Since biking to work is quickly disappearing as a comfortable option: cold, wet and dark best describe trips to and from work at this stage, and we’re still a ways away from the shortest day of the year, which is shorter here than in Toronto (although I’ve never looked into how much so) as we’re further north. Are these poor excuses? Possibly, but I’m sticking to them. In the mean time, I am using my ball to it’s fullest, absently doing ab-friendly things will thinking about stuff (although I suppose better still would be to do them while typing, my balance isn’t THAT good). So I’m hoping that this somehow makes up for the lack of biking, and look forward to better weather to get back in the saddle. An office move in a few months will make that better still, since I will have fewer hills to contemplate (although I could choose a more hilly route once the less hilly one gets too easy).
Scholarly holidays
Holidays are something of an institution in France, and the “vacances scolaires” (of which there are plenty) has an impact on everything from bus, tram and train scheduling, to the cost of movie theatre tickets. These holidays apply not just to elementary and high school, but also university, and even continued education courses that are otherwise not at all associated with the education system (namely where I take my language courses). So, despite being told several times and forgetting just as many times, it is now clear to me that I don’t have Japanese class for the next two weeks (although Spanish is only cancelled this week – confusing).
The summer holidays (and I think the ones around Easter too) are even set up so that not all of France is on holiday at the same time, in an attempt to limit traffic and other such issues stemming from the entire education system grinding to a halt (and starting up again) at the exact same time. It’s kinda cool the effort that goes into managing holidays, but man, as Vianney would say “c’est une autre culture” – it’s a whole different culture for us North American workaholics.
Not just great furniture salesman
I had been intending to continue to tell you about my trip to Sweden, which I started telling here, then continued here. Welcome to part 3 of that trip 
While we waited for the train, Bruno reconfirmed that he had bought tickets on his credit card, and printed the “receipt” from the site, but that apparently there were no physical tickets: he just had to present the card he paid with. He also explained that the train was by far the cheapest and fastest way he found to get where we were going (particularly since our hotel as well as the conference were easy walking distance from the train station). Since I’d never seen such a system before, I was mildly skeptical, but my concerns were quickly put to rest when the controller scanned Bruno’s card and said “yep, there’s two tickets”. So the video ads playing on a loop on a video screen in each car that claimed the fastest and most environmental way to the airport are right: they go to lengths that are downright impressive: paperless tickets. “Fastest” is probably not an exaggeration either, since we got up to a top speed of 200km/h.
As we came out of the train station, my stomach led my eyes to the McDonalds that I saw to the right, but I decided to bring it up only if we would be walking in that direction, since tiredness was battling with hunger for attention. We needed to walk in the other direction, so I crossed my fingers, hoping for a better alternative (thanks to one of the many positive influences of French culture on me, McDonalds has been relegated to last resort eating). The alternative soon appeared before us: 7/11.
I found it incredibly strange to see a 7/11 in Sweden, but was in no position to complain. A bit of looking around, and I settled on some Swedish bread, salami and snacks that were different from what I knew, but not so different that my non-existent Swedish wouldn’t result in unpleasant surprises. We also stopped to ask directions, to be sure we were going the right way. We got some very friendly help (among others, from a French woman, oddly) and continued our walk. A minute or two down the road, an older gentlemen that had contributed to pointing us in the right direction ran up behind us to make sure we turned down the right street, because it wasn’t terribly obvious. So my overall judgment of the Swedish is fixed: friendly and helpful
The hotel wasn’t too far (although there was a pretty steep piece of uphill) and we were quickly settled into our rooms, free Wifi and all, I had my midnight snack and got some sleep.
Also known as…
When I first arrived in Mulhouse (pronounced like toulouse, not like Milhouse) I was a bit irritated by the inability of, well, just about everybody, to pronounced my name. I adjusted bit by bit, first seeing “ezzère” (actually an inaccurate attempt at showing the pronunciation I heard most often, which more closely resembles “êzzeur”) as something of a nickname before finally accepting it as my name. (In retrospect, seeing it as sort of a cute nickname is probably just as insulting to the poor folks whose mouths have never been used quite that way, but the post isn’t about insulting anyone, just about my own feelings at hearing my name massacred (or so it felt at first) day after day. Since then, I have accumulated pronunciations which each take some getting used to (some of which I still haven’t).
I suppose it starts with the Quebecois, but they are forgivably (and mercifully?) close, but since we’re counting, let’s start there: Hedder, or (getting further, or, shall we say, Frencher) ‘edder. Thanks to the anglo influence, they generally get the vowels and the “r”, and I don’t every remember, being bothered by the “th” being replaced by a “d”, or even the disappearance of the “h” (for example during that semester or two that I lived with a girl from Trois-Rivières).
