Things I've Learned While Abroad: T.V. Watching

In the past four years living my French life, I discovered over time one rather life-changing epiphany: I don't need a television to be happy.

Yes, from being absolutely broke living on my own with no space having access to the Internet/buying DVDs to get my T.V. watching fixes changing one country for another, I have since learned that I can dedicate my valuable free time for other lofty activities such as cooking, exercising and browsing the Internet for hours on end.

Still, on the rare occasion in which I do have access to a television set, be it from visiting friends or staying at a hotel room, I've noticed that, for some reason, American T.V. shows are very popular in France provided they are dubbed, and it seems that the homegrown French programming is limited to French "Dancing with the Stars," French "Master Chef," French "The Voice," and French "Un Dîner Presque Parfait."

Oh, wait. That last one is probably 100% French.

From what I have noticed, it seems that as far as French programming goes, the most popular or memorable "shows" appear in the evenings as short sketch comedies that are meant to take up space before the major dubbed American ones and the eight o'clock weather forecast are aired. Sketch shows such as the famous Un Gars, Une Fille, Very Bad Blagues,




and Scènes de Ménages (which  I discovered is also available in a Dutch version called "Ik ook van jou") are often the highlight of French T.V. watching.


There is also a brief, nightly political "news" show featuring rubber puppets mocking French politicians and world leaders (Guignols de l'info). I do believe this is similar to the British "Spitting Image."





The French also have their histrionic soap operas (Plus belle la vie, which I once mistakenly referred to as "Poubelle la vie" in front of my students) and mind-numbing crap reality T.V. shows (infamously, Jersey Shore-esque Les Ch'tis à Wherever the Fuck in the World  or the even more cringe-worthy Les Marseillais à Miami), but I fortunately never developed a taste for watching them. After a ten-minute bout of French reality T.V., I find myself with the need to purge the stupidities that I had placed before my eyes and gravitate to the more cultural and informative Arte channel. It's like PBS, and PBS is usually a winner.

I've also come to realize that now that my T.V.-less life provides me with a limited access to commercials, I am more tranquil and less self-conscious about my flaws regarding the forced need to purchase make-up, clothes, perfume, shoes, cars, and erectile dysfunction pills.

But I do have to say this: I like the French way of showing commercials as opposed to the American style. In France, you will more than likely watch an entire episode of NCIS without once seeing a commercial break. And when you do have commercials, they are all clumped together to be shown in one lengthy slot of time. I have to appreciate the lack of interruptions and the consideration shown from giving me a cue as to when I can take a comfortable bathroom break without needing to rush back to the couch within two minutes.

Meanwhile, I've discovered that without the commercials coming in seven-minute installments, American T.V. shows are actually quite short, particularly if it is an episode that is supposed to last at least half an hour. Really, a traditional 30-minute show just manages to graze the 20-minute mark, allowing for the remaining 10 minutes to be dedicated to advertisements.

Every time I go home for a few weeks to visit my mother, I realize how bothersome it is to enjoy anything with an important plot and subsequent climax while it is constantly cut by repetitive suggestions bombarding me to part ways with my hard-earned cash.

Allow me to demonstrate what it is like to watch a T.V. show in the United States, complete with commercial breaks.

I never did find out who Shaneequa's Raxacoricofallapatorian baby daddy was.

While I don't advocate living a T.V.-less existence for everybody, I can say that living without this one distraction has cleared up my general time and mental well-being.

Still, I do like me some Doctor Who and am still waiting for France 4 to air the last Christmas special... *bawls*

Barb the French Bean

Hard Knock Lessons: Be Careful To Whom You Wish "Happy Valentine's Day"

Let this post serve as a personal note about how you learn something new everyday.

This week has been a cultural mélange of Mardi Gras and La Saint Valentin for me, and considering that I am well into my sixth month of teaching English and Spanish in France, I simply could not pass up the opportunity to share with my students some cultural points about each holiday and how they are celebrated back home.

While researching the information for Fat Tuesday, I came upon the happy surprise that, in New Orleans, there exists a special traditional dessert called the King Cake. Now, this cake is eaten from the 6th of January up until "Carnaval," or Mardi Gras, and as an added bonus, each cake contains a tiny plastic baby. The tradition follows that the person who receives the plastic baby in his slice will have the responsibility of hosting the next King Cake party.

