schooling

kids go to school to fatten their spongy minds, and adults attend professional development seminars to hone their expertise in a given field. but the coffee shop, too, has all sorts of lessons for us!

today's lesson comes to us (indirectly) from Hans and Franz, the two thirtysomething guys over there to my left, sporting pinheads and authoritative pre-pubescent voices.

what we learn just from witnessing H&F is that, when you've worked out at the gym so much that you'll have to add "neck" to your next xmas wishlist (dear Santa...), you are indeed over-pumping.

and now back to translating...

so this guy walks into a bar(ista)...

some wisecracks should be banned. not because they're racist or homophobic or begin with "knock-knock" (though, generally speaking, these also deserve the axe). but because they're so tired that they're just not funny anymore. case in point: in ottawa, there are two seasons: winter and construction. yuk yuk yu(c)k...

same goes for certain songs. or, rather, certain appropriations of certain songs. personal remixes whose formulas are so tired that the "clever" spin-off renditions drive everyone crazy in the moment, not to mention for hours afterwards. case in point: earlier today, one of the baristas is singing la bamba. typically among the worst earworms. however, since the guy (being colombian) knows the spanish lyrics, it's actually delightful to overhear him launch into para bailar la bamba, instead of pa la ba la ba la bamba (the way most of us -- myself included -- usually gringo-garble our way through it). the trouble begins shortly after this. when the second barista (the one who, last week, hadn't been clear on nova scotia's elusive whereabouts) jumps on board and -- like a sprinter in a relay race, taking the (inadvertent) baton pass from Colombia -- just runs with it: pa la ba la ba la bamba, i need s'more es-pres-so...

¡ay caramba!

and now back to pa la ba la ba la translating...

machu picchu. (gesundheit!)

there's not much point in pretending otherwise: i'm a language snob. and there's no point in apologizing for it either. for better or for worse, i genuinely love seeing words spelled properly, and poor grammar turns me off -- though mostly when it's lurking in published goods. on the flip side, i'm a practical goon when it comes to science. (oh, Bob McDonald, you make it seem so easy...) but strengths and weaknesses and personal preferences aside, you figure people who've at least completed grade eight share a base of common knowledge. like knowing what a hypotenuse is (or at least knowing it's not an african animal), or that yellow and blue make green (not to mention some pretty gruesome thigh/ass bruises), or that machu picchu isn't located in ontario, or that Madonna is(n't) necessarily a virgin, or that mixing vinegar and baking soda makes for a reasonably satisfying papier maché volcano eruption (and has been popular at grade school science fairs the world over since the dawn of time).

but this logic doesn't always hold...

Barista One, chatting with Barista Two: a consonant is the same thing as an antonym.

(fortunately, Barista Two swoops in to offer an alternative point of view.)

Barista 1: so, where is nova scotia? (B2 swoop: take two.) *explosion of laughter* (that's B1 laughing at herself, by the way.) i guess i need to study geography more.

holy hypotenuse.

and now back to translating...

castrated

[friday, april 25: castres, france]

as anyone who's crossed national borders knows, international travel -- particularly when an extended stay is involved and the geographical distance between Departure and Destination is significant -- is full of cultural awakenings: an onslaught of epiphanies about how objects look, how language is used, how people tend to think and behave. immediately, you begin to assess your new and unfamiliar surroundings: sacré bleu, these french public washrooms are sketchy (not to mention hard to come by)! holy Hollande, having chocolatebreadcheeseandwine at every meal is genius! and then, slowly but surely, you begin to re-consider various aspects of the surroundings you'd been immersed in before your trip: much of what used to strike you as "normal" back home now registers either as just one of many ways of doing/making/thinking about something -- like measuring flour and sugar in cups and teaspoons instead of by weight -- or as "normal" only in relation to the place you're from -- like having squirrels scurry past you every day (and wondering why a tourist would think to take a photo of such rodents).

but, in all likelihood, you won't be reflecting on your home country all by your lonesome. several people you encounter abroad will help you out, by sharing a thing or two about you. typically, it'll be something "hilarious" that you've heard a billion times. if you're colombian, there'll be a crack about cocaine (crack? cocaine? did you get that?). if you're from the states, you will probably hear about obesity and georgedubya. if you're canadian, you hear about lumberjacks, caribou, maple syrup, snow, céline dion, and (alas!) rofo.

other times, however, what you hear is completely new. like this afternoon. my friends are at work, and so i've solo-settled into Thé ou Café tendance, in jean-jaurès square, in the centre of castres (a town whose name is, incidentally, a conjugated form of the verb "to castrate." yowch!) i've been here for no more than five minutes when, over a steaming chocolat chaud cannelle (yee-um!), i overhear the following from one of the two sixty-something women at the nearby table:

tu sais, quatre-vingt pourcent des canadiennes sont des femmes battues!

