Sunday, December 31, 2006
Our waiter asked me if I was Canadian. Fred assumed he thought I was a Québécoise because of my accent when speaking French. I think it’s because when he tried to seat us in “non-smoking” after scanning the room and pointing out a table at random I said “Là? À côté de la femme avec la cigarette?” he pegged me as American. However, as my girlfriend in London will confirm, it’s somewhat politically incorrect to “accuse” someone of being American. Or similar to asking a woman when her baby is due when she isn’t pregnant. It’s safer to ask if a person is Canadian, thus, not to offend them by calling them American in the event they actually are Canadian. Plus, I know my accent is nowhere near close enough to a true Francophone, even a French-Canadophone!
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
We gave notice on our apartment on Monday. We’re moving to our new place (below) in mid-January. In order to receive our full security deposit, the rental agency kindly reminded us to perform a thorough cleaning prior to our departure and, above all, we mustn’t forget to iron all the linens. This must be the reason the French have a 35-hour work week. They put in the extra 5+ ironing sheets and face cloths when they get home from work. I much prefer our previous landlord on rue de Temple, a New Yorker who told us to FedEx him the keys after we got our stuff out and he’d mail us our security deposit. Sight unseen.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
I stopped by a specialty cookware store yesterday in search of a meat tenderizer. In the midst of halfheartedly showing me the first of two carried by the shop, the lovely Frenchman working the counter came clean, suggesting that I forgo purchasing a meat tenderizer and find a better butcher instead.