Ever since my first post about speaking French, I’ve been thinking a lot about other cultures. In the summer of 2001 I went on a tour through East-Central Europe. Specifically, we visited Poland, Czech Republic, Slovakia, Austria, and Hungary. I got this opportunity because I was recruited, at the last minute, as a member of the Ricks College Bluegrass Band accompanying the Folk Dance team. At the time, I couldn’t think of anything more uncool than singing cowboy songs, dressed up in cheesy Americana attire, accompanying corny dancing. It didn’t really occur to me that I was getting an almost free trip across Europe, and an exposure to many, many interesting musics and cultures from around the world, while at the same time learning the rich culture of American folk music.
Everything is exotic to someone. I remember thinking that Irish folk music was really interesting when I was about 18 (not that I don’t still think it is interesting). The folk music from Ukraine was something that really caught my attention at the festivals. A group came to Cuyamaca College last semester that specialized in the traditional music of Bulgaria—fascinating stuff! But, what I imagine is the case, is that back home, people think of this music as cheesy and corny; they probably view it the same way I was viewing the American music. When we were playing at the folk music/dance festivals, everyone just loved us; the little kids especially came alive when they heard our “authentic” cowboy music from the West. We were exotic, strange, and interesting to them!
I remember when we were in Vienna, there were these two girls, maybe in their late teens, that were really excited to get a picture with one of our singer/guitar players. He was tall, lanky, and tough—a real-life cowboy from Southern Utah where he grew up on a ranch. He wore a black Stetson pretty much everyday. He wore a pair of dress boots when he got gussied up. He spoke with a distinct drawl. These Austrian girls thought this guy was amazingly cool! They couldn’t wait to show their friends that they had met a real-life cowboy! I was there, in Vienna, thinking about how cool it was to be in such an old city, with so much sophisticated European culture, so much modern chic. I was embarrassed to be there, dressed like I was, performing the music that I was, associating with the folks I was, yet these girls thought that was really interesting and exciting.
Isn’t it strange how we only see these sorts of things in other cultures, but we think of ours as pretty boring? Or maybe I am the only one who thinks that…
Writing my last post got me thinking about my time at Melaleuca. I worked on the French team, speaking to the Québécois customers. Like I said, I was thrown for a pretty good loop when I first sat down and tried listening in on the French calls; I only recognized a few words interspersed with what sounded like a whole lot of gibberish.
The first thing that I remember is that the callers almost always had a hard time with my name. I’d say, “Merci d’appeler Melaleuca, la companie de mieux-être. Je m’appele Taylor. Comment puis je vous aider?” (Literally: “Thank you for calling Melaleuca, the company of better-being. My name is Taylor. How may I help you?”). And almost every time, they’d say “Quoi? Comment vous appelez-vous?” (What? What is your name?) Then I’d have to try to explain my name. Early on, after spelling it out for a woman, she thought about it for a second and exclaimed, “Oh, Taylor! Comme madame Elizabeth!” (“Oh, Taylor! Like Ms. Elizabeth!”) Though it felt kind of silly, every time one of the customers had a hard time with my name, I’d tell them, “You know, like Ms. Elizabeth.” That seemed to work. When I was in high school, our French teacher had us pick “French” names to use in class, so we’d get used to using the right accent and inflections (instead of constantly “breaking character” to say an English name). I was François. I always thought it was funny that I had both the French-est first name and the English-est last name possible. Maybe I should have just called myself François on the phone.
The second thing that I remember is that I was constantly being mistook for a woman. Apparently speaking French on the telephone makes me sound like a Québécois woman; many, many, many conversations would end with the caller saying, “Merci madame!” I did have one occasion when a woman corrected me because I accidentally referred to my self as a woman. She asked me what I did, how I learned to speak French. I told I was a student (“Je suis une étudiante”). She then said, “I think you mean un étudiant. You don’t sound like a woman…” So, maybe, folks were calling me a woman, ‘cause I was, accidentally, from time to time. I was pretty careful about that from then on.
French pronunciation is kind of slippery. Generally speaking, you don’t pronounce the last letter or two of a word. So, for instance, you would say “Je suis” (“I am”) like: Zhuh swee. So, the only way to tell the difference between masculine and feminine is often the pronunciation or the consonant at the end of the word: “un étudiant” (a male student) is: uh nay-too-dee-ah(n) (you kind of swallow the “n”. “Une étudiante” (a female student) is: oo nay-too-dee-ahnt. Another tricky thing is that if the next word begins with a vowel, then you do pronounce the last syllable of the word: “Je suis ici” (“I am here”) is: Zhuh sweez eecee. “Je suis la” (“I am there”) would be: Zhuh swee lah. You have to be really careful with those subtle differences in pronunciation, ‘cause sometimes being sloppy with it will mean you say something that you didn’t mean to say (like “I am a female student”).
