The Ice Cream Incident, Part Deux

Before Mrs. Boss could continue, I tried to interject. "Uh, I am very, very sorry about this. I can understand why you are so upset. It was a bad mistake, but I did think that I plugged it in, and I'll understand if you need to take the money you've lost from my wages ..." That's as far as I got. She cut me off.

"No, no, no," she said, impatiently. "I want you to go through this freezer. Take the ones like this (she held up the squooshy fruit pop I mentioned before) and put them in this trash bag. Count them. I want you to think about the damage you've caused. Throw them out when you're done counting them. The others can go back into the fridge outside, and you will take them there when you've finished with the bad ones. Put them underneath the ice creams already in there so they will have time to freeze again. I hope you understand the damage you've caused." And with that last, memorable sally, she swept out the door with Mr. Boss in front of her, and actually (and I swear to gosh this happened, I wouldn't make it up) slammed the door behind her. I stood there for a few seconds, a little breathless at what had just happened. Then I picked up the trash bag and began to count.

All told, we lost 42 ice cream bars because of my supposed screw-up. Nevermind that I very definitely plugged it in, and therefore was not really the culprit - Mrs. Boss is not inclined to hear excuses or explanations, once she has made up her mind as to what the story is. For the next few days, I let whomever I was working with plug in the damned thing every day, and I watched the outlet inside like a hawk. I walked outside to put my hand on the glass front of the fridge every half an hour or so, to make sure it was still cool. I only left off with my new obssession when I observed something very interesting. There are two outlets in the wall, you see, side by side. Mostly, people use the right-hand one to plug things in, but they both work. One day, one of my co-workers plugged in the extension cord for the ice cream freezer on the left-hand side. About twenty minutes later, Mrs. Boss came along, saw it, and unplugged it from the left, switching the extension cord to the right-hand socket. A few minutes later, I investigated. The plug wiggled in the right-hand socket ... it wasn't connected all the way. I pushed it the rest of the way in and checked the fridge - it was now humming along. I asked another co-worker if there was anything wrong with the left-hand socket. "No," she said, and we tested it with another appliance, to make sure. Interesting. Mostly because, on the day of The Incident, I saw that the plug was in the socket furthest away from me - i.e., the left-hand one. I wonder, I thought ... and then I put that thought away. Days had elapsed, The Incident was fading from Mrs. Boss' mind, and I hadn't done much of anything too dumb in the last couple of shifts.

So I let it go. Well, kinda. I'm still writing about it here, aren't I? and truthfully, though nothing else of that magnitude has happened since, there are plenty of little things that happen every day that incur Mrs. Boss' displeasure. Not just things that I do - there have been other Incidents, with other employees, where I saw them being told off right in front of everyone else ... so I guess I should be happy she at least allowed my delicate American sensibility a bit of privacy for my own dressing-down. I am not alone, that is for sure.

The few startled tears her words provoked on the day of The Incident have long since dried, and now I do my best to ignore her when she snaps about something silly. I smile a lot and concentrate on being nice to our customers. I remind myself fifty times a day that this charade ends on August 29, and that the money is needed and welcome. And mostly, I thank whatever powers there be that I am me, and not Mrs. Boss. I think I will survive.

The Disastrous Incident of the Ice Cream in the Daytime

Have you ever had a boss that you really, really disliked? Someone who made all your workdays into a sort of nightmarish odyssey that you weren't certain would ever end? I thought that I had had some pretty awful superiors, in times and jobs gone by, but I found out that I was mistaken. All my bad bosses from the past could be rolled up into one, and they wouldn't even begin to approach the unpleasantness of my current boss. I won't tell you her name; I won't even give the name of the place where I work - it's best to be somewhat circumspect about these sorts of things, don't you think? But I do need to tell you all a little about the lady who currently signs my paycheck. It's time.

I've always considered myself to be a fairly competent individual. No matter what the job was, I have, in the past, managed to learn quickly and discharge my work duties with intelligence and, yes, competence. Even though some jobs had a bit of a steep learning curve, I always was able to get into a groove with any new employer fairly easily. Until now.

