Side effects
Being a French expatriate has done the following things to me:
*Cemented my inner stubborn and indignant on particular issues (familiarity, health care, Southern Hemisphere seasons to name a few)
*Made me pine for the map of France when watching the weather forecast
*Introduced me to Conan O’Brien, David Letterman, and other Christian favourites that I can now share with him (also introduced me to Oprah – whose existence I was not aware of before then – and just to clear things up, not a Christian favourite)
*Made me feel like I discover treasure every time I hear French spoken, or rediscover an expression I have not used in a while
*Made me realise direct translations from French, as well as gestures, are not always understood
*Made me develop a love for all these kitschy stereotypical things – like that pop-up accordéon postcard and anything in the shape of the Eiffel tower
About that last point: I am actually very restrained and never buy the kitschy things I lust after. It may have something to do with the slight inner shame I feel about it…
Longing
Me: It is starting to hurt my spirit.
Christian: The lack of neo-classical buildings in Melbourne?
Me: Yes.
On disinfectant
There have been many things to adapt to for me since moving from France to Australia, and this is the beginning of an attempt to explain.
Some things are strange when you live in a different country than your own. Like what people use to disinfect wounds. Or what they don’t use. And how they look at you when you ask for what they don’t use (but what is traditionally used in France).
Take the first time I asked for 70% alcohol in a pharmacy: I was looked at with a mixture of bewilderment and suspicion. It turns out 70% (or 90%) alcohol cannot be gotten here.
I felt like saying ‘What lady, do you think I’m going to drink it?’, but I thought she might take this as an admission of guilt so I decided to keep my mouth shut*.
Except now, I have a contact: a French chemist who relates because she’s been given the same response (and look). We didn’t just bond over our nationality, but also our love for disinfecting wounds with virtually pure alcohol. And since she’s connected and she can get the stuff, she gave me a small bottle of it. Yay!!
I am almost looking forward to having a wound to disinfect… Take that Dettol.
*I really don’t drink it. I use it as a disinfectant.
How to tell if you’re French
There have been many things to adapt to for me since moving from France to Australia, and this is the beginning of an attempt to explain.
Since moving to Melbourne I have noticed some interesting things about me. Namely, that I am more French than I ever realised.
Which sounds silly since I very much knew I was French before moving here. But what I didn’t realise was how much it was at the very core of my person, this Frenchness. I have just made up a word (according to spellcheck at least) but it is the best way I can describe it. It’s not patriotism (or not completely), it’s not arrogance (again, not completely), it’s something else and it makes me well, me. A 30 year old French girl with a name I have to spell a lot.
Some books may have been written on the subject (some of them making me very angry indeed, but that’s a story for another time), but ‘How to tell if you’re French‘ has to be the most accurate and funny account of ‘Frenchness’ I have read in a while. Read it and tell me if you are more French than you thought.
That is a very skilled little dog
There have been many things to adapt to for me since moving from France to Australia, and this is the beginning of an attempt to explain.
Sometimes I say things to my delicious Christian that are perfectly natural to me (direct translations from French or even French words when I don’t find an equivalent) – and find out very quickly if they don’t make any sense.
Our little dog Mira does this adorable thing when she’s excited: she does little jumps while spinning 360º. One day I observed, got amused (and melted a little on the inside), turned to Christian and said: ‘Oh look! She’s doing a little tourniquet!’.
He blinked. Several times. Then: ‘She truly is a very skilled little dog, if she can do that kind of medical procedure.’
Turns out, when you English speakers use the word you mean bandaging to stop bleeding*. Not quite what I was trying to say. Or what Mira was actually doing. But now Christian and I are on the same page. So when I say ‘tourniquet’, he doesn’t blink anymore.
*The word in French can also mean that, but it’s not its primary meaning. Think turnstile in the Parisian métro that spins and lets people through one by one. That’s what I was going for.
The contentious issue of finger counting
There have been many things to adapt to for me since moving from France to Australia, and this is the beginning of an attempt to explain.
So this is apparently a cultural thing: I start with the thumb when I count on my fingers, which Christian thinks is an abomination. This image on the right supports my worldview, but not my husband. When I show him my hand with fingers folded to indicate a number, he tells the number back to me minus the thumb. Always. So our exchanges go like this:
Christian: ‘How many?’
Me: showing thumb, index and middle finger (which equals 3 if you’re with me).
Christian: ’2 then.’
Me: ‘No! 3!’
Christian (grinning): ‘Ok, 2.’
I refuse to concede and so does he so on it goes, for quite a while. Each and every time we finger count.
(Image is from here).
Handy kids – not
‘Most Australian kids are pretty handy. There’s something about French children that makes them not know which is the right end of a screwdriver.’
Christian
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