French-Time: A Guide to Dealing with the Subleties of the French Timetable

In the past, I have dedicated a post to discussing what "Cuban-time" entails. This cultural analysis was only a warm-up aimed at the task of deciphering the rhythm of French life.

While living in France has its undeniable advantages, it's not all fun and games for any new Expat flung into the throws of this sometimes confusing culture.

*BADUM-PSSH* (Seriously, though, wine is said to be reserved for lunch and dinner to complement the meal. Drinking wine outside of those hours makes you look like an alcoholic.)

The general unspoken rules involved in what I call French-time can have some rather elusive features. However, thanks to sheer cultural immersion, I have through my observations learned the slew of nuances involved in French-time.

Throughout this post, I will make use of several acronyms, because that is the French way.

Let's start off with the most obvious of them all: "Bonjour-Time."

1) Bonjour-Time* (BT): The small window between 00.001 and 2 seconds it takes for you to establish the vital greeting with a person from whom a particular service** is or may be expected (bus drivers, store clerks, cashiers, SNCF workers), acquaintances or friends**.

Failure to act within this brief time frame may result with the interacting French person to exhibit a silent, glacial glare or to state an ironic reprimand of how polite you are. 

2) Au Revoir-Time (ART): It must be enacted at all costs, preferably 3 seconds prior to leaving the premises. May be used, at a bare minimum, 00.001 second before exiting through the door.

The punishment for neglecting ART will result with you being shamed from ever showing your face again. For, lo, the French have a rather impressive talent for remembering every single person who has slighted them for not engaging in BT and ART.

3) New Year Greeting-Time (NYGT): the crucial moment in which you wish your friends, family, work colleagues, potential lover, boss and pet goldfish "Bonne année!" the first time you encounter or communicate with them within the new year. This window of greeting is understood to occur during the month of January yet may extend well into February.

The faux pas of failing to enact on this expected duty will result in ostracism, broken friendships and lots of finger pointing at the village idiot (you).

4) Apéro-Time (AT); The thirty to sixty minutes before dinner in which it is acceptable to have an alcoholic beverage and snack foods. Usually better if done in the company of friends and family at the end of DPT. Otherwise, it's just a little sad to be having a conversation about existentialism by yourself.

5) Dinner Party-Time (DPT): Guests are promptly expected to arrive a minimum of fifteen minutes after the designated time. Try to avoid arriving early or on time lest the dinner host happens to not be French. AT will take place shortly upon arrival.

6) Coffee Break-Time (CBT): occurs in two or three intervals throughout the day (10 a.m., after lunch and 4 p.m.). CBT may also finalize a wonderful session started by DPT.

7) SNCF-Time (SNCFT)***: The fifteen to twenty minutes it takes for the electronic boards to display the train's track number.

8) Strike Season (SS): The period between September 1st to July 31st in which French unionists become disgruntled with government/company policies and remind them who's in charge by disrupting or withholding crucial societal functions (transportation, education, distribution of pharmaceutical goods).

"Pharmacy on strike." I can't make this stuff up. 

9) Off-Strike Season (OSS), a.k.a. Les Vacances: The period between August 1st to August 31st in which no-one bothers to go on strike because the weather is too nice.

*The same standard applies to Bonsoir-Time (not to be confused with BT) should you need to greet the French person within the evening hours.

**As a general rule, you only need to use BT once throughout the day, especially with colleagues. Repetition of BT will garner a series of funny, wide-eyed looks in which your fellow Frenchies will wonder if you are being rude, if you are unfortunate to have short-term memory because you forget that you already saw them, or, at a push, are irreparably brain damaged. 

If, by some reason, there is a situation which requires you to return to see a particular person after you've applied ART, the phrase "Re-bonjour" may be used. 

***Delays or abrupt cancellations with SNCFT are to be expected as the majority of the train schedules coincide with SS. 

Learning this guideline by heart will make your way of navigating through the cultural minefield of faux pas a little bit easier. 

Barb the French Bean

Last-Minute Costume Ideas

Need some costume ideas this Halloween? Are you in a panic to find a cheap, affordable, inexpensive, shoddy, half-assed, borderline offensive costume? Well, you've come to the right place!

1) Stereotypical Frenchie/Insert Nationality You Wish to Insult
Go to your local Forever 21/H&M/Marshalls/whatever cheap clothing store is nearby and buy a striped shirt and beret. Go to a bakery and buy a baguette. Carry the baguette as a prop.