At first, I thought it was a language thing. My boss speaks English to me, but I thought maybe things were getting lost in translation, because I certainly couldn't be as stupid and slow as she seemed to think (these thoughts of hers are communicated mostly via angry sighs, sullen facial expressions, and once, a stamp of her foot on the floor, accompanied by a loud, "Non!" Seriously.) Once I stopped to look around me, though, I saw that it wasn't just me getting the "you're a moron" treatment. She does it to her French employees, too.

Let me give an example of the behavior of this woman who is currently in charge of my immediate destiny. I call it "The Ice Cream Incident" in my head, and it was maybe the most unpleasant experience I've ever had at a job. If it had happened in the U.S., I would have left that day and never gone back - here, though, there are actual employment contracts for these short-time summer jobs, and I can't go anywhere, unless I get fired. In retrospect, I'm glad I stayed - things are getting slightly better - but for now, listen to this nonsense:

I work at a campground, in the reception building. There's a bar, a small grocery store with food and sundry items, and a terrace outside where folks can sit at tables and enjoy a beverage and the sunshine. We also have (as many places do, in the summertime) a big deep-freeze on wheels, filled with different types of ice cream treats. We call it "the fridge", and it stays inside the reception buidling all night, and in the morning, those of us who open up the place (that's me!) unplug it, wheel it outdoors, and plug it back in through a window, as the outlet is indoors. About a week after I started, when my co-worker and I wheeled the fridge outdoors, we saw that someone had, the day before, bored a small hole through the window frame above the area where the fridge sits outside and threaded the business end of an extension cord though it.

"That's new, " I remarked to my co-worker. (She speaks some English, too, and we converse in mostly English, with some French mixed in for good measure.)

"Oh, yes," she replied. "Go ahead and plug it in there," and so I did. She then headed indoors, to finish up, and I remained outside, straightening chairs and tables, putting up the table umbrellas, etc. When I went back in, I glanced at the wall socket and saw a plug already jacked in. Great, right? Wrong.

I finished my shift, went home, and returned the next day. My boss appeared from nowhere and made a beeline for me.

"Erin?" She met my eyes. My stomach immediately knotted up - so far, she hadn't talked to me at work, except to point out when I had done something wrong, or when I hadn't done something that apparently I was supposed to do. Completely unnerving.

"Yes?" I said, and tried out a small smile. It wasn't returned.

"Erin, when you bring the fridge outside every morning, what is the first thing you check, the first thing you must do?" She seemed oddly intense, even for her. She had been complaining the day before about the umbrella near the ice cream fridge, saying it wasn't shading it properly, so I tried that first.

"Um, make sure that the umbrella is shading the fridge?" I tried.

"No. Before that," she said.

I hoped my second try would be correct. "Well, you have to plug it in, of course," I began, and she pounced.

"Yes." Her voice was hard and steely. "Yesterday, someone (read here: YOU) forgot to plug in the fridge, and we did not notice until two o'clock. Many ice creams were melted and ruined. Please do not forget this again. You must check every morning." Her eyes were burning holes in my face. I started to stammer an explanation, an apology - actually, I don't know what I was going to say, as I felt like my bowels might explode at any moment, just from her furious stance and glare - but she cut me off. "Just remember next time." And she abruptly wheeled around and marched back to her office.

I blindly went through my morning opening routine (making double and triple sure that the fridge was frigging plugged in, you can imagine), and the day started. It was busy, people coming in all morning to buy bread, drink coffee, and ask various questions. I stayed out of my boss' way as much as possible, but was sure I could feel her contempuous gaze on me from time to time. Around eleven, things slowed down, and I settled into some cleaning duties. I had barely begun to sweep up the crumbs made by about 60 croissants and 100 baguettes, when the boss' voice came from the storage room in the back of the building.

"Erin, please come here." My stomach sank. It wasn't over.

