More Signs You *May* Be Turning French

*Much thanks to Invader Stu from Invading Holland for inspiring me to make my own lists.

-You no longer flinch at hearing the siren that sounds at noon every first Wednesday of the month.

-You've stopped asking the French why it even sounds in the first place because the answer will always be "I don't know."

-You've started to eat pizza and burgers with a knife and fork.

-Nut allergies be damned, the Nutella Overlord is now a permanent presence in your house. Even if you don't eat it or know for an incontestable fact that Speculoos easily blows it out of the water, you will always keep the kitchen cupboards stocked with a Nutella jar (just in case).

-You no longer giggle like a sophomoric adolescent over the fact that the Nesquik Bunny's name is "Quicky."

-You've stopped crying into your pillow at night and have come to terms that the toxic, sugar and chemical-laced and nuclear neon-colored foods that you used to enjoy from back home are now quite revolting to your palate.

-In fact, the foods from back home downright scare you. (I'm looking at YOU, Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, you toxic, sodium-laced, neon-orange "cheese" sauce monstrosity.)

"Homestyle," mon oeil. 

-You can't fathom leaving the house without a scarf because you are convinced that it's against the law to not wear one, punishable by a 1.000 Euro fine and/or face calling jail your temporary address for one month.

-The same goes for wearing workout shoes, such as trainers/sneakers, with clothes other than those specifically intended for exercising. (That's punishable by up to two years in prison.)

-You start to forget that other people speak languages besides French.

-When these people address you in your native tongue, you wonder if you are somehow caught in an episode of The Twilight Zone.

-If you live in the provinces: You think Paris is an overrated Disneyland and is not "the real France." You could never imagine yourself living there (but secretly would like to do so, just to see what it is all about).

-If you live in Paris: You think the provinces are quaint for a visit. ONLY a visit. Possibly to see Mamie and Papy. You could never fathom residing anywhere outside of la région parisienne and survive. No, not even in medium-sized cities like Dijon or Nantes.

-You can name at least one French reality T.V. "star."

-And despite never having seen a single episode of their show, you know for what they are infamous/what their catch phrases are.

-You have a favorite French YouTuber.

-The fact that the SNCF is on strike is not shocking news to you. Rather, it's just an inevitable fact of life, much like birth, bowel movements, and death.


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For other signs to see if you are turning French, click the link to discover the first list.
Signs You *May* Be Turning French 


P.S.
Our blog turned four years old on June 8th. Oops.

-Barb the French Bean

The One Thing I Can't Quite Ignore

Yes. France is on strike.

Yes. The French government is attempting to pass a massive reform that will potentially change the retirement age from 60 to 62...the French are up in arms about it. They march in the streets in a wave of human force, proudly waving their union banners and deriding Président Sarkozy for the elitist tyrant he is. They warn the bastard who lives in the luxurious Palais de l'Elysée and threaten his UMP cronies to watch their backs.

Yes. French high schoolers who want to play hooky and make a nuisance of themselves by destroying plastic barricades make a political statement have deemed it essential to join forces and cut class march down the street proclaiming how their rights are important as well. (I sincerely doubt that they will be so energetic to state their political exuberance once the two-week Toussaint holiday break starts next week.)

Yes. The French media are plagued by stories of drivers forming lines just to buy gas/petrol for their cars due to a massive imposed pénurie d'essence by gas stations all over the nation, thus causing panic all over the country. The lack of petrol is reported to be so dire that planes are not even taking off for international flights.

Yes. There will probably be fewer buses running around if the gas strike continues. It's bad enough that the Divia have changed all of their bus lines due to setting up a Tramway system. The lack of transportation will surely violently halt the country to its knees. I briefly consider the thought of the same thing happening to the United States, where Americans are far more dependant on their cars than their own two feet; the notion of it sends a ripple of concern across my brow.

Yes. I am slowly coming to terms with the possibility that all of my Carrefour supermarket shopping may potentially require me to hoof it rather than depend on my trusty Divia buses. I also am trying to make peace with the reality that food prices may increase due to the pénurie d'essence.

But the one thing I truly can't ignore is the fact that the temperature becomes more frigid with every passing day here in Dijon. Just for fun, I wanted to compare how different the climate here is from my native sunny Miami, FL.

(See? Even MSN reports that the sun is "Not Available" in my neck of the woods. It must be on strike, too.)

What was I to expect? I've left a fairly tropical area for a temperate zone, after all, but my body is still trying to recover from the physical shock of now facing a more than 20-degree change along with dressing in thousands of extra layers of clothing. It seems that my light cardigan days are OVER.