If you are in France, merely recycle clothes from your closet and use the half-eaten bit of baguette that is still lingering from lunchtime.

(Yes, I am being sarcastic.)

Nota bene: this costume is probably not that good of an idea if you are in France, as it would merely look as if you are just walking home from the boulangerie sporting a simple marinière and, for some quirky reason, a beret.

For those of you with a bigger budget who want to poke fun at us Americans, you have two Stereotypical American options: the Country/Cowboy toting a (hopefully) fake gun, or the poorly-dressed "People of Wal-Mart"-esque American clutching for dear life to a greasy McDonald's bag (with Diet Coke) and riding an obesity scooter while holding a 'Murica #1 foam finger. The obesity scooter may be fashioned out of a bike and some painted cardboard boxes. Fat suit may or may not be required.

2) Mummy
Use white toilet paper to fashion a shirt and a pair of trousers for the mummy's bandages.

Warning: While white toilet paper is available, be careful using French toilet paper as it comes in shades of pink, blue, yellow, lavender and orange. These colors may prove inadequate to fabricate a mummy costume.

Be jealous of my pink toilet paper. (It was orange last week.)

On the other hand, you could potentially use the different colored toilet paper to be a gay-friendly Mummy.


3) Fumbling 20-Something Who Has No Idea What to Do with His/Her Life

Wait. That may not be an actual costume. Skip this option.


4) A SWAG-YOLO Bro

The clothing choices required are enough to scare anybody: wife-beater, '80s-style sneakers and an awkwardly-perched baseball cap with the not-removed shiny stickers are a must. Don't forget to accessorize with some fake tan, bling and those weird shutter sunglasses that probably only exist to impair your vision while giving your face the oddest tan lines ever.

This costume will prove to be highly-effective among your Hipster friends who know you are ironically donning the SWAG-YOLO Bro look for personal amusement.


5) Hipster

This costume will prove to be highly-effective among your SWAG-YOLO Bro friends who know you are ironically donning the Hipster look for personal amusement.

Get a haphazard variety of clothes from a local Goodwill/Salvation Army. Or, at a push, steal the clothes off a homeless man's/Hipster's back for a more authentic costume. Don't forget to accessorize with dyed hair (preferably an unnatural color), a handlebar mustache and pair of black, nerdy horn-rimmed glasses that you would have never, ever dreamt of wearing twenty years ago for the fear of oncoming ridicule by your peers.

6) Zombie

Stay up the night before getting absolutely blind drunk. Walk around the whole day plastered with a murderous hangover that renders you incapable of processing any cognitive thought and keeps you in a moribund, yet somehow still functioning, state. Accessorize with fake blood and a plastic severed limb.

I feel that I must stress the fake blood and the plastic severed limb part of the costume lest you want to actually kill someone simply for talking to you.


7) Nothing

For those of you who really can't be bothered to dress up at all but would still like to update the social media, upload a childhood photograph of yourself in a costume.

The more embarrassing, the better.

Here's a picture of Bibi (Yours Truly) wearing a pumpkin costume accessorized with a pumpkin treat bucket. This photograph documents the origins of my hatred for hermetically-sealed furniture. Thank God the trend to wrap sofas in plastic went the way of the crimped, high-volume hairdo. (New Jersey, circa late 1989)

Bonne chance with the costume preparation.

Happy Halloween,
Barb the French Bean

Good-bye, Neigh-bors (An Abrupt Alteration)

My personal life has gone through a significant change within the past week: I am no longer living in Sablé-sur-Sarthe.

I have said good-bye to this:

The Neigh-bors had a kid

And openly greeted the Plantagenêt Cité in Le Mans on Friday July 4th. The decision to move was coordinated on Wednesday July 2nd. Le Mans may only be 40 kilometers away from Sablé, but it is worlds apart.

The Saint Julien Cathedral is Le Mans' shining architectural glory

Le Mans, home of the 24 Hours of Le Mans

After two years of being surrounded by cornfields and horses, I had forgotten how noisy bustling cities can be. While I do find myself at times missing the peace and quiet of the countryside, the adjustment to having an efficient, reliable public transportation system with frequent buses and trams and to seeing people my own age makes the transition much smoother.

Plus, seeing this store whenever I walk home never fails to coax a smile across my lips.

Barb the French Bean

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.


