Post- the ninth: In which she is mistaken for British...

This morning I was headed to the train to go to Cergy for the informational meeting for French law students who want to come study in the U.S., Great Britain, or in Australia. I was not sure I would have anything complimentary to say about American legal education, but since I was invited to this meeting to answer questions or what have you, I figured I would go. At the least, it would be an opportunity to practice some French and to meet some people, right?


So, I walk out the door all sunny and happy-happy because I had just given S (the mother in the family with whom I am staying, see prior posts) her birthday gift. Her birthday is tomorrow, but I leave at the rump crack of dawn to go visit my friend Doris south of here, not to mention that I'm lousy at keeping surprises and was ready to crack just keeping it.


I bought S a casse-noix-- a nutcracker-- not of the Tchaikovsky ballet type, but of the actual functional type, because the device she was previously using (lime squeezer? garlic presser? clearly I am not familar with kitchen gadgets?) was not really functional. Well, at least not without sending nut shells into the dog/cat's water! So, I did a little research to find out what nutcrackers even looks like (think larger version of those crackers for taking apart lobsters). It is also interesting to note, as a tangent, that one can purchase a Hillary Clinton shaped nutcracker on amazon.com. I will refrain from further tangents here.


So there I was, all sunny and happy-happy walking out the door. I closed the gate behind me and crossed through the parking lot in front of the Tabac to get to the train station across the street. But there was this guy with his car door open. So, awkwardly I start to squeeze past, and he apologizes in French, and I try saying that it was fine, in French. Then he starts talking quickly in French, so I have to explain to him, in French, that I only speak very little French.


So then he asks me, in French, if I'm from England. And this is particularly strange to me because a couple years ago when I was in Madrid I was incessantly being mistaken for British. Back then, I took it as something of a compliment because anti-Americanism was much greater than it is presently. Now I don't know, though. So, I explain to him, no, "je suis...de...les Etats Unis..."


At this point I am about to miss my train, and they don't come nearly frequently enough between here (Conflans Ste. Honorine) and Conflan Fin d'Oise, where I need to connect to the RER out to Cergy Prefecture. So, I start to walk away, and he says in perfect English, "I love you." And I'm like trying to not crack up (nuts-- right?) laughing. So I say "merci." And continue to walk to the train, and then he shouts really loud, "I love you."


It is good to be loved. *laughs* :-)


-A