11. The Relative Uselessness of Classroom French #2: SLANG

While numbers and question words will get you far in the world of restaurants and soldes, real French people do not actually use the vocabulary you learned in 101.  Many Americans proudly declare themselves to be the creators of improper grammar and words never seen in Merriam-Webster’s, but this is a misconception.  The French are just as talented at breaking rules and spouting vulgar expressions.

For some reason, this is not the français they teach you in school. Yes, you know three different ways to politely greet your grandmother, but are unprepared for when creepy European men whistle and call you a meuf or ask you for a clope.

A brief dictionary of words and phrases you will actually hear on the streets of Lyon:

d’ac: short for d’accord or okay

bobo: literally “bourgeois-bohème,” basically a hipster

baba: retro, hippie

bagnole / caisse: car

boire un verre / un coup / un pot: to have a drink

branché: cool, with it

ca craint/c'est nul : That sucks

casse-toi: Get lost (Sarkozy spouted this one on national television)

chaud: tipsy, buzzed

con/conne: idiot

claquer: to blow money

clope / sèche: cigarette

débile: pathetic, stupid

flic / keuf / poulet: cop

flipper: to go crazy, flip out

fric / blé: money

frimer: to show off

impec: great, terrific

je m'en fous / Je m'en fiche: I don't care

kiffer: to like

un mec bien foutu: a hottie/muscular guy

mec / type / bonhomme / keum: guy, man

nana / nénette / minette / gonzesse / meuf: woman, girl, chick

et patati et patata: blah blah blah

putain: an all-purpose swear word

pote: mate, friend (guy)

raté: loser

reum: Verlan for mother
reup: Verlan for father

And, when in doubt, forget every grammar rule you ever learned.

8. Les soldes

While most aspects of French culture strike me as very reasonable and efficient, one does not: les soldes.

In the United States, sales and promotions run throughout the year—they are unexciting, expected, and usually unhelpful. Yes, you will occasionally find that perfect skirt on mark-down at J. Crew, but it is more likely you will buy it at full price, knowing that only 30% off isn't worth the wait when in a month the only size left will be XL.

In France, however, there are two gargantuan, countrywide sales that happen every year: les soldes d’hiver in January/Febuary and the soldes d’été in June/July. Every store everywhere, whether it sells clothing, household appliances, or magic trick supplies (yes, these do exist, I saw one today), puts tout on sale. And as French clothing is exciting to own and is generally longer than anything sold in the US, I jumped at the chance to buy these expensive rarities ON SALE.

Heading out on Wednesday afternoon, I remember why I shop online. The summer soldes, while fantastic in theory, are a little nauseating in reality. I make it through one block and two shoe stores before claustrophobia overwhelms me and I’m sweaty from trying on twenty pairs of jeans that I knew looked too short. I cower in a corner, trying to pull myself together and picking through belts I don’t really like—it’s times like these I realize I would never survive in the jungle.

Further complications arose with the arrival of an afternoon thunderstorm—the sky opened and it was not euros that fell (like I had hoped) but sheets of drenching rain. Now I not only had purses and shopping bags to contend with, but wet umbrellas as well. Store floors became roller derby rinks as determined French women slipped and fought their way towards the cash registers.

Despite the rain and the crowds, I must admit that my shopping expedition was both successful and surprisingly educational. I am now quite knowledgeable about dressing room vocabulary and can make excuses to salespeople (and myself) about why those perfect leather sandals just won’t work today.

And I realized something—while I love clothing and fashion, I am not a shopper. Indoor malls make me want to kick and scream. I dread carrying around that armful of clothing because the hangers ALWAYS fall off or get stuck on cable-knit sweaters or other people’s purses. I hate waiting for a dressing room for 20 minutes, only to find that everything I love is too short or too big or designed by monkeys with no knowledge of the human form.

So yes, I like that dress in the window. But as I stand there considering its high waist that will hit me somewhere around the collarbone and the fact that its excellent reduced price is cancelled out by the exchange rate, I decide it is not even worth a visit to the cabine d'essayage. Luckily, I eventually realize these sales do last more than a day and with Lyon being a city of considerable size and style, there are more than enough stores to go around. Chic will have to wait until another day.

A Brief Aside to Venice

Venezia: the one place I have always wanted to see the most. As my friend Maddie is currently staying there and taking courses in Italian and Art History, a weekend visit seemed too perfect an opportunity to pass up.

