How not to learn French - Lesson 3 Taking French Lessons

Taking lessons in a foreign language is generally assumed to be the best way to learn it.  Initially I, too, had made this fallacious assumption and decided to enrol in an introductory French course.  The urge to learn French seems to run deep in the subterranean level of the English psyche, because no sooner had I announced my intention to enrol in a French class that several of my friends decided to do likewise.  Great, I thought, we can do homework together and generally encourage each other.  Full of hope and expectations I signed up for the class and paid my fees upfront.

Unfortunately my friends’ enthusiasm was short-lived.  Having encouraged me to go ahead with the venture, they considered their job done, and left me to it, never signing up to the course themselves.  Never mind, I thought, I have enthusiasm for three and brains for five, so I’ll crack this French thing – in a year or two I’ll be reading Le Monde!

Eager to get a head start before classes began, I bought all the books needed for the course and settled down to do some serious studying.  That’s when I discovered that the books were all in French.  No English whatsoever.  Apparently that’s the new modern method of teaching languages.  The theory goes that if you force someone to read enough words in a foreign language, eventually the penny will drop and they’ll end up being fluent.

Before the course even started I had read all the books cover to cover – twice.  And understood nothing.  Oh well, I thought, that’s why I am taking a class – the teacher will explain things to me!  I put the books aside and waited for the classes to begin.

The teacher was adorable and taught me my first French insult in break time:  Mechant Crapaud (Nasty toad).  Unfortunately she taught French the modern way.  She spoke almost exclusively in French for most of the class, so I understood nothing.  Then she played us a story on tape, also in French.  I understood nothing.  Then she taught us some grammar, which I immediately forgot – I always forget grammar, it is my one intellectual defect.

The second part of the lesson was different.  We were divided into groups and told to talk to each other in French.  Unfortunately we spoke either no French at all or very bad French with a heavy English accent, so succeeded only in contaminating each others scant French even further.

I stuck it out for three or four lessons, and then dropped out.  I had learned nothing, absolutely nothing.  It was a thoroughly dispiriting experience.  I had hoped for something along the lines of this:  This is a knife!  C’est un couteau.  See this fist?  Voir cet poing?  You get the idea.  Simple useful words in easy sentences, said in both English and French, and repeated until they became firmly entrenched in my memory banks. 

After I dropped out I tried to do lessons at home, by listening to the CDs by Michel Thomas, who teaches languages by the deductive method.  It is a good method, and I did manage to remember a little, but his bullying and patronising manner put me off, and after the second CD I stopped listening.  I also found his accent rather annoying – I already have traces of German, English, and American accents, the last thing I need is a Polish one to contaminate my French even further.

I did obtain another CD of introductory French, which used English to explain the French I was supposed to learn, and I managed to absorb a modicum of French.  Again, no grammar, but I learned to count and say a few simple sentences after having listened to the CD about twenty five times.  Not a total loss, but considering that I longed to discuss Kant’s categorical imperative and world trade with my French friends not very satisfactory, either.

I finally concluded that taking French lessons, whether in a class or by interacting with a CD, was not a good way for me to learn French.  But, ever undaunted, I had already identified another method of (not) learning French.  Stay tuned for the next instalment!

PS  I hope whoever reads this isn't going to be mad enough to believe that the occasional French words and sentences I quote in this blog are actually correct French - I sometimes get lucky, but don't bank on it!

Insulating the Little House Part 2

(5)  The woollen blanket is still hanging from its regular curtain rod.  I pull it close when I am inside.  So, useless when I am outside, but keeps in warmth when I am inside.  And it is well hidden behind the next item!

(6)  Curtain Lobby!!!  I am very proud of this idea.  I did not want to construct a lobby, because the parlour is small enough already.  But every time I opened the door heat escaped.  Solution?  A lobby made of fabric!  I affixed hooks to the ceiling in a semi circle around the door, and hung a thick lined velvet curtain from these hooks to form a lobby.  In Summer I just take it down, in Winter it stops the cold from coming in whenever I open the door.  Pure genius! 

