Here I am, in West Africa again, until April 3. My guidebook assures me that the southern part of this country "has two rainy seasons: the first is from April to mid-July. . . . Harmattan winds billow out of the Sahara between December and March, and the hottest time of the year is from February to April." Do we all remember how much I hate heat and humidity? Good. Now it's time to ask ourselves some existential questions (EQs).
I spent the last week in lovely North Africa (which I promise to tell you about another time), where it was in the 70s and 80s, mildly humid, and I sweat up a storm. Last night, I took an overnight flight from North Africa to West Africa, with one stop in Wester Africa. Many of the people on my flight were wearing sweaters and coats. A woman sitting next to me, who boarded the plane in Wester Africa, where the outside temperature was 28° C (82° F), was wearing a shearling jacket.
EQ: Was I flying with a plane full of crazy people?
When we landed in West Africa at 5:30 am (you know, the coolest, freshest time of day), it was also 28° C (82° F). According to weather.com, it is currently 91° F outside, with a dew point of 77°, and a heat index of 104°.
EQ: Why does God hate me so much?
The airport was like a sauna, and stepping outside the airport was like stepping into a better-heated sauna. Then I got onto the hotel shuttle, where we had to sit and wait for about 15 minutes, to see if any more hotel guests were on that flight. The outside air blowing in through the open door of the van felt like a fresh, cool breeze compared to the interior temperature of the van. Of the many places that sweat was streaming from my body, I noticed that there was actually sweat pouring inside my ears.
EQ: Where was this sweat coming from? Do I actually have sweat glands in my ears?
The air conditioner in my hotel room emits a high-pitched and very annoying squealing noise whenever it's turned on.
EQ: Is it really worth running the a/c--wait! Sorry. This isn't an existential question. It's a rhetorical one.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Friday, March 13, 2009
On Time
Last Sunday, when the U.S. switched to Daylight Savings Time, I was resetting my "good" watch when the knob suddenly stopped making the hands turn forward. Today, I finally got around to taking it into a repair shop. The guy there told me that I had apparently stripped the teeth off a central cog, which would be an expensive repair. He recommended that I just set the watch by turning it backwards, until that no longer works, and then bring it in to be fixed. That sounded like a sensible approach, especially since, he reminded me, "You only set your watch twice a year!"
I thought about that for a moment, and then told him to go ahead and repair the watch now, and I'll pick it up when I get back from my upcoming business trip. Why? Well, I leave tomorrow, and in the next 3.5 weeks, I will be changing my "cheap" watch from Minnesota time to:
- Atlanta time, then to
- Paris time, then to
- North Africa time, then to
- West Africa time, then to
- Paris time, then to
- Cincinnati time, then to
- Minnesota time.
I guess there may be a reason that I've stripped the teeth off a cog in my watch.
I thought about that for a moment, and then told him to go ahead and repair the watch now, and I'll pick it up when I get back from my upcoming business trip. Why? Well, I leave tomorrow, and in the next 3.5 weeks, I will be changing my "cheap" watch from Minnesota time to:
- Atlanta time, then to
- Paris time, then to
- North Africa time, then to
- West Africa time, then to
- Paris time, then to
- Cincinnati time, then to
- Minnesota time.
I guess there may be a reason that I've stripped the teeth off a cog in my watch.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Tragic Tags
When I moved back to the U.S., my very lovely parents gave me their old car, which used to be my car, before I sold it to them when I moved to France (my family thinks of cars like adopted children, which must never leave our family so long as we both shall live). They transferred the title into my name, and I inherited not only my sweet little Sentra, Simon, but also his very cute license plates: HWT 088.
I consider this is a great licence plate, not only because 8 is my favorite number, but also because it was very easy to remember, HWT obviously standing for Becky Hewitt, who was in first grade with me.
The tags had to be renewed in February, and I assumed I would just be getting a little "2010" sticker to put on the existing plates. But no! They sent me entirely new license plates (and sent them to the wrong address, ignoring the "Change of Address" form that I had filled in and submitted along with my check for the tag renewal), with a horrible, tragic new number:
341 BDC.
What's wrong with this tag? Let me count the things:
1) Nary an 8 to be seen!
2) The numbers come before the letters, which is Not As It Should Be in Minnesota.
3) Not only is the number odd, it's practically prime (divisible only by 11 and 31).