I hied myself to the storage room to find Mrs. Boss, and her husband, Mr. Boss (they run the place together) standing there. He had a very sad, disappointed look on his face, she still looked like the wrath of God. Oh, Jesus, I thought. What now? I soon found out.

"Erin," Mrs. Boss began, still in her I'm so-angry-I-can-barely-keep-myself-from-strangling-you voice, "because you didn't plug in the fridge yesterday, we lost most of our ice creams. She yanked open the storage freezer we have back there and fished out some sort of frozen fruit bar. "Look at this!" She was dangerously close to shrieking now. She squeezed the wrapper and it was evident it was still mushy from melting the day before. "We put these into this freezer to try to save them, but most are still like this. Look at it - look at what you did!" She threw it back into the freezer. Mr. Boss looked chagrined, as well.

"It is a very bad mistake, Erin," he said, sadly and with great gravity. "A very bad mistake."

Part 2 ... next post

Riding The Line

I drive a lot these days. When I lived in Orlando, my daily commute to work was about 11 miles or so, and all of those miles were through residential/suburban/urban areas. It took me about 25 minutes or so, once I stopped at all the inevitable red lights and waited in the lines of traffic caused by said lights. Pretty run-of-the-mill, and something most Americans are familiar with on some level.

Now, my commute to and from work is a little less than 30 kilometers. Don't ask me what this translates to in miles, because the conversion ratio has never stuck in my brain, no matter how many times it is told to me, and, frankly (my dear), I don't give a damn. They use kilometers here; therefore I think in kilometers. 30 of them is not really very far away, I realize, but it is the nature of the drive that makes my daily back-and-forth seem so long and arduous.

The way to work is, first of all, on roads that are way out in the country. My village is in the least-populated section of France, and the surface roads reflect that. If the highway got me to my destination more directly, I would take that, but, unfortunately, the major tourist attraction for the area (the Gorges du Tarn, known to English-speaking peoples as 'the French Grand Canyon') is not accessible via highway. You gotta take these little itty-bitty, twisty, curvy mountain roads. The views are fantastic - I will say that. the trouble is that, if you are the driver, and you take your eyes off the road for one moment to enjoy the sweeping vistas opening in front of you, it is very possible you may find yourself suddenly approaching a hairpin turn, overcorrect, and go plummeting to the bottom of the canyon, cursing "the scenic route" all the long, long way down.

Not only do I putt-putt through kilometers of scenic beauty that makes me feel as if I live in a postcard, I also pass through some lovely farmland and pastures before I reach the mountainous region. Fields of wheat and hay and just plain old grass, picturesque with poppies blowing in the breeze, are around every bend in the road. There are horses and goats and sheep and cows all over the damn place. the smell of manure wafts in my windows on the morning breeze. (I imagine that it is sort of like this in Idaho, or maybe Montana. Has anyone ever been there?) Two mornings ago, and I kid you not, I came around a curve and had to stop for about five minutes, because an entire herd of shorn sheep were crossing the road in front of me. The herd was complete with its own barking sheepdog and craggy-faced farmer (shepherd?), who was helpfully wearing a fluorescent yellow vest (the farmer, not the dog - the dog was not wearing any sort of vest at all) to catch the eyes of any early-morning passers-by on this road in the middle of nowhere. He seemed surprised to see me, and the sight of the sheep tickled me so much I spent the entire five minutes grinning maniacally and laughing. As the last of the sheep crossed and the farmer gave me the high sign, indicating I could go, I could see that my jack-o'lantern grin was puzzling him. I just waved merrily and rode on - but it lifted my whole day, let me tell you.

So, the most important thing about my 30-kilometer trek is that, when these roads were built, it seems that their engineers never thought about the fact that perhaps more than one car might like to travel on them at the same time. They do have a dividing line (dotted and white in most places, indicating that passing is fine) in the middle of the road all the way there and back, but the issue is that in some places, it is just short of being too narrow for two cars to pass each other if they are going in opposite directions.If you are willing to let your right tires sort of drag on the shoulder, and there is not a tall guardrail, stone wall, or rock face on that side, you can just squeak by with no damage to yourself, your car, or the passing vehicle. From these delightful thoroughfares (on which there is a surprising amount of traffic) I have come up with a theory of French driving in rural areas that I like to call "riding the line".