A third thing I remember was the Québécois’ funny ways of saying some things. They have a kind of distinct accent. The word bien sounds almost like “bang.” Kind of like Mexican-Americans, the French Canadians of speak in a mixture of English and French. Once this lady was explaining that there was a little sticker on the box, “Il y a un petit sticker sur la boite.” We were selling these little lampshades for candles, and we’d hear “Je veux le petit lampshade” all the time. In France, a hotdog is simply called “un hotdog.” In Québec, they say “un chien chaud” (a literal translation of the word “hotdog”). The French don’t really have a word for “fun,” the closest thing they have is “amusing.” The Québécois just say “C’est fun!” (“That’s fun!”). My favorite ‘cois-ism was the word tabernacle. Tabernacle, in the correct context, is considered pretty profane. Why? I have no idea, though a lot of the French cuss words are connected to Catholicism somehow…one time, I had a pretty irate customer on the phone and he said, “Taber-freakin’-nacle!” That was totally awesome!
I used to speak French fluently. I minored in French in college and I even had a job where I was required to speak French on the telephone for about eight months. I was required to provide customer service, answer all sorts of questions about laundry detergents, vitamin supplements, and shampoos to those francophones up au Canada. When I first started there, I swore that my trainer was playing a trick on me, and that I was actually listening in on the Chinese line or something, ‘cause that Quebecois accent was très weird. I think I ended up picking it up, eh, and would have probably sounded like a Canadian if I was to speak with a Parisian.
Anyway, it’s been a long, long time since I have spoken French. I don’t know if I would even call myself a francophone anymore. Just today my daughter asked me how to say some random word in French, and I had absolutely aucune idée. I had to pass two language exams as part of my PhD coursework. I took the French test right away, and passed it with out any problem. But that was in 2005. I have spoken/read/studied almost zero French since then.
I really wish I was still fluent, that I could still speak coherently. There is something kind of reassuring about being able to communicate in a language other than your own. I tried pulling out La gloire de mon père (My Father’s Glory) by Marcel Pagnol the other day; I read that in my French 3 class in college. Unfortunately couldn’t get very far before I was a little lost with the vocabulary. It’s especially tough because French has these verb tenses that are only used in writing, so it gets kind of confusing when you go from conversation to literature. I used to be okay with stuff like that, but now it is très difficile.
I am wondering if I should take a French class or two to brush up. Maybe there is something I could do online…it’d be awesome for me if the French had won the Battle of Puebla (which is what Cinco de Mayo is all about), then maybe our neighbors to the south would speak French instead of Spanish. Then I could practice. C’est la vie.
My father-in-law is a little on the crazy side. He turned sixty a few weeks ago and he decided that he wanted to do something big for this occasion. That big thing ended up being he and his brother attempting to ride bicycles from Monterey to Mexico. That is a distance of about 500 miles. They left on a Monday morning and had plans of pulling into Imperial Beach on Saturday. That means they’d have to average about 80/day.
My father-in-law is not one that has been an avid cyclist for much of his life. He isn’t a man who has been really active or athletic all his life. In fact, my wife says she thinks that she had seen him wear shorts only once before. He concocted this plan not even a year before he planned to leave, and decided to get himself in shape.
The trip ended up being a little shorter than they had originally planned. The ended up starting in Big Sur and ended their trip in the UTC area of San Diego. From a high building or a hill you might be able to see Mexico from UTC, so I figure that’s close enough. I have to admit that I am really impressed that he pulled this off.
Anyway, on the day that was actually his birthday we decided to drive up and surprise him. I thought it would be really surprising to him if I was to ride up to him from behind and just kind of casually ask what he was doing way out here…so, we packed up the family and the bike (and the surfboard) and drove up to meet him. His schedule had him riding from Santa Maria to Carpinteria that day. They ended up getting kind of lost and disoriented because of the Air Force base that takes up most of the coast up there, so they ended up riding from Lompoc instead of Santa Maria. So, once we figured out where they were and what their trajectory was, I started riding in the opposite direction a few miles in front of them. Once I saw them (which was within five minutes of starting, luckily), I turned around and tried to catch them. He was very surprised, and still talks about how seeing me was a real “shot in the arm.”
I rode with them from about five miles north of Gaviota down to Carpinteria; about 50 miles. I guess that the first 15 miles from Lompoc were all uphill, which really wore them out. I caught up with them a few miles after that uphill, so they were already pretty worn out, but they still finished those 50 miles!
We basically followed Highway 1 and 101 until we got into Goleta where we then had to take surface streets. Santa Barbara has to be one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been. The mountains rise up almost right out of the water, and the city is squeezed between them and the ocean. There are sections where you can see this tan-pink sandstone uplifted out of the hillsides and it is really stunning. Like a lot of Southern California, Santa Barbara features a lot of classic Spanish-style architecture; the red tile roofs against the green mountains with the sandstone outcroppings is truly breathtaking at times.
Here is a map of the route we took: A = Lompoc, B = where I joined them, C = Carpinteria.