(7)  Secondary double glazing.  This is great stuff, packs can be bought from iron mongers etc.  Basically, a thickish cling film is affixed to windows with the aid of double sided sticky tape.  Use a hairdryer to chase away the wrinkles in the film.  Not as good as proper double glazing, but helps keep the house warm.  And not really noticeable in daylight.  At night it is more noticeable, but I draw the curtains at night so am not bothered.  The only drawback is that one can’t open the windows any more, but I leave the bathroom window upstairs and the kitchen window downstairs uncovered, which is enough for airing the house.  When Spring comes I just rip off the film.

All the above mean that the house is between 18 and 20° C, with minimal only heating.  Not hot enough to lure back my houseguests, but plenty warm for me!

Insulating the Little House

The Little House is old-fashioned and almost devoid of new-fangled devices.  It lacks double-glazing, central heating, an entrance lobby, and cavity wall insulation – my walls are solid, thank you very much.  As a consequence it is, arguably, a little chilly.

When I first moved in there were two storage heaters, one upstairs and one downstairs.  They stored heat at night when I was asleep and released it during the day when I was away.  By the time I came home in the evening they were a spent force, so when they finally broke I did not miss them much and resolved not to replace them.  Instead I opened them up, salvaged the firebricks and used them to build a little veranda.

Despite their general uselessness the heaters had made some sort of impact, and after their demise the house was even colder than before.  Luckily the Little House is in the middle of a terrace, and my neighbours on both sides have central heating, so I managed for a year or two without any sort of heating except what the house managed to siphon off from my neighbours.  The temperature rarely fell below 15° C, and I consoled myself that the Victorians had considered this to be the perfect temperature for the drawing room.  When it got really cold I lit a fire in the parlour on the weekends when I was at home.  As for upstairs, who ever heard of heating a bedroom?

Unfortunately my occasional house guests were united in their opposition to my old fashioned lifestyle.  I can assure my readers that I am an excellent hostess, and offer every amenity to my weekend guests, including:

• A housecoat, which looks like a bathrobe made of wool, only more elegant; Sherlock Holmes, for example, can be seen of wearing one in some the illustrations of his adventures.  However, my ungrateful guests tended to refuse to wear them and talked darkly about an aversion to ‘Slumber Parties’.

• An indoor bonnet, again made of a woolly material and amazingly warm, though somewhat destructive to hairdos of the upstanding variety.
• Woollen shawls and serapes of all shapes and sizes.
• Hot water bottles.
• A cup of early morning tea, complete with a biscuit.
• Hot water for showers and shaving.

I could go on, but I believe I have made my point.  However, my guests refused all these winter-warmers and insisted on real heat.  In the evening they would huddle provocatively close to the fire, and frequently refused to go to bed without at least two hot water bottles.  In the morning they would emerge shivering from their beds, pointing accusingly to cold noses and casting aspersions on my moral status.  But I refused to install central heating, bought additional blankets and put my faith in Global Warming.  One by one my visitors stayed away, and even warned off others from staying with me in the colder months.

However, when the winters became colder and longer in the last few years even I had to admit that something had to be done.  I bought two portable radiators, one for upstairs and one for downstairs, and set about insulating with a vengeance.  There is quite a lot one can do, even without involving builders and piling up debts.  I have evolved and perfected both new and already existing methods, and outline them below – may they prove useful!

(1)  Astro-foil; about 1cm thick, looks like bubble wrap stuck between two layers of aluminium foil.  I used it to line the attic, and it works a treat.  One lightbulb warms the whole attic!  With the leftovers I lined the walls behind some of my curtains and bookshelves.

(2)  Insulating / black-out curtains; about £20 per window or door.  I bought one for every window and the front door, and hung them up behind the regular curtains.  Undetectable, and make a huge difference!