Riding the line means that, as long as you are on your particular stretch of road by yourself, you drive, more or less, with your two left tires riding on top of that dotted white line. Think of the line not as a division between your lane and oncoming traffic's lane ... think of that dotted line as more of a, well, guideline. A suggestion, if you will, of where you might like to steer your car. You ride on this line, and usually cross right over it into the oncoming lane's side when you're rounding a sharp turn, but you always keep an eye ahead for oncoming vehicles. When you see one, you wait until the last possible second, and then you swing your own vehicle to just a few inches to the right of that line. You hold your breath and pray that the oncoming vehicle will not take your driver's side mirror along with them when you pass each other. Then ... whoosh! A gust of air, you can let your breath out now, and you're past them and once again free to use as much of the road as seems necessary. You might now say a Hail Mary or Our Father as you pass one of the numerous roadside stone crosses, because once again, you have escaped with your life intact. Simple.

Simple, maybe, if you were born in this part of the country and have never driven anywhere else. (Or maybe if you learned to drive in Paris, Beirut, or New York City. I think any one of the three would qualify you to be at ease driving anywhere else.) For an outlander, every day is a lesson in how much fear I can sustain and how much adrenalin I can produce in one forty-minute drive. Did I mention that the suggested speed limit, almost all the way there and back, is between 70 and 90 kilometers and hour? Again, I have no idea what that is in mph, but it seems awfully damned fast when there is an RV rumbling towards you around a curve, and you realize that to your right is a shoulder about three feet wide, and then a yawning chasm that seems to be magnetically pulling you toward it. (And also, the fact that the road ahead, where you estimate you will pass by this road behemoth, appears to have been engineered for the contestants of a soapbox derby.) In some of the narrower areas, if another car is approaching, I actually just stop and let the other car come through first, and then proceed. I know it marks me as a tourist, but hey - better than spazzing out and throwing up sparks as I scrape the entire right side of my tiny hatchback against a stone guardrail.

Do not fear for my safety, though, scary as the above revelations may be. I am getting better and better at negotiating these spine-tingling encounters, and by this time next year, I doubt I will even think of it at all. I've even managed to get my speed up enough on most sections of the road to get into fourth (and even fifth!) gear. What was originally a 45-minute, harrowing trek through the mountainous wilderness has become a 35-minute, only slightly and/or occasionally terrifying trip through some lovely countryside. I am learning. I even passed someone (an actual car, not just a crazy person on a bicycle) the other day on my way home because I thought they were going too slow. Hah! I was very proud of myself, and what did I do for the remainder of my drive home? well, I'll tell you - I rode the line.

Stranger In A Strange Land

Today is a rather momentous day for me. I have just completed my first full week of working in a foreign country. In that week, I have learned, each day, many things concerning the customs and habits of the local inhabitants, and how much my own upbringing and culture are different. It has been eye-opening, and I am looking forward to continuing to learn and become accustomed to the new place in which I find myself living.

That being said, I have some observations, culled from the interactions of the past week, which some of you might find ... enlightening? Amusing? Slightly interesting? You'll have to tell me. I am going to do my best to keep from poking fun or bitching - it has been a monster of a week, for sure. I definitely have been close to tears a few times! But I just keep soldiering on, and I know I will figure this place out if it kills me (though I'm resonably sure it won't - I hardly think people meet their doom as a direct result of culture shock). And so, on to the main event:

• I work at a campground. This means I sell drinks and breakfast pastries from behind a bar, I clean things, I wait on people sitting on our terrace, I make coffee, I answer the phone, I enter registration info into a computer. Not tough, right? Even with the language barrier, I can generally manage to figure out what someone wants and, in turn, make myself understood. Coming from a community where there are many, many people who speak English as a second language, I never really considered how tough it is to be the person who doesn't understand the local language all that well. Now, finding myself on that side of the river, so to speak, I am humbled and ashamed of my prior attitude towards those folks. Being spoken to like you are a five-year-old (and a mentally deficient one, at that) when you are, in fact, over thirty years of age, can only be defined as a "if it doesn't kill you, it makes you stronger" sort of experience. Throwing a temper tantrum to protest this sort of treatment would probably not help bolster my image, and so I have so far refrained. (Just barely.) Though if I hear another "Tu comprends?" (You understand?) after someone re-explains yet again how something like the dishwasher works (there are three buttons, come on), I may revise my strategy.
• Clothing. Most precisely, women's clothing. I've mentioned before, I think, that I have never considered myself to be any sort of a fashion plate. I wear what I like, and what is comfortable, usually, and consider myself good to go. And, working at a campground in summertime, I was reasonably certain that my wardrobe, such as it is, would be just fine. Instead, I stick out like the proverbial sore thumb amongst my female co-workers. No one told me I needed to have garments made only of linen or very thin jersey. Or that, apparently, French women consider bright colors to be de trop (too much),  and seem to only wear muted shades of brown, blue, grey, and, of course, the ever-serviceable black and white. One of the girls I work with had on a sweater the other day with some stripes of the palest imaginable coral hue the other day, and I caught myself staring, thinking, wow, that really stands out. My purples and grass greens and reds and swimming pool blues make me look like I just strolled out of a bordello, compared to the ladies around me. Ah, well, American I am, I guess - but all the same, I think I'll save my brighter dresses for leisure time. Yikes. At least everyone there seems to have flip-flops of one stripe or another - and in that department, I am well-prepared (yay, Florida!). 
• Co-worker conversation is a bit of a minefield. I am really lucky that most of my co-workers speak at least some English. (Thank God.) However, even though I can converse with them in a somewhat tortured Frenglish, there isn't too much of that, other than pleasantires about the weather and comments on the job itself. In the States, if someone new starts at your job, and you work on a small staff, by the end of week one, you generally know all there is to know about them. You can ask questions about where they live, where they've worked before, their families, their hobbies, and where they were born, if you like. Here, not so much. As my husband patiently explained to me, for the French, it is considered tremendously ill-mannered to ask where someone is from, and you never ask any personal information, you simply wait until it is volunteered. I guess the theory is that none of this background information is relevant to your work relationship, and, if the person wishes you to know about them, they will offer up these tidbits in the course of one conversation or another. As an American, of course, I find this wildly strange and very limiting. (and, of course, I am nosy.) And so I take my cues from my counterparts, and don't ask about anything they don't offer willingly, but it really limits conversational topics. You can only talk about the weather and how busy/not busy it is for so long before lapsing into a rather uncomfortable silence. I, of course, continue to offer up my own personal comments concerning my life, as they seem appropriate, but so far the reaction seems to be, "Oh dear, how embarassing. The American is telling me information I don't need to know. How on earth can she think this is in any way relevant to me?" This is accompanied by a polite and remote smile, accompanied by a minute shrug of the shoulders. And me, being the irrepressible American, keep on trying. 
