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Jul. 21st, 2003 04:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
quislibetJuly 9-10, 2003: assorted highlights of getting to France, and the first day there, as excerpted from, added to, or just plain rewritten from the couple of pages in my tiny notebook that I carry for just such a purpose:
At Logan airport:
- I note that my French phrase book does not have, in its travel section, information that will help you recognize the word grève ("strike"). Not even the little French-to-English dictionary at the end, which nonetheless makes space to translate l'agriculture for those that need the help.
- A cyclist from Seattle hopes we will both be on the same bullet train to Lyon so I can pretend that some of his luggage is mine and he can avoid surcharges. I say nothing to this. (It later turns out that we are not, so I don't have to be such a downer.)
In the air over the Atlantic:
- Dull. But no complaints for that.
At CDG airport:
- A long line for passport control. And one of the downsides of open borders and increasing globalization is that I no longer get stamps in my passport that let me brag about where I've been.
- Getting from passport control to the train station is much easier than I expected -- just a long walk in the same building -- as is getting my pre-ordered ticket without being able to speak French. In the men's room, I change into a clean shirt, briefly tempted by the sign that tells me I can get the key to the "man shower" at the information desk.
- As I wait for my train, a kindly French couple give me chocolate, and warn me, using simple phrases and mimed explosions, to move my bags closer to me so they don't look abandoned.
- Memo to myself: make sure your Brisk Tea doesn't have fake peach flavor in it.
Lyon: reunion, heat, puppets on strike, organ meats
- Reunited with my beloved. Hooray!
- I have selected a week when France is having a terrible heat wave. Go me!
- It's a Guignol day, as Lyon is the birthplace of the genre. Two relevant museums (one tacky), two and a half attempted viewings (one successful). One puppet theatre is on strike. I convince J. to check on another before we climb a mighty hill in the blazing sun; it is good that a phone call in French seems less daunting than climbing, as they turn out to be on vacation. The third one is in a nearby park, and a phone call confirms that a show starts in 45 minutes; we watch Guignol hit "fabulous beasts" with a stick for a while while the kids watching, a tough audience at first, warm to the show and start yelling, "Il est la!" whenever the monsters sneak up from behind. One kid in the second row delights in false warnings. We eat ice cream.
- An organ-meat sausage extravaganza, not to mention Berlitz Language Day, at Chez Hugon, a traditional Lyonnaise "bouchon" restaurant (we go here after the first place we try laughs at us for not having a reservation, responding condescendingly to J.'s French with English). We are the only customers at Chez Hugon and a little early for dinner, as I am jet-lagged, slept very little on the plane, and don't foresee staying up too late. They seat us but go back to their conversation for another ten minutes or so.
J. asks about some menu items, as they are Lyon-specific food words she doesn't recognize; our hostess cheerfully explains. Later, when another American tourist comes in, J. is asked to help overcome a menu-related language problem. She explains to the man that "foie de veau" is "veal liver." He frowns. "But does it have any beef in it?" As J. explains the rest of the menu to him, this is "liver," this is "brains," that there is "tripe," he grows upset, actually beginning to whine. "But ... but my friend told me this was a place with good home cooooking!" he complains, apparently feeling tricked, for there is no steak. Still, staying and whining is apparently less damaging to our proud country's reputation than deciding to leave without ordering, and so he is relieved when J. notices the chicken dish that hadn't been listed on our copy of the menu. Upon inquiry, it turns out that they can, in fact, just make him a salad or something to go with it.
As for me, well, I've never been much of an organ-meat fan either, but my tripe sausage with mustard sauce is tasty.
At another table, two Japanese-Brazilians, an Italian, and a woman of indeterminate origin (who doesn't speak, so far as I can tell) communicate in French, Portuguese, and a smattering of Japanese with the aid of a dictionary. I never see exactly which two languages the dictionary contains.
At Logan airport:
- I note that my French phrase book does not have, in its travel section, information that will help you recognize the word grève ("strike"). Not even the little French-to-English dictionary at the end, which nonetheless makes space to translate l'agriculture for those that need the help.
- A cyclist from Seattle hopes we will both be on the same bullet train to Lyon so I can pretend that some of his luggage is mine and he can avoid surcharges. I say nothing to this. (It later turns out that we are not, so I don't have to be such a downer.)
In the air over the Atlantic:
- Dull. But no complaints for that.
At CDG airport:
- A long line for passport control. And one of the downsides of open borders and increasing globalization is that I no longer get stamps in my passport that let me brag about where I've been.
- Getting from passport control to the train station is much easier than I expected -- just a long walk in the same building -- as is getting my pre-ordered ticket without being able to speak French. In the men's room, I change into a clean shirt, briefly tempted by the sign that tells me I can get the key to the "man shower" at the information desk.
- As I wait for my train, a kindly French couple give me chocolate, and warn me, using simple phrases and mimed explosions, to move my bags closer to me so they don't look abandoned.
- Memo to myself: make sure your Brisk Tea doesn't have fake peach flavor in it.
Lyon: reunion, heat, puppets on strike, organ meats
- Reunited with my beloved. Hooray!
- I have selected a week when France is having a terrible heat wave. Go me!
- It's a Guignol day, as Lyon is the birthplace of the genre. Two relevant museums (one tacky), two and a half attempted viewings (one successful). One puppet theatre is on strike. I convince J. to check on another before we climb a mighty hill in the blazing sun; it is good that a phone call in French seems less daunting than climbing, as they turn out to be on vacation. The third one is in a nearby park, and a phone call confirms that a show starts in 45 minutes; we watch Guignol hit "fabulous beasts" with a stick for a while while the kids watching, a tough audience at first, warm to the show and start yelling, "Il est la!" whenever the monsters sneak up from behind. One kid in the second row delights in false warnings. We eat ice cream.
- An organ-meat sausage extravaganza, not to mention Berlitz Language Day, at Chez Hugon, a traditional Lyonnaise "bouchon" restaurant (we go here after the first place we try laughs at us for not having a reservation, responding condescendingly to J.'s French with English). We are the only customers at Chez Hugon and a little early for dinner, as I am jet-lagged, slept very little on the plane, and don't foresee staying up too late. They seat us but go back to their conversation for another ten minutes or so.
J. asks about some menu items, as they are Lyon-specific food words she doesn't recognize; our hostess cheerfully explains. Later, when another American tourist comes in, J. is asked to help overcome a menu-related language problem. She explains to the man that "foie de veau" is "veal liver." He frowns. "But does it have any beef in it?" As J. explains the rest of the menu to him, this is "liver," this is "brains," that there is "tripe," he grows upset, actually beginning to whine. "But ... but my friend told me this was a place with good home cooooking!" he complains, apparently feeling tricked, for there is no steak. Still, staying and whining is apparently less damaging to our proud country's reputation than deciding to leave without ordering, and so he is relieved when J. notices the chicken dish that hadn't been listed on our copy of the menu. Upon inquiry, it turns out that they can, in fact, just make him a salad or something to go with it.
As for me, well, I've never been much of an organ-meat fan either, but my tripe sausage with mustard sauce is tasty.
At another table, two Japanese-Brazilians, an Italian, and a woman of indeterminate origin (who doesn't speak, so far as I can tell) communicate in French, Portuguese, and a smattering of Japanese with the aid of a dictionary. I never see exactly which two languages the dictionary contains.
