently for my reply.

Thank geezus it was time for me to get off the metro. How does a person answer such an inquiry? For one, “beautiful” is a stretch. Funny? Sure. Smart? Maybe. Good at watching hours of Law and Order? Definitely. But really sir? WHAT DO I EAT? To make me so beautiful?

Funny you should ask! Because I had cheesecake for lunch yesterday. And a diet coke for breakfast.

Just last Saturday I ate pigs feet carpaccio, roasted rabbit legs and chocolate tiramisu. In one sitting.

I also eat plenty of veggies, but they’re usually washed down with a nice buttered hunk of baguette. I would estimate that nearly 20% of my daily fruit intake comes in fermented liquid form. This weekend I made homemade cream biscuits, which were promptly turned into strawberry shortcake. That was after the plate of creamy bacon, leek and pea risotto.

And let’s be real: a pain au raisins habit does not a supermodel make. Pretty sure Charlize and Giselle are on a slightly different meal plan. But I will say that I drink at least a liter of water a day, because it really does wonders for your skin.

Especially when you’ve drunk your body weight in champagne the night before.

Vocab Friday: Ah, la vache!

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Today was a glorious day – it was warm enough for flip flops, I ate a stellar baguette sandwich, I RAN INTO ANTHONY BOURDAIN!!! Ok, “ran into” sounds like we’re old friends. And while I feel oddly close to that sharp-tongued, heavy-drinking rockstar of a chef, I think he’d probably place me strictly in the crazy stranger category. So really it was more like I was walking down the street with a friend, wondering why there was a small crowd gathering at the side door of the Hotel de Crillion and didn’t even see Anthony (Tony, T, T-bo) until said friend pointed him out.

And then I proceeded to squeal like a 12 year old with Beiber fever. I had an almost irresistable impulse to run over and start gushing, but I get the impression that he’s probably not the kind of guy who tolerates gushing idiots. I am, however, really disappointed that I couldn’t pull it together to at least go over and ask for restaurant recommendations.

Anywho, today’s vocab involves a funny phrase:

“Ah, la vache!”

Pronunciation: Ah, lah vaash

Definition: Literally, this means “Oh! The cow!” Oh man, aren’t the french cute?! This is the equivalent of “Holy cow!” or “Oh my god!”  As in:

“Ah, la vache! Anthony Bourdain just invited me to join the cast of No Reservations and help write his next book! No, I’m not hallucinating.”

Drinking and Seeing Stars.

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Upon discovering champagne, Dom purportedly shouted "I'm drinking stars!" Indeed.

I know most of you think that title pretty much sums up a typical jour chez moi. But contrary to popular belief, I do not sit around drinking champagne all day. I’ll have you know that I take several breaks for pain au raisins and sometimes go to french class, leaving just 6-8 hours of prime champagne drinking time per day!

I kid, I kid. At least on the record. No, that title actually refers to the eclectic weekend we just had, which included a “Devils and Angels” themed boat cruise down the Seine, a tour of champagne country, real fajitas, the French Open and a cocktail party in honor of Azerbaijan. And if that doesn’t say “Celebrating Memorial Day” then I don’t know what does!

While all 3 days of random goodness were notable, there are a few highlights that must be shared here. For starters, let’s talk about that boat cruise: Yes, it was fun. No we didn’t dress up. Yes, a group of women big-dogged me on the dance floor, tried to steal my husband and then pointed and laughed at me. Apparently diplomacy rules do not apply on open waters.

Then there was the champagne in Champagne. Let me tell you I am 30 seconds away from moving in with the wine grower lady who gave us a tour of her vines and cave. Not only does her family painstakingly turn by hand each of their 40,000 bottles a year to get rid of sediment. Not only does this woman have a dog named Tina Turner. No, she also has a deep mistrust of gypsies! It was like we were destined to be together.

If you drink enough champagne, you don't think twice about buying dumb souvenirs!

We then finished off the marathon weekend of fun with a trip to Roland Garros. It was a trip that almost didn’t happen, since we didn’t have tickets and they were most definitely sold out when we got to the gate Monday morning. But as we were drowning our tennis sorrows in some excellent omelets at a nearby cafe, I spied a woman sitting next to us with a pile of ticket envelopes. She was camped out at her table with paperwork and cell phone, and every few minutes a stranger would come in to collect tickets from her. At one point she inexplicably traded tickets with another table of future spectators and gave them complimentary umbrellas. It was all very odd, so of course we asked her if she had any extra tickets. And she did! For the low low price of a couple hundred euros.

Shady? Yes. Worth it? Totally. We got to see Henin lose to Stosur and Melzer beat that emotional Russian guy. AND THEN WE RAN INTO RAFAEL NADAL. I mean, literally bumped into his chest as he stormed towards us with his entourage and we stood there gaping like star-struck idiots. (Note: he’s really tall, exceptionally tan and apparently really grumpy-looking before matches)

So yes, it was a weekend to remember. But you know what? Part of me would have given anything to be home for a backyard cookout and some pool time. Anything except my glass of champagne of course.

Vocab Friday: brocante

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Today in French class I learned the slang word for “speedo.” Don’t ask how it came up.

