It is as if I am standing between two cement walls and a floor of spikes. One minute I am banging my head against one wall (let's call it "French") and the next I am smacking my prefrontal cortex against the other (hereby baptized "Spanish"). When I tire of this horizontal sadistic amusement, I resort to impaling my skull on the spikes on the floor, those symbolic skewers of British English and American English.
Currently, I am watching the French version of England's "Question Time." This is much more polite, and without the snide comments about the professions of the other candidates' mothers. Sarkozy defends himself reasonably well (I especially appreciated the line about "reforme sans violence"), although it would take a particularly savvy frenchman or woman to catch the blatant Reagan/Nixon/American ideology references he makes. He referenced outright the "silent majority" and the campaign habits of Americans and their transition to France, piquing my forever aroused curiosity. He also has a clear crush on Angela Merkel, from the way he boyishly smiles whenever they mention her. Wie niedlich.
Other than enjoying the debate, I have fun predicting what party the journalists are from based on their body language. And making fun of the questions "If you win, where will you celebrate?" or "how do you justify your foul language?"
Naughty president.
Anyhow, I ought to catch up with all of y'all. You may have gather from my references to french television that I have exited Spain. This is tearfully true. I left Sunday on the bumpiest, windiest flight ever (I prayed the last ten minutes, as we hurtled comme n'importe quoi across the sky). Before on Saturday that I'd gone to a candy parade. Unclear why (not why I went, duh, why it exists), but anyone who goes to a parade in Spain should know that it is not like in the U.S. where we gently toss sweets to the masses.
Confectionary attempted murder is culturally acceptable in Barcelona. I have bruises where "caramelos" struck me with full force, and a mortal fear of streets full of sticky sugar, horse poop enhanced mess, ground in by trucks and thousands of people. Thirty minutes of grumpily scrubbing my boots, I have sufficiently recovered my sense of humor. It is now vaguely funny.
I also went to a short flamenco show (40 minutes), which was as tapas is to a full meal. Tiny, delicious, spicy and leaves you wanting more.
The first day back in France, I had a massive headache. I spoke in frañol, sometimes starting a sentence in spanish and finishing in french, saying "hola" and "gracias" and using "madre mia" in place of my favorite french muletilla, "oh la vache." My host family and friends are reasonably patient with me, despite me throwing the occasional cork at their face* when they kindly correct me (and take the mickey out of me and my suffering spanish).
Today I am chez Grandparents. We passed a lovely day trading clever comments and eating lunch with a bunch of fellow (except me) Guernsey-ites. Much conversation of boats, taxes and art. I got to visit the house and gallery of the most fantastic artists, and was given lots of teeeea. My granny was also given some presumably fascinating biographical books about some house cats. I mistrust such tomes, but such is my cynical, hating-on-badly-written-cat-books nature. With such an activity filled day, of course I have some quotes to lighten your day and un-furrow (de-furrow?) your beaten brow.
"We were so excited about your return, we bought a carpet." (This is how british people express their emotions. Furniture purchases.)
"They've sold their horrible horrible house... (pointing out a charming french maison) It was like that, but grotty." (Grotty=british slang for "grotesque").
"He's a very intelligent man, but he'll probably be wearing his garden trousers, and spills things all over his sweaters." (Clearly intelligence cannot shield a poor soul from adjudication against poor fashion sense and clumsy table behavior.)
Finally, wish me luck tomorrow as I film my educational video about how to survive metro and train stations in europe. I have an application due (rather soon...) and part of it is me teaching something I know in great detail.
Bref, you see what one learns on a gap year.
*Sorry 1P
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