**********************************************************
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 Famous French Paperwork: Exchanging a Foreign Drivers Licence to a French One (and a Warning)

Those who are fortunate enough to lead blissful lives of never having to encounter French documentation are probably unaware that any paperwork procedure over here requires a growing pile of photocopies, passport-sized photographs, several envelopes, stamps, blood, urine and stool samples, digital eye scans, swearing over your first-born child (with multiple passport-sized photos of said child), even, on occasion, selling your soul to the Devil. All of this documentation will take a minimum of six to eight weeks to process, if not longer.

I've been here nearly four years now and have the worker visas and medical visits to prove it. In those four years, I've also lived a very car-less existence, relying on public transportation, trains or even my own two feet to travel anywhere. I can certainly expound on the pros of not owning a car: not having to make any monthly payments on a loan, not having to worry about it breaking down and taking it to a mechanic for maintenance or repairs, and not having to pay for gas/petrol.

That being said, as a 27-year-old craving some more independence to be able to travel, I am beginning to seriously consider burdening myself with owning a car in France. I still have my old car in Miami, which I use whenever I visit my mother for a few weeks every year, and truth be told, I relish those days when I have my own car.

It all started when I went to my bank to see if I could be approved for a loan to purchase my own car. I figured that with my American (Floridian) drivers licence and the International Drivers Permit, I could at least be able to invest in a vehicle of my own. My bank approved the car loan which also included insurance on any vehicle I wanted to own.

But then came the hitch: "Do you have a French drivers licence?" I answered that I did not have the infamous pink paper known as the permis de conduire, only my Floridian one with the International Drivers Permit.

"We can only provide insurance on the car if you have a French drivers licence."

"Ah."

"And if your car doesn't have insurance, you might as well not have the car at all."

"Of course."

Slightly deflated, I then asked my bank clerk what I would have to do to obtain a French drivers licence and was informed that any questions regarding exchanging a foreign licence to a French one would require visiting the Préfecture. I'm perfectly familiar with having to visit the Préfecture. I even did so last summer when I had to renew my working permit visa in Le Mans.

However, for me, going to the Préfecture in Le Mans means taking a train. So, I took a train, went to Le Mans, made a beeline for the Préfecture and took a number. Once it was my turn to be attended, I walked to the friendly Préfecture worker who asked me questions about my licence.

"What country does it come from?"

"The United States."

"Ah, which state in the United States?"

"Florida."

"Okay. I have to verify if Floridian licences are valid for the exchange. Some states are allowed and others are not."

Uh-oh, I thought. Could they know that I passed my drivers exam with a car with automatic transmission instead of stick shift? Would that discredit my licence? My heart thumped harder in my chest. The clerk typed the information on the keyboard and I held my breath for the verdict.

"Okay, it's good. Florida qualifies for the exchange."

I sighed with relief. The interview continued.

"Are you a student here in France?"

"No, actually, I work here."

"Have you been here for at least six months?"

"More than that. I've been here for almost four years."

The smile fell from her face.

"So, you've renewed your visa in the past?"

"Yes."

"Four times?"

"Yes..."

That's when the first bad news came.

"I see. You were supposed to have made the drivers licence exchange within your first year of living in France. After that, your licence is no longer valid."

I only wish I could have had a camera capture the stunned look on my face.

"What?"

"You needed to have made the transfer during your first year in France. You've been living here too long as a worker to have the process be done."

"Ah."

"A couple of exceptions would have been that you were here as a student or that you were a French person with a foreign licence. But you've been working here for more than a year. Therefore, the exchange cannot be done."

"Ah."

"Didn't anybody tell you this?"

OBVIOUSLY FUCKIN' NOT, my brain screamed. Because when you first arrive to France in CDG-Roissy Airport, the first question you're asked by the passport control officer isn't "Are you planning to remain in France for more than a year and, if so, are you going to drive a car?" 

I figured a sardonic remark would have worked against me in the situation and instead replied with  "No, no one told me of this. I didn't know about this!"

"Well, in order to get a French licence, first you'll have to pass the code and eventually the road test. The good thing is that since you have a previous licence, you don't have to do the compulsory twenty hours of driving school."

Oh, joy.

As an added note of irony, I have to point out that I have always been curious to see what it must be like to go through the whole process of getting a French drivers licence and learning the exam questions. Now I've got no choice but to do so.

I wasn't going to let this bad news get me down.

"I see. Well, at least I have the International Permit with me, so in case I need to drive--"

"Oh, no," the clerk cut. "Your licence became invalid after the first year. That means that you cannot drive in France with it. At all."

"Ah."

"And if you were to do so, you'd be breaking the law."