Of course, seeing single-digit numbers followed stoically by a capitalized C doesn't mean much to my Farenheit-wired brain.

Ah, that makes more sense.

Here's a lovely side-by-side comparison.

Now, in reality, I've been thoroughly enjoying the cooler weather. Being able to promenade for hours outside not sweating bullets and wrecking my expertly-coiffed hair is a luxury that humidity-and-mosquito-ridden Miami has never been able to offer.

Frankly, I probably wouldn't be bitching as much about the cold if it were not for the continuous nasty Cough that has been pestering me since Monday night. Rather than taking a hint and leaving me in peace, the Cough has stuck around to bully me. Its insults have become progressively worse and worse. I've been chugging hot fluids nonstop in the hopes that they might soothe my raspy vocal chords, but I've seen no improvement. I just keep hacking out what remains of my throat.

But this morning, I am hopeful. The sun has taken a break from its pénurie de lumière grève and has awakened me with golden beams of warmth shining through my window. I greet them as I would an old friend.

I think I'll go for a walk.

Barb the French Bean

Disclaimer: the images were directly taken from MSN Weather. Obviously.

Hoo, Boy...

For those of you who are not up-to-date with French current events, I expect that all hell will break loose sometime in the next few days.


For months, the French government has been debating whether or not to raise the retirement age for workers. The unions had planned a strike to occur today.


Last Saturday morning, I woke up to the news that the French Senate passed the bill to increase the retirement age from 60 to 62. It happened when no one expected it. BEFORE the strike happened. I'm pretty clueless about France's system of deputies and whatnot, but I do know that this decision will not sit well. The first thing to go will be the public transportation systems: buses, trains, the Métros in the larger cities.



As it is, my two ways of getting around Dijon are by bus and my own two feet.



YEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaah...



Let me tell you that purchasing a bike looks VERY tempting right about now!



France is on strike today. I'm only used to one or two day strikes, but there is talk that the French railway will have une grève illimitée , a strike that has no exact date of when it will end...so this will be new for me. I expect a complete disaster in all areas of service.



In my Miami mindset, planning for a disaster (like hurricanes) includes buying two weeks' worth of food and water. Maybe I should add some terrine de foie gras to my Carrefour shopping list as well.


And in other news, Loser Ex-Boyfriend is in town and he wants to see me. Before I left Miami, he messaged me via Facebook to see if I would bite and accept his apology (which I stupidly did). We both agreed to be friends... and ever since then he's been spewing some total bullshit that I was his first love and that he misses me and my cooking. Why the fuck did I break the third step in the Kübler-Ross model? I shouldn't have bargained ANYTHING with that jerk.

Keep in mind: he still is dating his current girlfriend, so I really can't see why on Earth he would want to see me. He surely has better ways of spending his free time.

When I think about their relationship and the particular backstory about how her parents hate him, I think of this song:




I say let him come. I'll make him regret he EVER broke it off with me.

Wish me luck, folks.

Barb the (incredibly stupid) French Bean



Disclaimer: the video is not mine

Great.

First, my calves went on strike. Now, it's my right ankle.

Saturday morning, as I was heading out the door, my right foot stepped on the "Welcome" mat and unbalanced to the left. The sudden pain of all my weight crushing down on my ankle made me tear.

The pain itself wasn't as bad as it seemed, but I think that what caused hot salty drops to fall from my eyes was the fact that my legs were already giving me a heck of a lot of trouble. I got over my tantrum and drove to the boy I'm tutoring in French's house. Later on, I met up with Coffee Bean and we walked a good three hours around the mall.

My calves didn't hurt so much, nor did my ankle. But by the end of the night, it had enlarged into a bump that was the size of Alaska.

Thankfully, I can still walk normally.

I had been wondering if all of these bodily injuries were just an unfortunate coincidence. This morning, however, I now believe that something bigger is at stake. Call me crazy, but I suspect that the factor behind all of my misfortunes is the Fat in my body.

You see, the Fat that has comfortably resided in some rather unsightly areas now feels threatened by the sudden increase of physical activity. It is alarmed by the rate at which it is slowly disappearing from my being and fears eternal banishment from my thighs, behind and upper arms. So, in an effort to retain its idle status quo, it has become the ringleader of a bodily strike that will prevent me from losing weight. The Fat has recruited the calves and the ankle as its cronies.

Screw you, Fat. You're not gonna win this time. I'm getting rid of you if its the last thing I do.

Barb the French Bean