(3)  Magnetic strips!  I attached them to both the insulating curtains and the walls next to the windows/door.  On cold nights I press the strips on the curtains to the strips on the wall and hey presto! I have a tight fit that lets no draughts in!

(4)  Swinging curtain rod across front door; my front door opens into the parlour, so keeping heat in is essential.  At first I had a normal curtain rod with a curtain (an old wool blanket) above the door.  When I was inside, I pulled the curtain and this helped keep the heat in.  But since I can’t pull the curtain from the outside, the curtain remained pushed to the side and cold got in through the gaps in the doorframe.  Having considered the problem extensively, I bought a swinging curtain rod.  It is attached on the same side as the door hinge, just above the door.  The other, free-swing side, is attached to the door with a piece of string.  As the door moves, the curtain does.  As I pull the door close from the outside, the door curtain is also pulled against the door.  And voila, less heat escapes!

To be continued

My Gay & Glamorous Life - Paris

Some of my friends, mainly in the US, have this notion that I lead an impossibly gay & glamorous life.  I nip off to Paris on the Eurostar, I meet friends at My Club in London, I trip to Germany on real airplanes, and as to my daily life at the centre of one of the great medieval university towns – why words fail to describe it!

It is partly to dispel such ludicrous notions that I began to write this blog.  Before I blogged about La Bourboule, friends and enemies alike envied me for spending the vacation in ‘The South of France!’  No doubt they had visions of Monaco and Marseille, of sun-drenched southern towns simply thronging with elegant gentlemen keen to court and coddle me.  The reality, viz having a hose stuck up my nose and my sinuses irrigated every morning in the company of old age pensioners and tiny children, turned out less entrancing. 

Of course, for all my readers know, I hide and hush up certain aspects of my holidays!  Perhaps after my watery treatments each morning I am whisked away by my Latin Lover who likes nothing more than to paint my toenails with a purple polish while I read Asterix books to him in an effort to improve my French.  Perhaps!  But I am not telling.

Anyway, having thus successfully dispelled the myths of my holidays in the South of France, I decided to continue my efforts and branch out to include other aspects of my reputedly gay & glamorous life.  Like going to Paris on the weekend, for example.

Paris is, of course, wasted on me.  Every time I go I swear I will take photos, and once I am there I never see anything I want to photograph.  What the heck, I think, just buy a postcard!  However, this time there were two sights I wanted to photograph.

The first one I wanted to, but didn’t, because although I am always up for behaving badly I draw the line somewhere.  Lunch took place in a very glamorous setting, namely Le Café de la Paix on the Boulevard des Capucines, with a view of the Opera Garnier.  Tres chic.  Tres chere.  Frightfully expensive, and portions so small it made one weep.  Main meal was wild duck.  Enough duck to fill two tablespoons, lovingly garnished with five grapes, two figs, and gravy with raisins.  Served with crusty bread.  Too small even as a starter.  I ached to photograph the plate and send the picture to Les Galapagos in La Bourboule.  Dessert consisted of a chocolate sphere the size of a tennis ball.  I cracked it like an egg, and discovered a little bit of chocolate mousse and some stewed mango.  I was speechless.  If that’s what glamorous dining is all about, I do without.  Oh how I longed for the steaks at Les Galapagos!

The second noteworthy thing I saw I did manage to photograph, after I gave the clochard in charge of the subjects of my interest two Euros and promised not to include him in the photos.  Isn’t this the cutest thing?  I have seen any number of beggars with dogs, but cats?  Cute cute cute!  They seemed quite content with their lot, by the way.

The other stuff I did in Paris was pretty commonplace, really.  Visiting friends, buying Hermes scarves and carambars, talking about ethics with a friend in a little café overlooking the Seine – not much to write about, really.  Did much the same thing when I was in Portland, Oregon, and anywhere else, for that matter.  It is no more glamorous because it is done in Paris.

By the way, carambars are chewy sweets, sort of like maoams.  I buy them for my colleagues who find them strangely addictive.  I eat most of them myself.