The next stage was harsh, perhaps because I didn’t expected the French to pronounce it so differently from Quebecers. Any hope for the “h” was lost, the “d” turned into a “z” (or the occasional “f” or “v” -shudder-), and the “r” was being pulled from a whole differently section of the mouth: êzzeur.
Then there is the occasional soul who thinks “I know how to speak English, and an “e” followed by an “a” makes a long “e” sound”, and for them I am ‘eezer (or heezer).
But this is not just France, this is Alsace, with it’s Germanic history and dialect, were “ea” don’t exist in that order, but “ae” do, replacing ä. In this corner of the world, the “h” is pronouncable, and for those who are still influenced by the dialect, I am Haeter (written Haether, but pronounced HAEter with heavy emphasis on the first syllable, in proper Germanic form).
Update: I almost forget “essère”!
Then I started taking Spanish classes, with an Argentinian. The “h” therefore disappears once again, and “th” impossible, not to mention the rolled “r”, and for Miguel I am something resembling “eeter”. But the Spanish fun doesn’t stop there…I was briefly in touch (for work) with a woman from Barcelona who actually seemed to pronounce Heather correctly (or close enough that I never noticed), except that in her emails, she started calling me Header. What else can I say about that, other than: then who’s Footer?
There are certainly others that I’m forgetting, but this brings me to the reason for this post: I have a new one. Last Wednesday I started Japanese classes. Here the problem is double, and pronunciation is the first half, because to write Heather in Japanese, I have to break it into symbols that can then be translated into Japanese characters. I get my “h” back again, but you can say goodbye to “th” and, due to pronunciation, even the “r” is dropped, making me “hezâ” (where the accent indicates that that syllable is pronounced for a bit longer – think of those Bud commercials from about 10 years ago: “wazzup” and you’re not far). And so, in Katakana (one of the 4 ways of writing in Japanese – the one used for writing non-Japanese words), you can call me へザ─
My recipe collection
I love to cook, although I don’t do it often enough (at least not in a way that really counts). I have long collected recipes that I like, or that I want to try, often on my computer and, more recently, very often on the internet. Since I have used my yahoo bookmarks and their tagging function to mark and find recipes for quite a while, I keep planning on posting the recipes hiding in my hard drive online, so that I can have access to the full “virtual” collection in a single place (of course there are also my many “real” recipe books also).
Anyway, this first recipe is one that I made today, for the umpteenth time: Maple Apple Crisp.
Creating new realities through accepted (but initially incorrect) translations
I don’t talk often enough about the amusing translations from English to French (and vice versa) that can sometimes make for interesting misunderstandings, or at least just sound funny.
This one isn’t actually a translation, but a perversion on the pronunciation that turned “egg” into “love”. Hmm, when I put it that way, one could argue that the reverse could happen; turning love into an egg. Although that would turn this whole posting into a bizarre mix of low-brow and high-brow humour that I should really put a stop to right – - – about – - – now.
So, about those eggs. Back in the day (you know, the day), tennis was a sport of French princes and aristocracy (come to think of it, all things being relative in this world of globalisation, that hasn’t really changed all that much), but the key word here is “French”. When a player had no points on the board, this was referred to a “l’oeuf”: the egg…which must be what the zero on the board looked like to the hungry on-lookers (maybe it’s the French influence that makes me think about food so often…). Anyway, then the Brits started to play at this French past-time (when they were getting along with the French anyway, other times I’m sure they simply claimed it was a British creation), and the princes and aristrocracy showed off their faaaaabulous French, but using the French terms. Except, we all know how well the English typically do with speaking French (just kidding Liz, and Wendy, and John!) so the pronunciation was probably mildly bastardised. Then, as the sport moved to the lower classes (well, it never did get far, but you get the picture) and those still less skilled with foreign languages (too busy actually living their lives…except for when they were paying tennis, of course) people must have twisted the pronunciation to fit a word that they actually knew. Or perhaps it was deliberate, because they just LOVED tennis. So next time you’re officiating a tennis match, forget 15-love it’s 15-”the egg”.