4) BDC isn't an obvious and easy-to-remember abbreviation for anything (although it's slightly better than "BDO", which is what I initially thought it said, and which clearly stands for Body Odor).
I consider this is a great licence plate, not only because 8 is my favorite number, but also because it was very easy to remember, HWT obviously standing for Becky Hewitt, who was in first grade with me.
The tags had to be renewed in February, and I assumed I would just be getting a little "2010" sticker to put on the existing plates. But no! They sent me entirely new license plates (and sent them to the wrong address, ignoring the "Change of Address" form that I had filled in and submitted along with my check for the tag renewal), with a horrible, tragic new number:
341 BDC.
What's wrong with this tag? Let me count the things:
1) Nary an 8 to be seen!
2) The numbers come before the letters, which is Not As It Should Be in Minnesota.
3) Not only is the number odd, it's practically prime (divisible only by 11 and 31).
4) BDC isn't an obvious and easy-to-remember abbreviation for anything (although it's slightly better than "BDO", which is what I initially thought it said, and which clearly stands for Body Odor).
Sunday, March 1, 2009
I Have Been Assimilated
My transition back to being fully American seems to be very nearly, if not totally, complete, as evidenced by how I spent my Saturday:
1) In the morning, I drove to the hardware store. Did I mention that the hardware store is 3.5 blocks from my house? And that I was not buying anything bulky or heavy, or going anywhere else on this trip? Nope, I drove 7 blocks round trip just because it was a little cold out*, and I didn't feel like walking.
2) For the first time since I moved to the Twin Cities, I went to the Mall of America, one of the largest malls in the world (there's an amusement park inside, if that tells you anything).
In the not-so-distant past, I would have been ashamed of myself for exhibiting these behaviors, but now that I'm American again, I think it's normal.
Resistance was obviously futile, but is it really too late for me to be saved? Is there any chance that my upcoming visit to Paris could cure this horrible and rapidly-advancing disease?!
Stay tuned . . .
*8°F/-13°C, with a windchill of -2°F/-19°C, in case you're wondering how we Minnesotans define "a little cold".
1) In the morning, I drove to the hardware store. Did I mention that the hardware store is 3.5 blocks from my house? And that I was not buying anything bulky or heavy, or going anywhere else on this trip? Nope, I drove 7 blocks round trip just because it was a little cold out*, and I didn't feel like walking.
2) For the first time since I moved to the Twin Cities, I went to the Mall of America, one of the largest malls in the world (there's an amusement park inside, if that tells you anything).
In the not-so-distant past, I would have been ashamed of myself for exhibiting these behaviors, but now that I'm American again, I think it's normal.
Resistance was obviously futile, but is it really too late for me to be saved? Is there any chance that my upcoming visit to Paris could cure this horrible and rapidly-advancing disease?!
Stay tuned . . .
*8°F/-13°C, with a windchill of -2°F/-19°C, in case you're wondering how we Minnesotans define "a little cold".
Saturday, February 28, 2009
It's Here!
I'm not sure if the voting by you, my readers, had any influence, but the documentary film Pray the Devil Back to Hell has finally come to the Twin Cities! It's currently playing at the Landmark Lagoon Cinema in Minneapolis at 1:30, 3:20, 5:10, 7:10, and 9:30pm, and since I'm not sure if it'll be here for more than a week, I'm planning to go tomorrow (Sunday) afternoon. Let me know if you'd like to come along!
UPDATE: This is a really, really good movie. It gave me some much-needed hope about Africa.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
OBG: Frencher and Frencher
OBG = Oldies But Goodies (recycled material)
I've finally begun my formal reintegration into the American Healthcare System, but before I start pontificating on that, I thought I'd share (or repeat, if you've known me long enough) one of my more memorable interactions with French Healthcare. The following true story is from an e-mail that I sent on February 1, 2005:
__________
Hi everyone,
It occurred to me recently that it's been a while since I've sent out one of my mass e-mails regaling you all with Tales of Life in France, simply because I don't seem to have many tales to tell these days. Why is that, I wondered? Is it because I'm unemployed, and now that I've discovered a channel playing reruns of "Law and Order" every weekday (you really haven't lived until you've seen Briscoe and McCoy dubbed into French!), I've become a total recluse and no longer have any interaction with those wacky people known as the French? Or . . . is there something darker at play here? Could it be that I no longer NOTICE the wackiness that surrounds me? Could it be that I'm (gasp!) getting Frencher?!
