Letter from France 14

 

Sunday, November 26, 1989

born: Eugene Ionesco 1912

died: Tommy Dorsey 1956

1942—Casablanca premieres in New York

 

Folks,

 

See what happens when you encourage these things? Don't worry, you haven't been placed on my junk mail list. For some reason I had an extra envelope with your address on it. I don't know why. Anyway, I'm getting paid to be here and write this, though the government doesn't know that's what I'm doing. And I'm sure you're getting paid to read it. So...

 

Thanksgiving was a lot colder this year than I remembered it being. There also didn't seem to be that same spirit of conviviality and thankfulness of others around me that I have come to expect. Most important, though, there was no turkey! After explaining to everyone that I was on holiday and it was obligatory for me to go and overeat, I made a sort of Shepherd's pie for dinner. For some reason my explanation of Thanksgiving to the French folks dwelt on the concept of freedom from oppression. It seemed topical.

 

Living in the school hotel is interesting. The best parts are that the hotel is heated and actually on the school grounds. I have a one-minute walking commute to school. This means I get to read in bed most mornings. I also live with lots of different people that stay for anywhere from one night to three months. We all have our own bedrooms and share all other spaces including the kitchen. I am becoming a social scientist. I have decided the reason French people don't wash their dishes is because they think the food they make tastes so good that I will want to try some the next morning. I decline. Why they don't like to empty ash trays is still a mystery.

 

My twice-weekly juggling classes with the first-year students have become more of a laboratory for me to try out my French. Lately other students have begun showing up at the end of class to hear me try to express—in French—summations, advice, general philosophy and the latest mishap I had in town. I think I may have stepped over some boundary, however. Last week at least one student started yelling, "Speak English" when I was trying to explain how we were going to present our demonstrations in December.

 

I fear for my accent, though. Last week I went into a shop and asked for une télécarte while holding my hand up to my ear as if it were a phone. (A télécarte is a card with a magnetic strip that lets you use some of the public telephones.) With three women behind the counter, not one of them understood that I wanted to buy a card to use the pay telephones. A few days later I went into the library to get two books. The only word I said was merçi to the woman after the books were checked out. She didn't understand me. Now how many possible things could I have been saying in these situations? It just doesn't strike me as such a big stretch to figure out that I might have been thanking her for the books or wanting to buy a telecard. Of course, it could be that she has never been thanked before. Nikolaus, a student, is teaching me how to say (in French) "Now, stop and think about the context of the situation before you make any response." I plan on starting all my conversations with this from now on. Maybe this will replace the excusatory case.

 

On the positive side, I am beginning to dream in French, which I consider progress. Unfortunately, when I wake up I don't understand the dream. Either my subconscious speaks much better French than I do or my accent is too strong. By the time I get out the dictionary I've forgotten most of it anyway.

 

Last week I went into Paris on Sunday to spend the day in a recording studio. One of my star students was getting his music finalized. It's great. It was fun, but I was a bit disappointed to not see any groupies. Dorothée wasn't even there though her name came up in conversation. Apparently, she is not that well thought of in the industry. I shall wait and see for myself before I make up my mind.

 

Don't quite know what to make of this, and it seems the modern-day world is really becoming illiterate. I like to think of these letters as a small attempt to halt or even reverse this trend. I'm starting to get letters from articulate, thoughtful people who actually stutter when they write. What does this mean?

 

Got a nice letter back from Herb Caen so at least some part of him is still alive. Maybe just his hand. Isn't it nice sometimes when a whole week goes by and your city manages to not make it into the international news scene? Sleep well.

 

ttttttake ccccccare,

 

Todd Strong, Professeur du Jonglage

 

Centre National des Arts du Cirque

1, rue du Cirque

51000 Châlons-sur-Marne

FRANCE

 

Return to Letters from France main page