For more totally random observations on our attempts to mutually destroy both languages, here are my thoughts on:
Dried fruit
Footwear
Sports
Words ending in -ing
Words (not actually) ending in é
Grapes
and, finally
More on food
Take the money and run
I’ve never been happy with the bank I signed up to upon arriving in France. At the time (since I was only going to be here for 5 months…although that was 14*5 months ago now…) I wouldn’t have signed up at all if it hadn’t been a requirement to receive rent assistance (that I never got anyway). Over the years they’ve annoyed me, overcharged me, and changed my banker 3 times (always to the newbie responsible for student accounts) and many a time I have vowed to change (like this incident: part one and part two). One of the first speed bumps (now a few years ago) was that banks could charge fees to close an account, which, on principle, I would have kicked and screamed about, but ultimately had to pay. That has since changed (by law)…
Many moons ago, I opened an account elsewhere, but continued to use my old account as my primary one, in part because I also have a savings account with a higher interest rate than the standard, that I didn’t want to touch. A few months passed by, and I switched out my pay to my other bank. Two weeks ago, I gave in my bank card (standard bank cards, which often double as visa’s for the purposes of being useful outside of France, but with no actually credit privileges, cost several euros a month just for the privilege). This week I got a letter from the (old) bank, inviting me to meet with my (new, again) banker, for a routine check-up or some such. Upon discovering that my savings account has probably already lost its privileges (due to the rules surrounding the higher interest rate) without them informing me, and that my other bank is now (thanks to a change in other rules – banking is exTREMEly regulated in France) offering similar rates on similar accounts, I went ahead and made that appointment to see my banker: little does she know this routine check-up will see the poor newbie losing a customer for good. Of course, I still have to make sure no more bills are being paid out of there and such, but such is the annoyance of bureaucracy.
I just can’t wait to walk away (but not too far), to my “new” bank, where my banker is helpful, the manager is great, the fees are lower, and everything just seems to work as it should. Thanks for nothing to the person that insisted I sign up with Bank A when I first arrived, because it was supposedly the best.
Foiled again!
This getting dark earlier and earlier thing is not working for me. By the time I’m ready to go home it’s too dark to bike, at least with the equipment I have, and the safety of the streets between work and home. I had figured winter weather would soon put a stop to my bike ride to work, but hadn’t factored in the darkness factor. Soon it will probably be too dark in the morning too, but for now I’m stuck having ridden in Monday morning, and having to abandon my bike at work for the second night in a row because it gets dark well before I am really ready to pack up for the night. Arrrrgh says I!
(and with that, since it’s too dark now to bike home anyway, I guess I’ll get back to work until I feel comfortable with packing up for the day).
Hit or miss?
I love baking, but never seem to have the motivation when I have the time (or vice versa). Yesterday was one of those great moments when both of those critical ingredients came together (along with a few others) and a batch of Mudslide brownies with Kahlua icing made their way into, and back out of, my oven. A full batch is generally too much for the two of us, but it is always with some hesitation that I bring my baking into work after a couple of major flops (note: French people don’t like Rice Krispie Squares…even less so when made with creepy French pink marshmallows). This recipe being particularly “North American”, I wasn’t sure how it would go over. As it turns it, it was a hit!
So, a few do’s and don’ts so far:
Do: alcoholic baked goods (except for my Muslim colleagues 
)
Do: dips of all kinds (but especially Mexican layer dip)
Don’t: things made out of already made things (i.e. Rice Krispies and marshmallows: these things, already themselves being edible as is, apparently should not be melted or otherwise mixed with other things that can also be eaten as is)
Don’t: coloured icing (not an experience of my home, but I did enjoy the horrified surprise of one Frenchie at seeing a photo of a Superman cake)
Giving thanks
I’m often asked if I miss Canada after 5 years, 9 months and 25 days in France. With all the proximity Facebook has given me with friends from the past and the present, seeing so many people talk about Thanksgiving this weekend has opened a void for me, reminding me of one of the things I missed most about Canada: stuffing. Just kidding; that one was for my family (and particularly my grandma, who apparently reminds everyone at every turkey dinner of how much I love stuffing: I do loves me stuffing!). But everything that goes with thanksgiving is definitely on my list of things I miss like crazy right now. So, what I am thankful for?
Family. With a special thanks to those of you that have been able to come see me in my adopted home.
Friends. Thanks to you (along with my family) for making me who I am, and bringing me to where I am, today.
Tradition. For bringing people together around a cooked turkey with all the fixings for a special time that I guess I took for granted until I was in a position to miss it so many times in a row.
Stuffing. Who’s kidding who; good bread stuffing brings me joy.
I’m torn between going into more detail or keeping it kind of open, but I guess I’ll leave things general. I believe (and hope) that those of you with the greatest impact on my path know who you are. If not, a blog post will never do you justice. I’ll do my best to let you know myself.
Thanks.
