French Internet Ads: The Ironic Edition

Hi. If you are new to this blog, allow me to give you a very warm welcome to Two Beans or Not Two Beans and to the very first blog post of 2013.

(If you aren't new to this blog, welcome back. I do ask that you please bear with me for a few paragraphs here. The funny stuff will eventually appear.)

I felt that if I wanted this blog post to make any ironic sense, I would need to explain to you all my personal back story. So, here it goes:

I am an American citizen, a common fate that falls upon those who so happen to be born in Union City, New Jersey a little over 25 years ago. I didn't grow up in New Jersey. Yea, at the tender age of five years old, my family decided that it would be beneficial to my education to move to the glorious city of Miami, Florida. My education benefited, but a love of Combos, Hershey's chocolate bars and McDonald's combined with Miami's pedestrian unfriendliness certainly had a detrimental effect on my waistline.

High school came along and thanks to my perseverance and hard work, I obtained a scholarship that paid for most of my university education. Not only did I study as a full-time Literature major with a French minor student, I also worked for three unforgettable years in a law office until I was laid-off due to the economic housing crisis of 2008.

Prior to said lay-off, I took a two-week vacation to France in late April/early May that same year. It was a trip of lifetime, one that had been in the making since I took French as a foreign language elective in middle school back in seventh grade and high school. In my inexperienced mind, just being able to visit France would somehow mark me with a sense of accomplishment, the achievement of managing to follow through with a dream.

Little did I know that those two weeks would change me forever. For the first time in my life, quite inexplicably, I felt a sense of being and belonging. I fell absolutely and irrevocably in love with the country. France beckoned me.

I wanted to move there. Permanently.

In 2009, amid shuffling from one hourly-paying temporary job to the next in Miami, I got the chance to work as an English Teaching Assistant for two years in Dijon, France. I thought then that I would be at my happiest to remain in Dijon. Alas, as with most contractual jobs, it didn't last long. I faced returning back to Miami and kissing good-bye my heartbroken starry-eyed hope.

I wasn't too worried about the prospect of finding another job in Miami. After all, it is a large, tourist town that is always in need of highly-skilled, hard-working and intelligent people. Without sounding too pigheaded, I wagered that I easily met the requirements: I'm tri-lingual, I have a (albeit somewhat laughable) college degree, and I have six years of total work experience ranging from secretarial duties to legal knowledge to pedagogic knack.

Those skills weren't good enough with Miami's lagging job market. Almost no companies were offering full-time positions, and the ones that were simply required too much qualifications or expectations of their potential candidates. (Hell, I couldn't even get a job in a crappy, two-rate casino if I wanted.)

Weeks passed. I found myself unemployed for three months. Then four months. Then half a year. Then an entire year had gone by in which I was led on a handful of fruitless wild goose chases searching for any job. To make matters personally direful, I kept reminiscing of "the good ol' days" back in France. Rage seethed deep within my being. Why, oh why, couldn't I have obtained a job that would have let me remain there???

Then, last July, an answer came. I was offered a job to return to France. I would teach in an agricultural high school. After a year and three months of unemployment and feeling that no one in Miami recognized my potential, I accepted the position. And I moved back to France.

TL;DR version: quit being a lazy bum and read. Not every bit of information can get handed to you on a literary concise silver platter.

I've been happily living in Sablé-sur-Sarthe for almost five months now, and I have been gradually getting into the rhythm of my new job and new life, such as knowing when the local supermarket closes (7:30 p.m. Monday-Thursday and Saturday; it stays open until 8 p.m. on Fridays. Eight. Pee. Emm. Ooh, that's late!).

And living abroad in France means that I will naturally be using French internet, which indicates that any annoying ads that are displayed on various websites will be marketing stuff to the French. Bien sûr.

Yet a few of these ads have certainly struck a chord in me. 13 advertisements, to be exact. While I have gotten used to seeing mini-ads for French McDonald's for something laughably called "Bagel Stories"...

What's more Kosher than a bagel cheeseburger with bacon?

...I'll admit that I couldn't help but feel uncomfortably odd when I saw the slew of ads for the French to apply for an American green card so they could have the opportunity to move and find a job in the United States.

Exhibit A:

You only have 29 days to come inside now, American.

Exhibit B:

"Do you already have your American passport?" Yep. I'm fairly certain I have that safely covered.

Exhibit C:

You only have 10 days left to board your plane back to the U.S., American.

Exhibit D:

"Rapid Special: you can register for the Green Card program to live and work in the USA. DON'TMISSYOURCHANCE." (See? I'm a busy businessman busily pointing at my busy wristwatch. In fact, I'm so busy that I can't even remember to press the space bar between certain words, but who has time to do that? BTW, how do you like my backwards photoshopped Old Glory? Pretty swanky, huh?)

And continuing with the time theme, Exhibit E:

"Time's passing by/running out. Click here to register for the American Green Card Lottery. " It's like running a marathon! And look! The flag is facing the right way this time!

Exhibit F:

Oh, so you don't like ads with the American flag? Fine. Here's one without the red, white and blue theme.

