A bit of a wash-out

We were discussing cultural differences the other day in class and the subject turned, naturally, to bidets. 'Do you use bidets?' one of my students enquired. 'Err, well, not exactly', I replied (meaning no). 'Not even rich people?' (apparently this qualifies you better to have such a piece of equipment in your house). 'Well, it's not really the culture, we just don't use them generally'. Expressions of confusion passed over the faces of the majority of the class and I could see some of them wrestling with whether they dare ask 'so how DO you clean yourselves after going to the toilet?'. No-one asked the question but I could see already that their view of the prim and proper English person had dropped in ranking considerably. 'Anyway', I continued breezily 'I use mine to wash my hair in' (well, I DO. You can direct the nozzle in such a way as to keep your ears reasonably dry and prevent water running down the back of your neck). Now people really started to look upset. I saw one woman at the back of the class starting to collect her books and pens together in preparation to leave. I realised immediately I had proferred too much information and tried to cover my tracks. 'I'm the only resident in the house so it's not as if other people use the bidet and then I go in and wash my hair'. I could tell they were now thinking a) she doesn't use the bidet for the purpose it was intended and b) she does use the bidet for the purpose it was intended AND washes her hair in it. Clearly it was a no-win situation and I tried to crack a joke saying 'People always tell me I have beautiful hair and ask me what's the secret. I tell them that I have a special method for washing my hair!'. No-one laughed except for me and I found myself laughing into the silent space of the classroom. Clearly the conversation had gone too far. I coughed, flushing deeply and croaked 'Err, page 53 in your books....present continuous...!'

Taken by surprise

The other evening, I was walking along with my neighbour. We were on our way to a dinner at the local restaurant to celebrate 'Italian Women's Day'. As we turned the corner, I saw a gang of youths huddled in a shadowy corner laughing about something. They stared over at us and, having lived in London, was naturally nervous about their reaction as we approached. One of them stood up, towering about me, dressed in black with his hood pulled down firmly over his eyes 'Happy Women's Day!' he remarked cheerily 'Enjoy your evening!'. His friends nodded their agreement as we passed and one of them handed me a bunch of mimosa flowers -a customary gift for this special day. I was amazed and tried hard to imagine a similar reaction in London - a torrent of abuse and expletives ...if you're lucky!! Well, how refreshing, I thought and proceeded to tell my Italian students this story for the rest of the week.

Je ne parle pas le francais

I have a wonderful neighbour – when I say neighbour, I mean about a 20 minute walk down to the river, across the bridge and up the other side. He always reminds me of Keith Richards from the stones, but on a good day (if ever one was possible ) and lives contentedly with his family in retirement, planting corn and occasionally changing the attire of his scarecrow. Thing is, whenever we meet, he always insists on speaking French to me. He knows I’m English but perhaps somewhere along the line thinks it’s a short hop from French to English (indeed perhaps he has a point, because whenever you hear the French speaking English, they are in fact still speaking French). A typical ‘conversation’ between us might then go … (me) Buon Giorno (KR) Bon Jour (me) tut, come stai? (KR) ma femme est a la maison (me) Il tempo e bello (KR) il fait trop chaude aujourd hui.. etc etc rendering any form of meaningful dialogue virtually impossible. And so it was one fine afternoon that I happened to be driving back towards the village when my car spluttered to an inexplicable halt. Despite my ‘efforts’ meaning I tapped the speedometer and rattled the gear stick, it refused to start. Getting out of my car, I peered about but quickly realised that as it was 1 o’clock, the nation had ground to a halt and was collectively occupied with scoffing plates of pasta and bolognaise sauce. Forget the global stock markets, the queues of potential customers, let’s just shut shop and come back later when we’re full. Just as I was about to give up and…. and what…? I spotted a lone figure ambling towards me. God bless him, it was ‘Keith’. I sent up a silent prayer. Here was salvation. No waiting around for bored mechanics to turn up, no frantic phonecalls to explain tardiness, everything was going to be alright. Shaking his hand very enthusiastically, I started toexplain my predicament but got no further than ‘as I was driving down this road…’ when he interrupted me with a wild sweep of the hand ‘les vaches sont malades’. I stopped, confused, and wondered why he had embarked upon a conversation about some cows not feeling particularly well when there were more pressing issues at hand. He continued in a theatrical manner ‘le lait est vert’ explaining that these poor beleaguered cows were producing green milk. Whilst I momentarily sympathised with them, a temporary depression started to descend around me. My initial hopes of a speedy resolution to this matter were rapidly fading and as I struggled to translate with my rusty schooldays French, realised he was now talking about the benefits to health of consuming petits poids. ‘Please, I implored. The car… the car…probleme!!’ pointing frantically in its direction. ‘Ah oui, j’avais un Citroen…non un Renault…’ and he wandered off, physically and mentally, leaving me stranded bringing to mind the frantic castaway waving manically at a ship that carries on and leaves him shipwrecked. If it wasn’t for Alfredo and his tractor that came chugging along 10 minutes later, I would still be there, gazing wistfully down at the village while I waited for the help that would never come.

Doing a runner

Well, the other afternoon, I made the ritual announcement 'shall we go for a walk then?'. TT understands the question well and immediately lies on her back and begins to 'paddle' with her paws. This, roughly interpreted, means 'you bet!' and as we were about to set off, her 'friend' joined us - this black and white mutt with long pointy ears. Not wishing to adopt any sort of 'Pied Piper' label, I walked quickly ahead of them but they interpreted this as 'let's race' and trotted dutifuly behind me. About 20 minutes down the road, having crossed the river, I met a couple of woodcutters and began to chat to them with my two 'companions' in tow. A second later, I turned round and noticed that TT was no longer with us. The mutt and I exchanged annoyed glances. Clearly out company wasn't enought to keep her interested. A quick look around satisfied me that she was no longer in the vicinity. As there is a fairly busy road that circumnavigates the village, I thought it best to walk back in the hope of meeting her at some point. I must admit, I did feel somewhat embarrassed at that point. After all, she had 'invited' her friend to come along and then done a runner. I was left with this mutt, luckily not having to make polite conversation or to cover the fact that she had left without a word (!). Finally arriving back home, I turned the corner to see her sunning herself on the doorstep seemingly without a care in the world. For whatever reason, she'd had enough and trotted back home of her own accord. Tut, talk about highly strung. Her mutt pal then walked away, clearly offended at having been blown out and even though I scolded her for her bad manners, she just rolled her eyes and had a good stretch, clearly unconcerned at the furore she had just caused.