I wanted to share it with you all today, but my teacher said I shouldn’t repeat it. And since this here is a family-friendly blog (except for the sharts), I’ll restrain myself. I’ll just tell you that it literally translates into “hooha mold.”

The real word for today is:

– brocante –

Prononciation: bro-kahnt

Definition:  Kind of like a roving yard sale, brocantes are street sales of antique or second-hand goods. They pop up on the weekends all over the city, and I believe there are brocante stores, selling everything from china and paintings to vintage clothing and furniture. As in:

“No, I didn’t let Husband wear his “hooha mold” to the brocante up the street.”

It’s a jungle out there.

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So we woke up Sunday morning to quite the scene on the Champs-Elysees. Apparently mobs of tourists, roaming pickpockets and preening Louis-Vuitton shoppers aren’t exciting enough, because Paris decided to pave over the good old Champs with farmland and forest. And a few palm trees to boot.

Now generally shutting down a main city artery to make way for baby pineapple plants would have wreaked havoc on traffic, but it was yet again a holiday weekend, so no one was around except the aforementioned mobs of tourists. It made for a really bizarre landscape — pine trees and wheat fields and the occasional traffic light, coursing with thousands of people wearing fanny packs.

Side note: Why am I so mean about tourists? Does not meandering aimlessly with 5 cameras around my neck really make me a better person? Yes. Yes it does.

Anywho, the best part was at the end of the urban greenery, where they had set up what was something akin to a county fair. There were no rides or fried snickers to be had, but stall after stall of France’s best agricultural delights. We stopped for just-pressed apple cider, tasted fresh milk, noshed on grilled steak and baguette sandwiches. We drank some artisan beers and watched a butchery demonstration. Then of course I had to try some freshly shucked oysters and a glass of wine . (A bold move on a hot day in May, but I’m happy to say there were no London flashbacks)

At that point I was ready to crawl in a hay bale and take a nap. Or perhaps a wheelbarrow, so Husband could wheel me home. But our adventure wouldn’t have been complete without a visit to the Temple of Vegetables, where we bowed down and thanked the gods for posting us in Paris — and not the real jungle.

Vocab Friday: Chinon

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Since I’ve been a lame blogger this past month, I’m going to institute a little fun for my (probably 5) readers out there. The kind of fun that involves learning a foreign language that has 8 million verb tenses and a ridiculously hard-to-copy accent. That’s right– it’s time for French Vocab Fridays!

Yes, I am quite the benevolent blog ruler. Ok, here we go:

Chinon

Pronunciation: shee-non (but drop that last n)

Definition: A town in the Tourraine region of the Loire Valley, known for it’s big old medieval fortress/chateau and Cabernet Franc-based red wines. As in,

“We’ll have a bottle of the chinois rouge, s’il vous plait.”

“You mean the Chinon rouge?”

“Uh, yeah. Not the chinese red. The Chinon Red.”

Re-Ex-Patriation.

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Oh my. I have been gone from the interwebs for far too long. But there was the trip back home, and then a long trip back to Paris. And then a few groggy days of jet lag mixed with homesickness, topped with wintery cold mid-May weather. It was a dangerous melange that I attempted to battle with lots of sleep and pain au raisins, but dang it if my bakery was pain au raisinless my first morning back.

Stupid Paris. I wanted to be home eating bagels anyway. And where the hell did spring go?! And why is French so hard to understand?! And why does the apartment smell like a dirty rotten man cave?!

Well that’s what happens when Husband is left in charge of cleaning. But rather than tidy up and practice my verb tenses, I decided a vacation was in order. Something to take my mind off of my loved ones back home and my annoying pictogram oven here. And what better distraction than a rental car and french castles!

So off we drove towards the Loire Valley for a 3 day chateaux marathon. Now I will say that driving stick shift through Paris and then flooring it on winding French country roads is almost exhilarating enough to take your mind off of things like being a zillion miles away from friends and family and dog-poo-less sidewalks.

But oh, the chateaux. There were glorious turrets and sprawling formal gardens and ridiculously huge fireplaces. And real moats!

There were fairy-tale castles and english manor house styles and medieval fortress types. We saw it all, and by the last day we were dropping lines like, “This grand ballroom is a bit drafty, but I could get comfortable in the great hall” and “Can’t someone quiet the hunting hounds? I can hear them all the way in the library!”

Seriously, I think I could get used to chateau living. Sure the plumbing might be a bit primitive, but get one of those puppies wired with high speed internet and I’d be good to go. And I could move all my friends and family in!

It’s true, walking through all those grand palaces, imagining myself a duchess or princess or comtesse or something, I kinda started feeling … well, right at home. Which means the trip was a success — and Husband is in big trouble.

A bientôt!

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Don’t worry, I’m not dead – just busy catching up with friends and family stateside. And however tempting it is to stay here with all the bagels and good TV and English-speaking people, I’ll be back to strolling the Champs-Elysees and butchering the French language by tomorrow morning. Besides, if I leave Husband up to his own devices in the kitchen any longer, I fear I’ll return home to him looking like this guy. So hang on for a few more days – à bientôt!