Here we are shortly after arriving at the hotel in Carpinteria, my father-in-law is in the middle, his brother on the right:
There is a world-famous surf spot just outside of Carpinteria called Rincon. I have seen photos of the place, and I’ve heard about it, and I’ve always wanted to go there. When it’s on, it is this insanely long right that peels around the point. Looking at this picture, you can see how that would work:
Well, since I was planning this trip and everything, I just had to surf Rincon. Of course, though, when I got there the place was totally flat, totally. It might as well have been Lake Michigan. In fact, I tried several other places in Santa Barbara County, but everything was ankle-high at best! So now I will have to go back someday, as I still haven’t had a chance to even paddle out at Rincon (or anywhere else in Santa Barbara County).
I re-discovered this today. I think it is stunning. Not that I don’t like the original version (by Joy Division), but this interpretation feels so much more desperate. I am especially drawn in during the second verse (“Why is the bedroom so cold?”). The Norwegian accent only heightens the starkness.
“Love Will Tear Us Apart” by Susanna and the Magical Orchestra (from Melody Mountain):
I’ve been meaning to post these pictures for a while. For some reason I have a really hard time getting my wife’s camera to take a clear picture without a flash. I played with a four-part consort today, and I have to say that I am even more impressed with this instrument everyday. I have really been trying to stay objective about it, trying to not get excited, but just listen and play. Still, it is really a joy to play…now if I could just get some gigs!
My new viola da gamba showed up on Friday afternoon. As you may be aware, I’ve been waiting for this thing for about eight months. The luthier originally told me it’d probably be done around November (of 2009), then December/January, then March, then April, then May, then June. About four weeks ago he told me it would for sure be here in time for a gig I had on the 19th…it wasn’t.
The worst part of the whole situation was just that I sold me old instrument in an effort to get the funds together to pay for this one. I sold it at a time that I thought would be appropriate, and that I wouldn’t be sans viol for too terribly long; I was terribly wrong. I’ve been without an instrument (or was until Friday) for six months.
All of that is behind me now, though, as I have a brand new, shiny instrument in my house. Technically it is here on a trial; if I am not happy with the instrument, I can send it back, and be cleared of the financial obligation(s).
Friday was pretty busy, and I had to play that house concert. Here is a picture of me getting ready for that.
Cute kids.
Anyway, I’ve been a little short on time recently, so I’ve only been able to play for a few hours since I got the instrument. I still haven’t totally decided if I am keeping it or not. I was always planning on it, but I am trying to be as objective as possible. It’s a lot of money, and this is likely the last shot I’ll get at buying a “professional-quality” instrument, so I want to make sure everything is right. I am pretty happy with how it sounds, very happy in fact. I haven’t had a chance to play with an ensemble yet (that’ll come tomorrow), but it sounds gorgeous all by itself here in my living room. There are a few cosmetic issues that I am a little worried about, and they are the thing(s) that are keeping me up in the air for the moment. Basically, the varnish seems sub par. There are several places where it is quite thin, so that I can see the un-colored wood beneath it, and it feels a little rough overall. Technically the sound is what should be my biggest concern, and I am pretty happy with that, but, the varnish can be a pretty important part of the equation for the future of the instrument’s health. I am going to write the luthier and see what he has to say about the varnish.
Alright, alright, so here is a picture. I’ll try to get some more detailed ones soon.
I’ve been working away at my dissertation, and I really have been working on it—not as much or as consistently as I had hoped, but I am working on it everyday. Yesterday I worked for about five hours and came a way with about nine pages of single-spaced notes.
I downloaded this program called Freedom a while back that seemed to make all the difference yesterday. Basically, Freedom locks you out of your internet connection for a specified amount of time. The only way to override this is to restart my computer, and while that isn’t that big of a deal, it is enough of a hassle (and a reminder that I am supposed to be working) that I just worked right through. The time limit gives me a sense of urgency, that I only have two hours to get this done. I am actually kind of excited to get back to work again today!
Here’s a an interesting little tid-bit: Brian WIlson has only ever won one Grammy, and it was in 2004 for an instrumental track. It’s odd that he never won any in the 60s…who was winning them? A (‘cause I just looked it up): Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band got Best Album in 1967, “Michelle” got Best Song in 1966. Blood Sweat and Tears won Best Album in 1968. Bridge Over Troubled Water (and “Bridge Over Troubled Water”) totally cleaned up in 1970 with Best Recording, Best Album, and Best Song.
Okay, so the new instrument is actually on its way today! It finally shipped on Wednesday and is scheduled for delivery some time today. I am pretty excited to finally see/play/hear this thing! I’ll certainly post some pictures and other info as soon as I get a chance. I am actually playing a concert tonight on double bass (with which I am quite out of practice), so I might try to hold off on playing the new instrument too much until that is over…with a good deal of emphasis on the word might.
Perhaps you are aware of Beck’s “Record Club.” If you’ve been following my blog for a year or so, you might remember me bringing this up before. Basically, Beck has this on-going project wherein he will pull his friends together and they will re-make a favorite album. Generally, these sessions happen quickly, recording the whole album in one day. The first album they did was The Velvet Underground & Nico. He then releases one song each week. This week we get a new album: Live at the Acropolis by Yanni. Yes, that Yanni.
