Franglais

Two weeks ago, I headed out to the tram stop close to where the interview for the Geneva Environment Network was going to take place.  Central Geneva is very intuitive, with street signs everywhere, but, all of a sudden, I was in the suburbs with very poor directions.  Great.

"The Smurfs" Apartment Complex

I started asking people at the stop if they knew where the street, building, anything was.  A few had no idea.  Several others, "parlez-vous anglais?".  Still others, after trying both French and English, would shake their heads - "espagnol?" or not even offering another language, knowing I wouldn't know it.

This seems to be pretty normal.  Geneva is a bit like New York City, surrounded by a completely different state / country and a bay / lake - in the same way, the culture and the people are different from anywhere else in Switzerland.  This being the European UN headquarters, most people are from somewhere else, and, most people speak English, French, and usually at least one other language well (intimidating).

On Thursday, my group went out for a farewell lunch for a fellow intern.  My boss, Diana, who always mulls over her words before offering what's on her mind, turned to me as I was looking over the menu.

Diana: I invite you.
Me: To what?
Diana: I invite you.
Me: Thank you, but to what?
Gianfranco (co-worker): She's inviting you.
Me: Oh, ok...

Me to Gianfranco, when Diana wasn't paying attention: Does that mean she's paying?

Most people I've met at work have already labeled me as "English-speaking" and have stopped talking to me in French entirely, forgetting I can.  Often, they'll have an entire conversation in French and afterward synthesize it for me, leaving me wondering, was I not supposed to hear the whole story?

The person who most consistently talks to me in French is my office-mate, Dimitry, a Russian who grew up in Utah, of all places. (But after he defended the Mormon faith by telling me that Glenn Beck practices it, well... best avoided)

I finally got around to taking some dance classes here.  On Thursday, I arrived early for the modern-jazz class, got ready, and sat down in the lobby.  From one of the studios, I could hear a class in session, apparently dancing to the Pussycat Doll's "When I Grow Up".  Exactly on the hour, the door opened... and 6-year-olds came out... in leotards and ballet shoes.  I mean, I guess the song has a decent message for kids, but.. it's the Pussycat Dolls.

Dance classes in French scare me.  I'm always afraid I'm not going to understand the directions and end up doing something stupid.  But the class ended up being a carbon copy of the typical jazz class in the States, and all her qualifying statements were exactly the same.  I guess all dance classes really are created equal.  And, of course, we ended up learning a small routine to Michael Buble's "Georgia on my Mind".

So far, this has been a great place to practice French.  When I was in Paris, I got to a point where every new French word replaced an English word.  Here, switching back and forth prevents that from happening again (yay for remembering my own language!).  And never knowing what's coming up next is pretty fun.

Out for a Sunday stroll

Stretch!