I died a little inside after being informed that my perfectly good forty-eight dollar rectangular piece of plastic acquired from the DMV had been rendered absolutely useless. I may not have had the opportunity to use it, but I liked at least knowing that I could count on it when the time to drive with it came.

"Ah. Well, it's lucky for me that I don't own a car nor that I have driven in France with it."

As it is, no thanks to sheer ignorance, I am faced with having to do the whole process from scratch. Looking at the bright side, at least this means that I will be very well-versed in French driving rules and will become even more integrated into the culture once I obtain my licence.

In the meantime, my dreams of getting a car are on hold and I will have to keep using the buses, trains and my own two feet.

Or maybe I should just get a pimpin' Dutch bike and call it a day.

So, to any recently-arrived foreigners who plan to remain in France for more than a year, think about getting your drivers licence exchanged within the first year of your stay. Don't let the same thing that happened to me happen to you.

Bonne chance.

Barb the French Bean

Working with Brain Minions in Language Learning Land

A fair warning: today's post features some rather colorful language. Read at your own risk.


Back when I was a middle school and high school student, I often heard my fellow classmates complain about how utterly pointless it was to even bother learning a foreign language and that the subject's sole purpose for existence was to give employment options to the optimistically deluded individuals known as "teachers." I was quick to point out to my classmates that their reasoning was unjust and simply not true. Taking a foreign language class surely had other virtues.

"Oh, you're right, Barbara. It isn't just about giving jobs to teachers; it's also about fulfilling the foreign language requirement to get a high school diploma. All this work for a damn piece of paper..."

"No, no, no! Guys, learning another language is great!" I expounded to these misguided teenagers. "You get to experience and learn about another culture from its grammar and ways of being. Plus, what if you travel abroad? Being able to speak another language other than English might prove to be helpful."

At which point, said classmates would demonstrate their unanimous agreement with my argument by rolling their eyes and yawning in my face. Years later, though, I am indeed very, very happy to have to have stuck by my principle of paying attention in French class because I found myself in the odd position of packing my bags to become an optimistically deluded individual in France.

While learning a language other than the native one you speak can be a fulfilling goal, at times, I think that language acquisition and cultural immersion should come with either a disclaimer, or a cautionary sticker or a warning label directed at those who embark on such an adventure, preferably found as a sign when you cross into another country's border.

The confusions that arise on a day-to-day basis would be enough to drive any expat insane, and this is ever the case regarding conversational exchanges. The expat or foreign speaker will think about what their want or need is in their native tongue, take a moment to translate it in the language-translation area of their brain, let the synapses process the meaning, let said words travel towards the mouth, and then finalize the journey by expressing what was on their mind to the native language interlocutor.

That action alone is a hazard for what is thought in the mind can occasionally be warped: crucial words go missing, grammar tenses and syntax become skewed, syllabic mispronunciations result in incomprehensible misunderstandings.

A recent example happened when some visiting friends of mine and I placed some orders for three coffees in a café only to then change one of the beverages for a bottle of water because my gal pal needed to quench her thirst.

Waitress: "So, do you still want the three coffees?"

Me: "Actually, it'll just be two coffees now and one bottle of water because my friend is in heat."

I had meant to say that my friend was "hot" (elle a chaud) and yet, in the Language Learning Center of my brain, my nearly 10 years of speaking French went out the window when I mistakenly said that she was "en chaleur." I noticed my error instantly and sputtered the correct words, but it was too late. The damage had been done and the waitress was chuckling at my basic A1 level French.

While I was still beating myself up about this incident, I began to wonder: why do these mistakes happen? Or, rather, what causes them to occur?

My theory is this: tiny, hardworking minions who reside in the brain are solely in charge of making sure that messages make it out of my mouth, and these minions, like all living creatures, sometimes make the mistakes which lead to misunderstandings.

I would image that the process of cooperating with minions goes like so. My body is presented with a stimulus and has to have a verbal reaction to it.

(This is an actual song, one which I had caught my students "singing.")

French mistake to NEVER make: "baisser" means "to lower," whereas "baiser" means "to fuck." 

However, if used as a noun, "un baiser" means "a kiss." Yet the proper verb that means "to kiss" is "embrasser." Be careful if you kiss someone and then proudly proclaim "je l'ai baisé" to your friends...

I'm not angry with my brain minion team, but they have instigated some unfortunate incidents during my time in Language Learning Land.

To any expats who may read this: Don't worry or beat yourself up. Whatever throngs you've faced in Language Learning Land, just remember to enjoy the stay.*

*Results and experiences may vary.


Barb the French Bean