The degree of my cultural integration was thrown into sharp relief last week by the arrival of a newcomer from the States. "L" is the friend of a friend, and she's in Paris for 5 months to study French. I've been helping her get settled in and figure things out . . . how to get an internet connection, where to buy oatmeal, which brands of anti-perspirant don't sting after shaving . . . you know, all the basic information needed to survive as an American in Paris.
On Friday, L and I went to a movie and out for a drink with a German friend of mine who's lived here for years. We were all sharing funny stories, and I began to recount an odd-but-true incident that happened to me a few months ago. The following is a vaguely approximate transcript of that conversation. Any alterations were made for the amusement of my readers.
*****
Stephanie - "My doctor always has her dog with her at the office, and . . ."
Others (interrupting) - "WHAT?! A DOG?! In the DOCTOR's OFFICE?!?!"
S (confused) - "Yeah, well, you know . . . French people love their dogs. They take them everywhere."
L - "Isn't having a DOG in the DOCTOR'S OFFICE kind of a hygiene issue?"
S (thinks about it) - "Huh! Well . . . I don't know. I don't think the dog normally comes into the EXAM room, he mostly just hangs out in the office, under her desk. He's just a little lap dog, a bit yippy, but cute. Really, it seems pretty normal for him to be there. . . . But anyway! One day I went to see the doctor because I had the flu or something, and Sasha (the dog) was really nervous and yipping every time anyone moved. The doctor said that that morning, some workers had been installing a new window in an upstairs apartment--she just has a small office in a residential building--and they dropped a sheet of glass, and the noise totally traumatized Sasha, which was why he was acting so nervous. He was lying on a chair right behind the door, and when I got up to leave, I guess my opening the door scared him, because he flew out of the chair, latched onto my leg, and bit me! The doctor didn't see it, she just heard him yipping and said, 'Sasha, be quiet.' Stephanie: 'Doctor, your dog just bit me on the leg!' Dr.: 'Really?' I point to my thigh, from which I've just removed the vicious little fur-ball, and say 'YES!' The doctor glances down at my pants leg, doesn't see a hole, pats me on the leg, and says, 'Oh, you'll be fine. Have a good day!' And all I could think was, 'Do you not understand that, as an American, my cultural instinct is to sue you for this?!' "
Others (stunned silence) - "?!?!?!"
Stephanie - ". . . I mean, don't you guys think that it's kind of weird that the doctor didn't even want to look at the wound, to see whether the skin had been broken, and maybe disinfect it or something?"
German friend (finally regaining capacity for speech) - "Stephanie, do you still go to that doctor?!"
Stephanie - "Oh. Well, yeah! I really like her! I mean, in the end, the doctor was right, it wasn't THAT big a deal. The dog only broke the skin a LITTLE, and of course I had a big bruise on my thigh, but I had actually forgotten about it by the time I got home that day, and later it took me a while to figure out where the bruise came from. I just think Americans get too paranoid about germs and stuff, you know?"
*****
To recap: I was bitten by my doctor's dog, in my doctor's office. I was surprised that the doctor didn't offer to look at and disinfect the bite. However, I didn't think that (a) it was strange that my doctor brings her dog to the office with her, or (b) this might be a reason to find a new doctor.
So, does this mean that my attitudes are becoming Frencher? Get back to me on this!
Hope you're all doing well!
Love,
Steph
_________
I've finally begun my formal reintegration into the American Healthcare System, but before I start pontificating on that, I thought I'd share (or repeat, if you've known me long enough) one of my more memorable interactions with French Healthcare. The following true story is from an e-mail that I sent on February 1, 2005:
__________
Hi everyone,
It occurred to me recently that it's been a while since I've sent out one of my mass e-mails regaling you all with Tales of Life in France, simply because I don't seem to have many tales to tell these days. Why is that, I wondered? Is it because I'm unemployed, and now that I've discovered a channel playing reruns of "Law and Order" every weekday (you really haven't lived until you've seen Briscoe and McCoy dubbed into French!), I've become a total recluse and no longer have any interaction with those wacky people known as the French? Or . . . is there something darker at play here? Could it be that I no longer NOTICE the wackiness that surrounds me? Could it be that I'm (gasp!) getting Frencher?!