• I  think also that, in many cases, American bosses try to keep reprimands a little more, shall we say, private than their French counterparts. In the U.S., if you screw something up, your boss is apt to take you aside, away from other ears, and lay it out for you. (And then you spend weeks trying to get out from under the cloud of incompetence which has settled upon you.) In my experience so far here in France, that is not the case. If you make a mistake, your boss is much more likely to put it all out there, chapter and verse, in front of the other employees, customers, or even the postmistress, should she happen to be there delivering the day's mail. I will say, however, that after they've set you straight, it's done. No residual hard feelings or undercurrent of dissatisfaction. It's done, they've told you about it, and it's over. C'est tout. ("That's all", or "That's it".) And the conclusion I've drawn? You're now so embarassed over it that you strive mightily to never do something so goshdarn stupid ever again.
• Customer service is a mighty different thing here. At my job, it's a little closer to what you'd see in the U.S., but still there are some strange differences. We're face to face with people all the time, so we tend to be somewhat more conciliatory than if you, say, called up your internet provider or phone company. (And that's a whole 'nother ball of wax, by the way - French customer service via phone. Holy shit.) At my job, we're expected to greet everyone who comes in the door - and when I say "we", that means everyone working at that time, which results in a flurry or "bonjour"s to every person who wanders in our direction. I take a lot of joy in doing this, and try to vary my inflection so that it sounds as though I truly wish each person a good day. (I have to amuse myself somehow. And I do hope they're having a good day.) And, of course, as a person leaves our reception area, they go on their way with an assortment of "Au revoir"s, "Merci, monsieur/madame"s, and "Bonne journee"s as they go. It's nice. But, I notice that the French are not as inclined to smile as we are in the U.S., and so at times I feel like a circus clown because I can't seem to stop from grinning at customers, while my co-workers adopt a more formal, Mona-Lisa-type half-smile that could be misinterpreted as a smirk, if you didn't know any better. Also, the habit of the French saying, "Ce n'est pas possible, " meaning, "It's not possible," in response to customers' inquiries, always knocks me for a loop. Someone will ask a question, and then, in response, you hear, "Non. Ce n'est pas possible," in a very definite and firm tone, and then a long pause. If the customer is stalwart enough and hangs around looking at you for further elucidation, the speaker will then indeed explain the reasons why it is not possible. (Usually, this is very logical and sensible.) But oftentimes, especially if the customer is also French, they'll just say, "D'accord - merci", which is basically, "Okay, thanks" and meander off. I am so accustomed to saying something like, "I'm so sorry, but we can't offer that option at present. Perhaps instead you'd like to ...", and then bending over backwards to try to find some small thing to make the customer happy - the French response just takes my breath away. I gotta say, though, I kinda like the sheer chutzpah of it - like it or lump it, this is the answer, and me offering you ridiculous options won't change the fact that the real answer is 'no'. It's very upfront and forthright, and I have to admire a culture that doesn't waste its time (or yours) trying to make positives out of negatives all the time. Sometimes, the answer is 'no'.