Exhibit G:

Actually, never mind. A green card ad without the Americana theme is pretty lame. Here's your chance to upload your  photo for your "green card" (yes, in quotation marks/inverted commas). By the way, you only have until October 2012 to upload your photo for your "green card."

Exhibit H:

The other airplane ad only gave you ten days to board the plane. We give you 13 days!  THIRTEEN DAYS. Oh emm gee.

 Exhibit I:

And if you don't board a plane, you'll get TWENTY DAYS to register! Do it before it's too late! (And, yeah, ignore the fact that we didn't include an American flag in this ad. Shut up.)

 Exhibit J:

"Are you looking for a job? Win a Green Card to work in the United States!" Approved by happy office workers everywhere! (Gee, and to think that I spent a year and three months unemployed back home. Had I known that all I needed was a green card, I would have applied for one ages ago.)

 Exhibit K:

"Haven't you ever dreamt of celebrating the 4th of July with US all?" (I'll admit that this particular ad wasn't too badly done, but it doesn't even mention the "green card" explicitly.)

Exhibit L:

Oddly enough, this ad was in English. However, unlike the airplane ads in French which gave you ample time,  you only get 23 hours to register. Huh. 

And finally, Exhibit M:

"Opened louse a better future." Yes. Louse. I suspect that this ad meant to say "ouverte pouR" (opened for), but once you drop off the "R" in "pour," the word changes to "louse." Either way, opening a louse for any reason sounds drastically nasty.

 Well, there you have it. I, an American citizen, can apply for a "green card" so I can return to the U.S. and find a job. Or I could stay in France with the job I currently have.

But fear not, my friends. In case neither situation works out for me, I have a potential third option:

"Become a Canadian citizen" It doesn't mention anything about actually moving to and working in Canada, though. Just become a citizen. 

Barb the French Bean

Reflections on My First Year of Teaching in France: A Long, Long Day

I have experienced yet another agricultural idiosyncrasy in my life here in Sablé-sur-Sarthe: having a student stab himself in the foot with a pitchfork is considered a "normal accident" in my school.

The Christmas vacation is fast approaching, just like the "entretiens avec les parents," the parent-teacher conferences that I was expected to participate in. As a teacher, it is my duty to have face-to-face interaction at the end of each trimester.

Before that was to occur, I spent the rest of my week still working through my strained vocal chords and fluctuating between coughing and hacking. In fact, I spent the whole week pivoting between working hard and catching 1-hour cat naps between teaching and planning lessons. Waking up to a damp pool of saliva that had formed on my pillow has been only clue that I may have gotten any rest. As each day passed, bringing with it tallied insomnia, a drudging fatigue affected every one of my actions.

Panic increased as Friday, the day of the parent-teacher conferences, loomed ahead.

Today, I woke up, started teaching at 8:35 (as I customarily do) and worked through four lessons until it was time for the lunch break. The class right before lunch, with their incessant talking, disrespect, and haughty remarks, proved to be trying. I normally don't let bad behavior get the best of me, but once class was over, I snapped. The lack of sleep, the effort put into planning lessons and the weight of feeling unappreciated by a bunch of talkative ingrates proved too much. I rushed to the teacher's lounge and bawled my eyes out.

I had lunch and felt better.

I went back to work and taught two more lessons. For the sixth lesson, a Spanish class, I introduced food vocabulary and presented them with information about Spanish cuisine, la comida española. It got my kids excited and got them talking about how they've eaten paella, gazpacho and tortillas. We worked on saying whether or not you like something.

"Me gusta el gazpacho."  "No me gusta la paella."  "Me gusta la crema catalana."

"Ah, la crema catalana looks like crème brulée!" they eagerly remarked.

Talking about food really perks the French up.

We worked on the verbs comer and beber and called it a day. Or at least it was a day for the students. I still had to deal with three hours straight of parent-teacher conferences. Each one-on-one conference lasted roughly 10 minutes at a time, and it was all in French.

With my more puerile students, I kindly, but sternly, reminded them that they needed to be a little more serious in class. After all, whatever they do today gradually leads them down a path to their futures. When the time comes for them to be adults, they will have to be ready to deal with anything, and a good education is key to being prepared to face the world.

They seemed to have taken this advice into account.

Six hours teaching (with a factored-in emotional meltdown) plus three hours of speaking in French in rapid-fire interviews meant that I was completely wrecked. All I wanted to do was to be lazy and do nothing. I finished work around seven p.m., contemplated buying a Christmas tree (decided that I would get a real one tomorrow), and felt my stomach complain for food.

I got home, reheated some leftovers, ate. Then I logged onto Facebook and began to chat with Hanny (the Coffee Bean). We needed to catch up on each other's lives. After my arduous and tumultuous day, it was good to have some interaction with a dear friend.

Then, at 9:52 p.m. French time, the news came.

Hanny told me that she felt sad. I asked, jokingly, if the reason for which she felt sad was actually bad-bad or if it could be eased by drinking a strong cup of coffee.

"Earlier today in Connecticut, there was a shooting at an elementary school."

What?

I searched Lemonde.fr for the story. I needed to know what had happened.