After a quick and easy Air France flight (yes, I am promoting the airline—they serve croissants instead of bags of pretzels), I arrived Friday afternoon to a swamp of tourists and delicious humidity—I must be one of 10 people on the planet who delights in muggy warmth. Following a gaggle of German 13-year-olds to the Rialto Bridge, I met up successfully with Maddie (the combination of bright red hair and that fast walk is hard to miss). We went back to her apartment to wait out the rain and chat, then headed off on a tour of the historical Jewish ghetto led by a VERY sassy guide. After dinner, we loitered like true Italian university students at Campo Santa Margarita, speaking Italian (and in my case, very bad French) over a bottle of wine.

Saturday morning, we headed to the market where Maddie successfully battled old Venetian women for our zucchinis in Italian. The afternoon was spent laying on the beach at Lido, working on my non-existent tan, after which we sautéed up a fabulous dinner from our morning market finds.

I was incredibly (and unknowingly) lucky in my choice of weekends. Not only was it the Venice Biennale (an international culture and arts fair), but Saturday evening was also the 2011 Art Night Venezia. One night, every year, all the galleries and museums in Venice are completely free and open to the public. Everyone was out, stopping to listen to free concerts, ducking in and out of art shows, having an evening drink with friends and family. After wandering the Peggy Guggenheim Collection, I experienced the Venetian Spritz, a traditional drink that combines white wine, Aperol, and sparkling mineral water—just right for dusk, evening, or really whenever.

Sunday we crossed the lagoon to Murano and Burano. Known for its brightly painted houses, Burano was our first stop. It was perfect—kitchy with just a smattering of tourism, Burano is where you want to spend a lazy summer vacation, or where your grandmother should live. I must admit I went a little camera crazy—the combination of the rainbow of houses and clear sky was just too much. We wandered around Murano, admiring the glass sculptures and trying to avoid the buttery smell of frying seafood and margarita pizza (which turned out to be impossible).

The afternoon I spent in a long walk on the main island, exploring its narrow streets and attempting to get completely lost. Drifting in and out of shops and Biennale art pavilions, I eventually arrived at St. Marks as the sun was beginning to set over the canal.

While Venice must hold some record for tourist crammed into tight streets, it is a beautiful, almost magical city. As you happen upon hidden alleyways and turn the corner to find a sun-lit canal filled with fishing boats, it’s easy to pretend you are a 16^th century denizen, fleeing a masked assassin or in search of a missing painting. Or maybe I just read too much historical fiction as a child.

7. Un café, s'il vous plaît

This is a fact: America has become a nation of coffee drinkers. While perhaps 30 years ago we existed on Folgers and the occasional limp cup of Dunkin’ Donuts, we now live in a caffeinated haze of organic Guatemalan blends, double shots, and venti white chocolate mint mochas. We have entered the realm of the espresso drink and find ourselves addicted to a morning mug of Jo and toasted bagel with expensive cream cheese.

We imagine ourselves to be très chic and European, sitting in our local fair-trade coffee shops, surrounded by avant-garde posters of the Louvre and antique advertisements featuring the Moulin Rouge. If you’re a real regular, you order the same thing every time—a non-fat latté or an espresso. You would never dream of drinking one of those sugary concoctions dreamt up to appease people who don’t like coffee (or worse, those damn decaf drinkers) and preteens. Starbucks? Never. You’re much too continental.

I am here to sadly report that America has been hoodwinked—in reality, the French café is nothing like our local favorites. The idea of a “coffee shop”—complete with a large variety of fancy-pants espresso drinks, overpriced fruit parfaits, and muffins that can clog arteries—doesn’t seem to exist. Instead of a room filled with the sound of furious typing, over-caffeinated college students, and the stench of stress and dark roasts, the café breathes relaxation. It seems to fit effortlessly into French life as a place for lunch with coworkers, an afternoon crème with friends, or maybe even for a light dinner. Laptops (especially PCs, God forbid!) are nowhere to be found; cigarettes are more common than pens. Around 6, the Lyonnais instinctively gravitate towards their corner cafés to gossip with friends, relax, and drink an espress (with maybe a dash of sugar)—not because the caffeine will last through another thesis page, but because it is part of their daily routine.

I love the simplicity—no frills, no flavors. And while I occasionally miss my non-fat no-foam latte, the café is perfect the way it is—4 sips of fresh, strong coffee.