I'm sure I'll have other observations as time goes by, but these were the big things I've been thinking about this week as I embarked upon a summer of assisting people in getting closer to nature. (Boy, oh boy, do Europeans like to go camping. It's an overwhelmingly popular pastime.) No major catastrophes (well, this morning I did break 4 beer glasses in a seriously clumsy move that could have been in a Mr. Bean movie - thank God the glasses were freebies we get from the beer distributor, or I'd probably be ending my first week with a pink slip), though I am still getting sweaty palms every time I answer the phone, and end up having to hand it off to a co-worker half the time, because I can't understand a damned word the person on the line is saying. But, I think overall, I'm winning more than I'm losing, and the balance is shifting into that "win" column every day. My boss even smiled at me - unsolicited - today, after hearing me answer a question for an English-speaking couple who were checking in. I am proud of myself. And very thankful that there are so many German and Dutch tourists in the area who prefer speaking English over speaking French.

So, a summertime campground job today, but tomorrow? Who knows? (I hear that not everyone likes the president - what do you think are the odds ... nevermind.) Until next time ...

French Towns Can Be Funny

So. I've been busy! This past weekend, Patrick and his girls and I made the LONG drive up to Paris and back for his brother's wedding. It was a lovely occasion, the weather was beautiful, and I had the opportunity to meet pretty much all of Patrick's family, as well as a great many friends. We did not take the main interstates up north, as the tolls are fairly momentous on these well-maintained and well-traveled roads; instead, we took the scenic route, using the smaller (but still lovely) national roads that were the only things there used to be, before the advent of the larger "superhighways". It was a long (about eight hours) trip, but a nice one. And, along the way, I started noticing the names of towns and villages that we were passing - they triggered some very interesting conversations, let me tell you. Here's a quick list of the more interesting ones:

• Attainville - is it the fulfillment of a higher purpose to live here??
• Riossy en Brie - a town covered in delicious cheese?
• Combs la Ville - do you get your own official hair-grooming implement upon settling here?
• St. Fargeau - we drove Patrick crazy with our English pronunciaton on this one. Visions of Frances McDormand in a hat with earflaps, transplanted to the French countryside flew through my mind.
• Fleury-en-Biere - you gotta love a town named after the world's greatest beverage
• Malesherbes - bad plants? masculine herbs? who knows?
• Nevers - this one was a favorite, and many bad jokes were made (we would "never" get there, etc.), despite the fact that in French, the name sounds more like "neh-vair', with the aspirated "r" at the end
• Vierzon - I wondered if the Verizon people are aware of this town - maybe whoever named it has a relative from there, thought it was a nice name, and accidentally switched the placement of the I and the E when spelling it?
• Macon - there's actually a little accent mark over the A (a circonflex? it looks like a carat mark), but of course, we immediately thought of that place we all know and love in Georgia ... who knew? Apparently, there is also a "Bacon" somewhere in France. Love it.
• Aigueperse - this one sounds a little like "egg purse" in French, and the girls and I giggled over that nonsense notion for miles. A satchel to carry eggs? A carry-all made of eggshells?
• Cellule - this conjured past biology classes, although I can't say I am absolutely positive there is indeed such a thing as a "cellule' in English - it sounded like something you'd read in a bio textbook, though.
• Pontmort - I think this translates as something like "dead bridge", and that just made me laugh. I mean, really? Where're you from? Oh, I hail from Dead Bridge, it's really nice there this time of year.
• Mozac - A new and improved incarnation of Prozac? Makes you even "mo" calm?
• Coudes - we liked this a lot, because "coude" is french for "elbow" ... any town named after a body part is simply funny for its own sake
• La Ribeyre - Looked to me like a fancy name in a menu for a steak
• St. Flour - I never knew there was a patron saint of bakers. (Nevermind if in French, it sounds like "san floo" ... it's much funnier in English.) I'm picturing a plump-faced fella with a tall white hat who has flour dust in a cloud around his head like a halo. Priceless.

Better even than some of the town names are the store and shop signs ... I love seeing any English at all here, it gives me a charge and helps me feel at home. Sometimes, though, I feel like a little has been lost in the translation. A few examples:

• Babymoov - appeared to be some sort of indoor kids' playground ... pronounced, of course, "bah-bee-moov". Move that kid - NOW!
• Crapa'hutte - I have no idea what this actually is, or if the inspiration came from English, but it certainly made me laugh out loud at the time. It was painted on the covered back of a truck that appeared to be some sort of mobile eating establishment. Hate to tell you, but I ain't never eatin' at a place with "crap" in the name.
• Too Much - name on a trendy-looking clothing store. Do they mean to say that everything costs a lot? Or that this is what folks will say about you, should you purchase and wear their clothing? Either way, I'm thinking - not so much.
• 911 Taxis - Um, so of course the emergency number here in France is NOT 911. But I laughed out loud, thinking of some poor, stranded, injured American dialing 911 hoping for immediate assistance, and instead getting a surly French taxi dispatcher. Oh, Lord.
• Merlot TP - I am guessing that this is some sort of wine designation of which I am not aware, but seeing this painted on the side of an old gas station almost made me pee my pants. In which case, I would have been in dire need of good old Merlot TP. Wipe your ass and experience one of France's greatest products, all at once.

I wish I could've stopped to take pictures of every one of these, but with an eight-hour trip underway, I could only jot them down in my notebook and hope to come this way again someday to snap pics for my scrapbook. Anyway, I definitely enjoyed the trip northward (and then south again) to lovely Paree, and wonder if a day will come when these little French-English bombs will cease to amuse me. God, I hope not.