The degree of my cultural integration was thrown into sharp relief last week by the arrival of a newcomer from the States. "L" is the friend of a friend, and she's in Paris for 5 months to study French. I've been helping her get settled in and figure things out . . . how to get an internet connection, where to buy oatmeal, which brands of anti-perspirant don't sting after shaving . . . you know, all the basic information needed to survive as an American in Paris.
On Friday, L and I went to a movie and out for a drink with a German friend of mine who's lived here for years. We were all sharing funny stories, and I began to recount an odd-but-true incident that happened to me a few months ago. The following is a vaguely approximate transcript of that conversation. Any alterations were made for the amusement of my readers.
*****
Stephanie - "My doctor always has her dog with her at the office, and . . ."
Others (interrupting) - "WHAT?! A DOG?! In the DOCTOR's OFFICE?!?!"
S (confused) - "Yeah, well, you know . . . French people love their dogs. They take them everywhere."
L - "Isn't having a DOG in the DOCTOR'S OFFICE kind of a hygiene issue?"
S (thinks about it) - "Huh! Well . . . I don't know. I don't think the dog normally comes into the EXAM room, he mostly just hangs out in the office, under her desk. He's just a little lap dog, a bit yippy, but cute. Really, it seems pretty normal for him to be there. . . . But anyway! One day I went to see the doctor because I had the flu or something, and Sasha (the dog) was really nervous and yipping every time anyone moved. The doctor said that that morning, some workers had been installing a new window in an upstairs apartment--she just has a small office in a residential building--and they dropped a sheet of glass, and the noise totally traumatized Sasha, which was why he was acting so nervous. He was lying on a chair right behind the door, and when I got up to leave, I guess my opening the door scared him, because he flew out of the chair, latched onto my leg, and bit me! The doctor didn't see it, she just heard him yipping and said, 'Sasha, be quiet.' Stephanie: 'Doctor, your dog just bit me on the leg!' Dr.: 'Really?' I point to my thigh, from which I've just removed the vicious little fur-ball, and say 'YES!' The doctor glances down at my pants leg, doesn't see a hole, pats me on the leg, and says, 'Oh, you'll be fine. Have a good day!' And all I could think was, 'Do you not understand that, as an American, my cultural instinct is to sue you for this?!' "
Others (stunned silence) - "?!?!?!"
Stephanie - ". . . I mean, don't you guys think that it's kind of weird that the doctor didn't even want to look at the wound, to see whether the skin had been broken, and maybe disinfect it or something?"
German friend (finally regaining capacity for speech) - "Stephanie, do you still go to that doctor?!"
Stephanie - "Oh. Well, yeah! I really like her! I mean, in the end, the doctor was right, it wasn't THAT big a deal. The dog only broke the skin a LITTLE, and of course I had a big bruise on my thigh, but I had actually forgotten about it by the time I got home that day, and later it took me a while to figure out where the bruise came from. I just think Americans get too paranoid about germs and stuff, you know?"
*****
To recap: I was bitten by my doctor's dog, in my doctor's office. I was surprised that the doctor didn't offer to look at and disinfect the bite. However, I didn't think that (a) it was strange that my doctor brings her dog to the office with her, or (b) this might be a reason to find a new doctor.
So, does this mean that my attitudes are becoming Frencher? Get back to me on this!
Hope you're all doing well!
Love,
Steph
_________
And here's a photo from last January of Sasha in the waiting room, trying to get back into the doctor's office:
Making the World a Better Place
Readers who also frequent the blog Going 40 in a 20 Zone know that limericks are quite popular over there. But they make not know that back in the day, my college friends and I were fond of ending 'most any statement by saying "Questions, comments, limericks?" I'm not sure why we said it, but we did.
Today, I was e-mailing my boss about my upcoming trip to West Africa and the fact that breaking news on our project in North Africa means that I should probably go to both countries in one trip. The timing gets a bit tricky, because I need to make sure to have enough time in both countries to get some meaningful work done, but I start going a little stir-crazy if I'm out on the road too long. And I almost always get sick when I'm in West Africa (see prior posts on food poisoning/dysentery). At the end of this tediously detailed message, I wanted to ask for my boss's approval of my travel plans, and for whatever reason, I decided that the best way to word this request was by asking, "Questions, comments, limericks?"
He replied, "There was a young lady from . . . Sorry, but Minnesota doesn't rhyme with anything."
But I proved him wrong:
*(With thanks to my friend "I", who came up with "soda" for the final rhyme.)