Post Cards from La Bourboule – Parc Fenestre

The most important thing about this park is that its name is NOT Finistere – just because that’s what I always call it doesn’t make it right, I am told.  I have this unfortunate habit of misreading and misunderstanding things, always in ways which make them much more interesting than the original meaning.  I like to think this is not proof of my imbecility, but an attempt by my subconscious to make life more exciting.  People should be grateful I don’t charge them for all this free entertainment I provide, but they seem to prefer the mundane truth to my inspired nonsense.  So instead of mulling over theories that link Cape Finistere with La Bourboule, I took photos of it.

The park is right in the centre of town, across the street from my hotel (actually most things are just across the street from my hotel, that’s how it is in a small town).  It is intended mainly for children, but anyone who comes to La Bourboule is a child at heart, and the park is full of people who are dangerously close to the age when we all turn into children again (Alzheimer’s and stuff, you get my drift).  I have not taken photos of the little train etc, because that is boring and anyway if you like that sort of thing just have a google.  Instead I focused on the things that caught my eye.

This Wood-Spirit, three feet high and hand carved

One of my favourite views of Glider Mountain!  Reminds me a bit of Portland Oregon, actually!

The amazing Goat-Tree!

My concession to the conservative image loving crowd – view of massive children’s slide-tower

Tomorrow is my last day, so today I have been buying thank-you presents for my minders in the Grand Therme and the charming ladies who run the hotel.  I am not sure whether this is a normal French thing to do, but so far no one has objected, on the contrary I have been kissed several times, which is probably a good sign.

Post Cards from La Bourboule – The church of La Bourboule

There appears to be only one church in La Bourboule.  There is a boarded up shop window in one of the side streets which contains some accoutrements suggesting a protestant provisional prayer room, but it looked rather dilapidated and unused.  I guess if you want to be religiously organised in La Bourboule, it is Catholicism or nothing.  This economic approach is typically Auvergnat in its sensibility – why shell out for half a dozen churches, like in the US, or at least two, like in Germany, when a single structure will suffice?  Much better to spend the saved money on extra large dinners!  I have found no traces of religious strife in La Bourboule, so have to assume their approach works.

Again the limitations of my little digital camera made themselves felt.  If I use the flash colours look washed out, and if not the image is blurry or black or both.  But some of the stained glass windows came out quite nicely, I think!

I have not attended any services there, since I don’t want to accidentally promise to do something I disagree with (that lack of French again), like praying for President Sarkozy - they pray for the Queen in England, so I guess it makes sense to pray for the President in France.  I am up for most sins (within reason), but have to draw the line at lying to God in church.  Anyway, that’s the reason why I can’t report here about religious practices, attendance, and fervour (or lack of) of the local worshippers.  But there are many candles burning in front of the saints, so they can’t all be heathens.

The Lady & Child statue above is my favourite item in the church.  It is a small carving, only about a foot high, and the proportions are a bit off.  But I find it very dignified, expressing a simple faith.  I don’t like religious images that are too perfect, just as I don’t like the music and choir to be too perfect during services.  They distract from the main purpose on hand, which should be experiencing God.

The inside of the church, seen from the door.

The church has a great many stained glass windows, mainly similar to this one, so I am only posting one example here.

There are five statues of saints with candle-holders in front in this church. They don’t all have a name tag, but well I don’t practice favouritism when it comes to saints so I lit a candle in front of each of them.  The one in this photo took the best picture and had the most candles.  The patron saint of this church is Joseph, and he had only one very small candle burning in front of him, so I bought him two – it doesn’t seem right to be the underdog in your own church!

This last photo depicts a church window in Murat le Quaire which is up the hill from La Bourboule and much smaller (both town and church).  I include it here because the style is so different.

Only two more days until it is time to go home!

Post Cards from La Bourboule – La Banne d’Ordanche Part 3

Back in Murat le Quaire ….

I earned that!