NOTE: However, if you are looking for a more "coffee shop" atmosphere in Lyon (while still maintaining a French profile), I highly recommend Café du Bout du Monde—with good coffee, wifi, and excellent music, its calm and slightly indie vibe is hard to beat. There are even a few laptops out to set your American workaholic tendencies at ease. However, it is still without a doubt a French café, and seems to be favored by many of the young Croix-Rousse professionals.

5. The Relative Uselessness of Classroom French

After a week and a half, I have come to this conclusion: I completely and totally fail at real French. Yes, I can discuss Pierre et Jean with relative success and amuse small children with a rendition of “head, shoulders, knees and toes” en français. These fine accomplishments, however, have absolutely nothing to do with exchanging pleasantries with shopkeepers or asking how your neighbor’s kids are doing in school.

I find myself using phrases I learned the first week in French 101 and completely avoiding the subjunctive and the plus-que-parfait. My noun-adjective agreement has gone flying out the window. I must relearn a language of grammatical errors, interjections, and slang in a variety of accents spoken at the speed of light. It makes me wonder if we should even bother trying to “teach” ourselves foreign languages, but instead just throw ourselves into the fray of a different country and culture and just absorb.

Then again, the cliff-diving approach does seem a bit impractical and frightening. While your second year of French may not have taught you the verbal crutches you need to sound like a français, there was probably one chapter filled with useful food vocabulary and directions on how to conjugate “avoir.” So, in the true spirit of counter-arguments, I have provided a list of useful classroom French lessons to which you should pay close attention:

1.     Numbers: never underestimate the power of knowing the difference between 15 and 50—this could save you beaucoup de centimes AND aid you in your quest to become the perfect haggler.

2.     Ways to avoid using the subjunctive—hey, it’s one less conjugation pattern you need to memorize.

3.     Question words—the combination of who, what, when, where, and how and lots of descriptive hand gestures can get you a long way in the (hopefully) right direction.

4.     Useful phrases such as “Il y a” (There is), “c’est” (it’s), “beaucoup de choses” (many things), and “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” (What is it?)—Again, accompanied by the right gestures and facial expressions, these can get you far in the pastry shop.

5.     OF COURSE, you should always always be polite. “S’il vous plaît” and “merci” are musts in any circumstance.

And really, discussing Pierre et Jean is a start. You never know when you may need to draw upon 19^th century home décor vocabulary or describe the overall theme of your trip to the grocery store.

3. The Jacket

80 degrees (excuse me, 27°C) and not a cloud in the sky. It’s the perfect weather for my sundress and (thankfully European-looking) espadrilles, and yet I feel almost naked next to the women who pass me on the streets. After 3 days of this, I have come to realize why I feel so terribly underdressed. I lack the Jacket.

The Jacket is without doubt a necessity. Even in weather that makes me think longingly of swimsuits and crop tops, all (and I mean ALL) women over the age of fourteen seem to follow this innate rule: rain or shine, hot or cold, N’OUBLIEZ PAS LA VESTE. Blazers and short linen coats prevail, with the smattering of leather (making me smack myself for not bringing mine).

Luckily, this seems to be a current trend as well as a more general cultural rule (overdressing for the heat seems to be a theme in France—I can’t help but question a blazer and long pants AND a scarf in the summer). And being right around the corner from Zara and a plethora of other equally dangerous magazins, I have no doubt I too will soon n’oublie pas ma veste, even when I would rather eat sorbet in an ice bath to keep from overheating.

So when travelling in France, forget your scarves, ladies. In order to truly “fit”, Lyon demands the Jacket. Just don’t forget that extra layer of deodorant for when the heat hits.

1. Au Marché

First (non-jetlagged) day in Lyon! After the red-eye and plane food with which you could kill a cat, a truly therapeutic dinner of boeuf bourguignon was found at La Menthe, a café (dangerously) near our apartment. Vegetarianism is on hold for the moment—you really can’t stay in the gastronomical capital of the world and expect to easily turn up your nose at salade Lyonnaise and crepes filled with jambon and brie (not to mention this would be impossible because literally everything smells heavenly). And aren’t French cows notoriously happy anyway?

Today: le marché alimentaire Saint-Antoine Célestins, a daily market located on the Quai Saint Antoine. It was gloriously overwhelming—we had to keep from buying every kind of fresh fruit in sight, not to mention hundreds of cheeses and beautiful tarts and croissants. The product: a mushroom and leek quiche with fresh salad in the plans for dinner.

Unfortunately it was grey and rainy so no pictures yet, but I will post some soon!