[translation: you know, eighty-five percent of canadian women are beaten!]

it's definitely surprising, as a canadian, to be in france (or almost any other country, really) and happen upon a conversation about canadians. (let's be honest: recent rofo-ing aside, canada's hardly at the forefront of The World's mind.) even more surprising, however, is discovering that, all this time, you'd been so in the dark about your own people! the woman has shared this news with her friend in a hush-hush, gossip-hound tone, but the remaining authority in her voice says it all: i mean, the cited stats simply must be true. (particularly in light of her sophisticated general knowledge, as later evidenced by her insights into UFOs.) thankfully, now armed with this data, i can spread the news upon my return home (phew!). i only wish i'd caught the tail end of her canadian lecture -- the part that began with: soixante-quinze pourcent des enfants canadiens sont [seventy-five percent of canadian children are]. d'oh! now we'll never know.

and now back to translating...

ce qui est tout petit / little things

me voilà, avec deux amis, à table aux saveurs de Mehun -- petit resto modeste mais élégant où l'on privilégie les ingrédients locaux (les lentilles du berry, par exemple) et où le menu change au quotidien. le restaurant, qui fait face à la statue (plutôt affreuse) en faïence (oh là là !), est situé au centre de Mehun-sur-Yèvre. village dont le nom n'est -- pour une simple canadienne d'origine anglophone -- pas du tout facile à prononcer* (qui est-ce qui a eu l'idée de placer une 'h' entre deux voyelles ?) ; village qui se trouve dans le département de Cher, pas loin de Bourges, ni de Vierzon ; village qui est à dix minutes, en voiture, de Quincy, où mes amis m'hébergent pendant une semaine.

nous venions de dévorer notre dessert (un gazpacho aux fraises et au melon accompagné de trois petites éponges carrées au cacao) lorsque le serveur (homme très sympa) nous propose un petit café. il faut savoir qu'en france, presque tout est 'petit' : j'y serai dans une petite minute...auriez-vous une petite serviette à me passer ?...je prendrai bien un petit café. mais attention : même en format 'petit,' le café ne m'intéresse point. donc heureusement j'aie pu arrêter ce gentil monsieur avant qu'il ne quitte notre table pour revenir et y déposer trois cafés : auriez-vous un chocolat chaud ? lui ai-je vite demandé.

sa réponse -- soit une brève période de silence suivie d'un léger sourire témoignant du grand effort qu'il semble devoir mettre pour ne pas éclater de rire -- se fait l'écho des expressions figurant (à moitié cachées) aux visages de mes camarades, et me fait comprendre que ma question est plutôt atypique. néanmoins : je me renseigne auprès de la chef, me dit-il. et de retour quelques instants plus tard : madame, on pourra vous préparer un chocolat chaud mais il sera fait avec du chocolat de cuisine...donc du chocolat amer. (il n'est nullement convaincu.) parfait ! j'accepte.

jusqu'à maintenant, j'ai découvert lors de mes aventures en chaudchocolaterie® un seul chocolat chaud me plaisant plus que celui offert chez starbucks. (c'est plutôt triste, je l'avoue.) donc, même si les lentilles et le parmentier aux poissons que je viens de manger étaient délicieux et même si ce 'meilleur' chocolat chaud est d'origine française (ce n'est peut-être pas le hasard...?), je ne garde pas beaucoup d'espoir pour l'amertume que m'offrira bientôt M. Sympa.

au bout de deux minutes, mon chocolat chaud arrive. petit, en effet. il nous faudrait au moins quatre de ces mugs pour remplir un Grande (trois pour un Tall ; cinq pour un Venti). la mignonne soucoupe tient également trois cubes de sucre. puis un (autre merveilleux) gâteau, celui-ci genre madeleine au chocolat. après avoir goûté au liquide chaud, je plonge un cube dans mon tout petit mug, remuant avec tendresse l'elixir. et hop ! c'est tout ce qu'il lui a fallu (elle a raison, cette géniale Mary Poppins) : c'est le meilleur des meilleurs choc-chauds que j'ai dégustés de ma vie. quel plaisir énorme !

et maintenant retournous à la traduction...

*prononciation de "Mehun" (plutôt pour le locuteur canadien): meuh-an.

***

two of my friends and i are tucked into a table at aux saveurs de Mehun -- a modest-but-elegant little restaurant that lusts after local ingredients (du berry lentils, for example) and where the menu changes on the daily. the establishment, which faces a (rather horrific) porcelain statue (oh là là !), is located in the middle of Mehun-sur-Yèvre. a village whose name is -- for a mere anglo-born canadian -- practically impossible to pronounce (who okayed smackdabbing an 'h' between two vowels anyway?); a village located in the Cher (not the singer) département, not far from Bourges or from Vierzon; a village just ten minutes, by car, from Quincy, where my friends are putting me up for a week.

we've just finished devouring our desserts (strawberry-melon gazpacho, accompanied by three wee cocoa sponge squares) when the server (friendly dude) offers us un petit café. this is a good time to mention that, in france, almost everything is 'petit': j'y serai dans une petite minute [i'll be there in just a sec]...auriez-vous une petite serviette à me passer ? [would you have a napkin, please?]...je prendrai bien un petit café [i'd love a coffee]. but not so fast! even in 'petit' form, coffee is a very unwelcome addition to my day. it's a good thing i can stop the nice man before he's left our table, otherwise returning with three coffees: auriez-vous un chocolat chaud ? [do you have any hot chocolate?] i quickly interject.