Now, when I discovered this new information, my Francophile synapses went into a full-blown "EUREKA!" mode. In France, there is a very similar tradition of the Galette des Rois, which is essentially a pastry filled with almond custard (la frangipane). However, unlike the King Cake that is decorated in purple, green and gold, the Galette des Rois features a small porcelain figurine called "la fève" instead of a plastic baby.

When I told my students about the plastic baby, their eyes bulged out of their heads. "Quoi?! Il y a un bébé?!"

"Yes. And unlike the Galette des Rois, the person who gets the baby doesn't get a crown."

"Quoi?!"

"Nobody gets crowned as the King or Queen."

"Oh, c'est nul, ça." (Oh, that's lame.)

The kids also got a kick out of seeing me dressed up for Mardi Gras.

Yes, here are a couple of photos for your amusement:

I decided to paint the area behind the eye slots in black. It makes the eyes pop out more.

As you can see, it honestly doesn't take much for your make-up to go from looking like Batman...

...To the Joker. ("The plan is simple: I'll grade my students' tests.")

Things got interesting with the Valentine's Day lessons.

In France, Valentine's Day is strictly associated with couples who are in love. And I do mean strictly couples. Couples only. No singletons or friends allowed.

This, of course, is a complete 180 from all that I know about the traditions that I acquired growing up in the American educational system and having my mind pounded year after year of commercials hocking expensive jewelry. I had to explain to the kids the revolutionary idea that no, Valentine's Day isn't just a highly commercialized holiday for couples; it's also a chance to show off your friendship with other people. (Nevertheless, we 'Muricans can easily spend over $17,000,000,000 on flowers, jewelry and Bedazzled Darth Vaders from Target.)

I showed them pictures of Hello Kitty, Angry Birds, Batman and Spiderman Valentines. The students replied stating that they, as French, would rather save their money than give every kid in the class a card and a small candy.

I further went into detail that in case you have a crush on someone, you can use the day as an excuse to send that special someone an anonymous card or gift. They retorted saying that they would never do that because it's very embarrassing to give a present to someone you secretly like.

Things got even more eye-bulging when I started to discuss pet names with them.

"WHAT?! You call each other 'Honey,' 'Sugar' and 'Sweetie?' That's so weird!"

Well, in my defense, they like to refer their Sweethearts, Sweetiepies, Puddin'-Pops, and Honey-Bunnies as "mon petit lapin," "my little rabbit," "mon coeur," "my heart," "mon trésor," "my treasure" and "mon chou," "my cabbage."

Yes, cabbage. Now, that is weird.

For the record, I've never had a thing for vegetables. Or fruits, for that matter. I'll make half-human, half-chocolate babies any day, though.

Of course, following through with the American friendliness, I had absolutely no qualms wishing everyone I passed a Happy Valentine's Day. I said it to my students, my work colleagues, even the cashier at the LeClerc supermarket.

What I couldn't understand was why everyone gave me odd looks whenever I greeted them and bade them a Joyeux Saint Valentin. They reacted as if I had just uttered creepily that I knew what they like to do when no one is watching them. There was a missing puzzle piece.

 Fortunately, I found that piece in the midst of a special luncheon. My dear English-speaking colleague, the one who advised me adamantly to see a doctor when I became ill last year, became the link to further comprehending the minor differences that trip up a foreigner like me.

"In France," she explained, "you wish someone a 'Happy Valentine's Day' only when they are your partner or when you are interested in them romantically."

Oh.

Well, I've probably wished a Happy Valentine's Day to over a hundred people today, so--

*brain finally takes in the weight of the situation*


Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh...


OOPS.

I...suddenly feel quite dirty. And cheap.

At least that explains why my colleague, who laughed nervously, my students, who chortled uncomfortably, and the supermarket cashier, who did a double-take, thought that I was crazy.

Lesson Learned: When in France, be careful to whom you wish "Happy Valentine's Day." Unless you want to come off as mentally unstable.

Joyeux Saint Valentin from Barb the French Bean