I have this really bad habit of not taking the time to fully read directions. I'm too impatient, and they're completely unnecessary at least half of the time anyway. In my SAT prep class in high school, they kept stressing the importance of taking the time to carefully read the instructions. They always went something like this: Read the following excerpt, and, afterward, answer the questions based on it. I wouldn't know what to do with a "following excerpt" except read it, and those handy question marks at the ends of those sentences always tip me off about the fact that they're looking for an answer. That, and the fact that they're followed by four statements with bubbles next to them.
Today, though, I was really kicking myself (among other things) for not paying a little closer attention.
I've been wanting to print some photos to mail out to people as postcards, but, until recently, had no idea where to find a digital photo kiosk. Stores like Target or Wal-Mart, all-in-one shopping centers, just don't exist here. I finally came across a little photo center in one of the larger metro stations, and, with my roommate, took the time today to pop my memory card in and choose a few pictures to print. The total came to 2,50 euros, but I noticed a little sign that said that the machine didn't take change. A bit of a bummer, since I have a ton I need to get rid of, but I shrugged and stuck my smallest bill, a ten, into the slot. The machine printed my pictures, thanked me for my patronage, and then returned to its main screen. No clinking of 7,50 worth of coins in the change slot.
"What the?" I dug around some more, my roommate pushed various buttons, but still nothing. Figuring I'd been cheated out of almost 8 bucks in change, I glanced around for a number to call. Then I saw the little sign again. "Attention: cette machine ne rend pas la monnaie."
I swore. I'll admit it. I also kicked the machine as hard as I could. Upon receiving the blow, its screen went black for a second and my roommate, afraid that I'd broken it, started to hurry me away from the scene of the crime. Turns out it was just the display re-setting.
The verb prendre means "to take." The verb rendre means "to give back." Only one letter's distinction, but it was the difference between me reading the sign as "This machine doesn't take change" and, as it was meant, "This machine doesn't give change." Suck.
So, if you get a post card from me, know that it was at great expense to my wallet, my pride, and a Parisian photomaton's well-being.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Always, always, with the bread.
I love bread. Always have. As a little kid, I would sneak slices of cheap white bread from the bag, roll it between my palms like play-doh, and pop the newly-formed bread balls into my mouth. As a teenager, I could be found on many a summer night rolling up to the WINCO checkout stand at 1 AM, my only purchases a Green Squall-flavored Powerade and a loaf of French bread. And now, in this wonderful, artisan bakery-filled land, hardly a day goes by without me leaving a boulangerie, demi-baguette tradi or brioche au chocolat in greedy hand.
Recently, I realized that my love of bread extends beyond a mere appreciation and into a full-blown fixation, as evidenced by the fact that it is, apparently, on my mind even when it's nowhere in sight. These stories illustrate just what I'm talking about.
As a high school freshman in Monsieur Raney's French class, we were taught our articles of clothing. A skirt is une jupe, a blouse is un chemisier, etc. Pretty straightforward stuff. And I felt pretty confident with the material when it came time for our in-class review before the chapter test. As was custom, Raney danced around the room, pointing at the things he wanted us to name, while we shouted "un chapeau! les bottes, les bottes!" He then came to me.
"Haley, qu'est-ce-qu'on porte à la piscine?" (What do you wear to the swimming pool?)
"Un maillot de pain," I reported proudly.
"Un maillot de quoi???"
"Un maillot de.....pain?" I repeated, losing confidence.
At this point Monsieur Raney descended into a case of adult giggles that lasted for a full two minutes.
"Maillot (gasp) de bain. Bain." He said, still trying to catch his breath. "Un maillot de bain is a swimming suit," he explained. "Un maillot de pain would be a suit of bread."
Once I realized my mistake, I was right there with M. Raney on this one. Something about the visual of some guy showing up to the pool with a bread Speedo, ready for a long day o' swimming, is just so darn funny.
And then, a few days ago, craving some good old-fashioned English, I bought a book of British poetry, "From Spenser to Arnold," and took it with me on our bus tour of the Loire Valley. There I was, lovin' on Coleridge, when I came across a phrase that I just couldn't decipher.
Languished in bread? I know it's been a while since I was in a lit class, but I just don't get where he's going with this image... He's...suffering in the stifling bread-and-water-alone conditions of lower-class life?
I had to stare at it for another few seconds before I realized that what it actually said was "languished in pain." You know, pain. That English word denoting discomfort or injury. The sad thing is that, if I hadn't figured out that my confusion was French-induced, I, in true English-major form, would have eventually forced some significance into the phrase "languished in bread."
Recently, I realized that my love of bread extends beyond a mere appreciation and into a full-blown fixation, as evidenced by the fact that it is, apparently, on my mind even when it's nowhere in sight. These stories illustrate just what I'm talking about.
As a high school freshman in Monsieur Raney's French class, we were taught our articles of clothing. A skirt is une jupe, a blouse is un chemisier, etc. Pretty straightforward stuff. And I felt pretty confident with the material when it came time for our in-class review before the chapter test. As was custom, Raney danced around the room, pointing at the things he wanted us to name, while we shouted "un chapeau! les bottes, les bottes!" He then came to me.
"Haley, qu'est-ce-qu'on porte à la piscine?" (What do you wear to the swimming pool?)
"Un maillot de pain," I reported proudly.
"Un maillot de quoi???"
"Un maillot de.....pain?" I repeated, losing confidence.
At this point Monsieur Raney descended into a case of adult giggles that lasted for a full two minutes.
"Maillot (gasp) de bain. Bain." He said, still trying to catch his breath. "Un maillot de bain is a swimming suit," he explained. "Un maillot de pain would be a suit of bread."
Once I realized my mistake, I was right there with M. Raney on this one. Something about the visual of some guy showing up to the pool with a bread Speedo, ready for a long day o' swimming, is just so darn funny.
And then, a few days ago, craving some good old-fashioned English, I bought a book of British poetry, "From Spenser to Arnold," and took it with me on our bus tour of the Loire Valley. There I was, lovin' on Coleridge, when I came across a phrase that I just couldn't decipher.
Languished in bread? I know it's been a while since I was in a lit class, but I just don't get where he's going with this image... He's...suffering in the stifling bread-and-water-alone conditions of lower-class life?
I had to stare at it for another few seconds before I realized that what it actually said was "languished in pain." You know, pain. That English word denoting discomfort or injury. The sad thing is that, if I hadn't figured out that my confusion was French-induced, I, in true English-major form, would have eventually forced some significance into the phrase "languished in bread."
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