his response -- a brief pause, followed by a partial smile betraying the significant effort apparently required to stifle his urge to laugh -- mirrors the (half-masked) expressions on my friends' faces and makes me realize my request is rather atypical. nonetheless: i'll check with the chef, he explains. and moments later: Madame, we can make you a hot chocolate, but it will be made with baking chocolate...so, it will be bitter. (he's hardly convinced.) perfect! I accept.

in my adventures in Hotchocolating® thus far, only one hot chocolate has proven better than what's served up at starbucks. (sad, i know.) so, despite the deliciousness of the lentils and the parmentier aux poissons (a kind of gourmet fish hash) that i've just eaten, and despite the fact that this 'better' hot chocolate has french roots (maybe that's not a coincidence...?), i don't have much hope for the bitterness Mr. Friendly's about to deliver.

within two minutes, my hot chocolate arrives. little. indeed. it would take at least four of these mugfulls to fill a Grande (three for a Tall; five for a Venti). the tiny saucer also holds three sugar cubes. and (another glorious) cake: some kind of chocolate madeleine. after tasting the hot liquid, i drop one cube into the little mug, stirring the elixir affectionately. and ta-da! that's all it takes (right you are, yet again, Mary Poppins): this is the bestest of the best hot chocolates i've ever had. what a enormous pleasure!

and now back to (self-)translating...

the verdict is in

three twentysomething teachers-in-training, chewing the early morning pedagogical fat:

guy: i'm more of a cat person myself. you know what's great about cats? (he asks this in a tone so sincere -- *cough* condescending -- that, for a brief moment, i wonder if he actually believes that his fellow educators might not have already encountered a cat at some point in their lives. or thought about what a cat is. or developed an awareness of how cats behave.) they're independent. they clean themselves. (one of the girls, with a little giggle: oooh, self-cleaning!) they do everything they need to "do" in a little box. basically, they're the perfect animal. this last statement is practically punctuated with a gavel hitting its sounding block.

given my admitted pet bias (aka my personal disdain for felines, on account of allergies to dander and impertinence -- atchoo!), i find myself thinking many things. but mostly: 1) i'm not sure how i feel about the fact that it's just a matter of time before this guy's educating a litter of young'uns (or maybe i am, for better or for worse, very sure about how i feel about that); and 2) he's surely single...maybe i should set him up with Little Miss Memo?

and now back to translating...

Mat(ters of the heart)

[march 19, 2014]

one of the baristas, who isn't working tonight, has just waltzed in -- excited -- with news for her colleagues: so, i'm on this date! (as in, at that very moment.) it's this guy i met at the lieutenant's pump the other day. wanna come join? (is that how first dates work now? y'bring your co-workers along for the ride?! *takes detailed notes*) i went into the date with zero expectations...but he's coooool!  to which one of the working baristas responds (subsequently receiving an affirmative reply): oh, this is the guy named Matt, right? but Matt's nowhere to be seen. (he's apparently next door at a pub, waiting for his date to reappear.)

this promptly reminds me of the first guy i fell in love with. i was fourteen. too young, i suppose, to know what love really is. and, as is often the case in the Department of Romantic Affairs (perhaps particularly when you're "too young [...] to know what love really is"), the feeling was not reciprocated. wa wa waaah. but i made a friend. and, while we were hardly best friends, a long-standing acquaintanceship emerged, involving regular razzing-and-banter and, on rarer occasions, the kinds of conversations that feel (and therefore end up being) "profoundly important." you know the ones: a mushroom cloud of adolescent epiphanies -- the stuff you'd be truly mortified (though surely also curious) to hear played back to you verbatim but that you now still thoroughly enjoy through the delightful fog of your selective memory, where the feelings associated with raw and riveting conversational communion remain fully intact. his name was also Mat (no second "t" in this case). well-liked, sincere, and sufficiently cheeky, he had a big laugh, tended to underestimate himself and, throughout our friendship, did wonders for my self-confidence. in other words: he, too, was coooool.

suddenly, a crash test dummies song begins to play. "afternoons and coffeespoons." i'd loathed this single when it was released in high school. (probably a knee-jerk reaction to my younger sister being such a fan.) in any case, that was long before i knew about the song's links to T.S. Eliot's 1920 poem -- which i (not unlike gadzillions of other people) quickly grew fond of:

[...]

For I have known them all already, known them all:

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

So how should I presume?

[...]

that was also long before the song was retroactively inserted (without my permission; possibly by my sister...) into an as-yet-unreleased musical tribute to my high school years and all the people in it. like Mat. who celebrates his birthday today. and who, a few years after graduation, just as he was glimpsing adulthood, was involved in a very bad car crash and, weeks later, died. now nowhere to be seen. 

then again...how should i presume? perhaps he's waiting next door, at the pub. or maybe he's right here, calmly tucked beneath the music from a farther room. 

and now back to translating...

[this entry is (also) dedicated to another Matt: the friend who wrapped up and mailed me a chuckle, a hot chocolate and a hug. all of which arrived this afternoon.]