My boss wrote back with the suggestion that "green" would be a better rhyme than "grim" for the correct English pronunciation of the country in questions ("buh-neen") and would also be appropriate, given my tendencies to illness there. I'm just so grateful to have a supervisor who helps me learn new things every day!
And to the American citizens whose tax dollars financed this important poetic contribution to ending poverty.
Today, I was e-mailing my boss about my upcoming trip to West Africa and the fact that breaking news on our project in North Africa means that I should probably go to both countries in one trip. The timing gets a bit tricky, because I need to make sure to have enough time in both countries to get some meaningful work done, but I start going a little stir-crazy if I'm out on the road too long. And I almost always get sick when I'm in West Africa (see prior posts on food poisoning/dysentery). At the end of this tediously detailed message, I wanted to ask for my boss's approval of my travel plans, and for whatever reason, I decided that the best way to word this request was by asking, "Questions, comments, limericks?"
He replied, "There was a young lady from . . . Sorry, but Minnesota doesn't rhyme with anything."
But I proved him wrong:
The coworker from Minnesota
With traveling plans over quota
Thinks too much time in Benin
Will make her quite grim
‘Cuz they don’t have enough diet soda*.
*(With thanks to my friend "I", who came up with "soda" for the final rhyme.)
My boss wrote back with the suggestion that "green" would be a better rhyme than "grim" for the correct English pronunciation of the country in questions ("buh-neen") and would also be appropriate, given my tendencies to illness there. I'm just so grateful to have a supervisor who helps me learn new things every day!
And to the American citizens whose tax dollars financed this important poetic contribution to ending poverty.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Dastardly Disappointment
It turns out that The Most Fun Work Thing I've Done in a Very Long Time was for naught: the requirement to include the "we-won't-give-money-to-anyone-who-supports-abortion" clause is included in the Corporation's statutes and is therefore unaffected by the Executive Order lifting the international gag rule. And I'm pretty sure that changing the statutes would take, quite literally, an act of Congress.
Will we never see the end of W's dastardliness?!
Will we never see the end of W's dastardliness?!
Friday, February 13, 2009
La fin d'une époque
Eh, oui, mes amis. C’est une journée de double malheur : non seulement un vendredi 13, mais aussi la fin de validité de ma carte de séjour et donc la fin légale de ma résidence française.
Je sais que je pourrais toujours avoir une nouvelle carte, mais je suis triste de voir la fin de cette série-ci, que j’ai tenue depuis presque 7 ans. Et après tout ce que j’ai fait pour l’avoir, j’en veux toujours énormément à la dame à la Préfecture qui a rejeté ma demande pour une carte de résidente (validité : 10 ans) l’année dernière !
Aujourd’hui, la France me manque.
Can't read this? Either study French harder or copy the text here to get the gist of it. Although I do feel compelled to add that what Babelfish translates literally as "I want some always enormously with" is actually an idiomatic expression for "I'm still very angry at".
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
French Haiku
So, I just got an emergency phone call from my friend E, the pharmacist. He was filling a prescription for some guy named Jason who had just been texted a haiku in French which he could not understand, and E thought I might be able to help the poor guy out. After much time spent with Jason spelling words to me over the phone because I couldn't understand his horrible pronunciation, it turns out that the haiku was this:
Ce matin j'ai pensé
où est le beurre de cacahuète?
et tu m'as rendu heureux.
Which, as I told Jason, means:
This morning I thought
where is the peanut butter?
and you made me happy.
Jason laughed, said thanks, and hung up! How unfair is that?! Now I'm left wondering who the guy was (I'm sure you all noticed that the masculine form of the adjective "heureux" indicates that the writer was male, or else really bad at French grammar) and what exactly they did with the peanut butter!
And wondering whether there's some kind of future in using my previously unknown super-powers for translating French haikus.
Ce matin j'ai pensé
où est le beurre de cacahuète?
et tu m'as rendu heureux.
Which, as I told Jason, means:
This morning I thought
where is the peanut butter?
and you made me happy.
Jason laughed, said thanks, and hung up! How unfair is that?! Now I'm left wondering who the guy was (I'm sure you all noticed that the masculine form of the adjective "heureux" indicates that the writer was male, or else really bad at French grammar) and what exactly they did with the peanut butter!
And wondering whether there's some kind of future in using my previously unknown super-powers for translating French haikus.
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