Uh oh....I know that I am in big trouble now. Yesterday I received two, TWO, emails asking where I have been and what has been happening over here in french-land. This on top of another inquiry last week. I had best get back to it I think. It is not as if I have not been writing - in fact I have been at it more than ever. It is just that all those scribbles have been in other places.
I am creeping toward some new kind of "french-ness". Last night was the Fetes des Voisines in Paris. A day decreed as the day that one has a party in your apartment building or immediate neighborhood. Very casual. Nice idea.
Our's was in the cour or inner courtyard of our building. We even have a cour? The answer is yes - you go down the stairs leading to the caves and the trashcan room, through a narrow passage, up skinny stone steps, down more skinny stone steps, and believe it or not, up more skinny stone steps and one more time - down the last set of skinny stone steps landing in a totally non de-script inner courtyard. No wonder I didn't know about it.
The french are not known for their snacks that they serve with cocktails. In this land of foie gras and all sorts of delicacies what is normally served with cocktails or the aperitif is cheetos, doritos, some kind of weird puffy vaguely japanese tasting crunchy bits and if you are lucky - radishes. Our little fete was no exception. C'est pas grave.
Another typically french habit is that in such a social situation, as this little gathering was, where you don't necessarily know everyone - upon arriving you say bonsoir madame/monsieur to each person but there are no introductions. No one bothers with names and no one asks your's. My american reflex of "Hi, I'm Mary" to be followed by the person telling me his/her name, is just not done. Weird.
My French Man explained that one's name rests in the intimate zone of social conventions. Well at least I don't have to crank my brain up into high gear trying to remember everyone's name as they fly out my other ear the minute after I hear it.
I know that my neighbor who is the president of our apartment's board of sorts and who was acting as host last night, is dying to ask me who the heck this French guy is with me and wasn't I supposed to be married to some other american guy?
Again, french propriety saves me - I can keep him guessing along with the rest of the neighbors, who by the way are totally charming.
Lastly and MOST importantly - I chatted and even told jokes in French! I am certain that my French was riddled with mistakes but again - C'est pas grave.
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