After an entire day of teaching kids and later meeting their progenitors, I couldn't fathom that across on the other side of the Atlantic, back home, this tragedy unfolded.

My thoughts immediately jumped back to my students and how I would feel if something like that happened to them. My blood froze. I see their faces all the time. They look to me, ME, for knowledge and advice. They are curious. They think. They ask questions. They have their futures ahead of them.

They are alive.  What if their lives were ruthlessly cut short, their futures tapered by one sudden act of senseless violence?

I began to tremble violently over the thought of it. I still can't wrap my head around this. I can't fathom it, seeing something like that happen to my students. Having to see the parents I met this afternoon grief-stricken over their loss. For the second time in the same day, my eyes watered.

Like any good American, I looked to my President for words of comfort.



I also prayed a bit. Prayer helps to soothe the soul.

I only wish coffee could help.

Barb the French Bean

France in Real Time: the 2012 American Election and Some Subdued Reflections

The time is currently 3:51 a.m., meaning that it is 9:51 p.m. back home in Miami.

Tonight, or rather, very early morning, I sit in my room and watch the live coverage that Le Monde is holding for this special occasion of watching a foreign nation elect their head of state. They have called it La Nuit Américaine, the American night.

As far as the candidates go, and the news coverage that goes with it, there is no question that the French favor the democratic candidate, President Barack Obama. His last name is always pronounced with a stress on the last syllable, his first name cut with the uvular purr that I spent years trying to master: Bah-RACK O-ba-MA. They keep pronouncing his name with excitement.

Or the joyful tone could be from insanity-induced fatigue. It's a toss-up at this point.

Based on the conversations I've had with my work colleagues, the opposing candidate is viewed as a loon, a laughingstock and a dangerous man. These co-workers of mine are curious to see if President Obama will maintain his post as leader of a nation that is a close ally. The newscasters also keep talking about les grands electeurs as if they were a broken record.

Politics aside, I have to say how...floored I am by the impression that, truly, all eyes are on my country. Even while talking about my adopted home state of Florida, the newscasters reported, with feverish awe, the ebb and flow of seeing the hue splayed on the map wash from a rusty salmon to a calming blue. These French analysts even discussed how Mitt Romney (Meet Rom-NAY) tried to "seduce" the Hispanic community in South Florida. Oh, yes. The word used was séduire, seduce!

Sometimes I am seduced by the charming effect the English language has whenever its directly translated from French. That's quelled whenever I grade my students' papers...

I never imagined that I would spend my second presidential election from abroad. Here, in Sablé-sur-Sarthe's poignant calm and ink-black countryside skies, nearly 9,000 km/5,000 miles away from all that is dear and familiar to me in Miami, I am reminded of who I am and from where I come.  It's glaringly certain this moment: Je suis une Américaine et je viens des États-Unis. 

This is my flag. It hangs in my room. When I look at it, I can see the bald eagles soar, fireworks explode in a scintillating wave, and barbecues fire up with real burgers and hotdogs. 

And my country has every four years a very important day to shoulder, not only for the people living within its cherished borders, but also for those who watch intently, tensely, to discover the news that will be revealed within less than one hour. May the grands electeurs choose the right candidate as chosen by the people/the popular vote.

The time is 10:42. Somebody is singing the National Anthem, and the French newscasters have commented on how joyous the ambiance is with the Obama camp. Romney's camp is "un petit plus calme."

And now they are talking about voting machines that have been potentially rigged???

4h58: I think I'm going to keep eating my alcoholic chocolates.They're yummy, especially the Calvados and Kirsch ones.

Post edited to include a photo of said chocolates

The Pastis ones aren't too bad. The Cognac are a bit hard to swallow. And I'm saving the Champagne chocolates for the end of the night/beginning of the morning!

5h: They are re-playing a clip of the lady who sang the National Anthem.

Cinq heures du matin, people!!!

5h02: Florida is pretty close for either party...

5h03: Yep. They are repeating the fact that Miami has a lot of Latinos.

5h04: People are cheering! What the heck is going on with la foule qui hurle?

5h05: Dang. They are treating this like the World Cup.

5h06: Wait. Is the pronunciation Meet Rom-NAY or Meet Rom-NIE? Oh, French accents...

5h07: "Le suspense dura jusqu'au bout!" @_@

5h10: I wonder if it's too late to start an alcoholic chocolate game. Everytime the French newscasters mention La Floride ou l'Iowa, I'll eat a chocolate.

5h11: People are cheering again! And La Floride was mentioned twice. Ugggghhhh...Cognac chocolate it is!

5h13: Non, connards, stop talking about LA FLORIDE!!! I'm running out of chocolates!!!

5h14: More cheering!

5h15: The French newscasters are stunned at how much the Americans are cheering before the results are in.

5h15-16: Oh, that poor reporter who is reporting live looks very peeved off at all the cheering.

5h17: 274 grands electeurs pour Bah-RACK O-ba-MA. Ça y est. C'est fini. And the crowd goes wild en direct. 

5h40: I just realized that the French pronounce Barack as the word "baraque," which means "shack" or "dump."

Barb the French Bean