How to Accidentally Hit on a Toulousain

DIARY EXTRACT

(Edited for the purpose of this post, and to decode my messy handwriting)

Monday, December 28^th 9:30pm, Somewhere in the West of Ireland, 2015

Dear Reader, 

     ‘Les Misérables’ is just starting now on the Christmas side of television, so as you can guess, I’m at home in Ireland.

     I was out with two of my besties -  Méadhbh and Rob the other night; St. Stephen’s Night it was. It’s one of those big nights of the year in Ireland, you know, December 26^th. It’s the day after Christmas, so everyone has played their fair share of games of Scrabble with their Aunts and Uncles, and now that means it’s time to have left over turkey for dinner and indulge in the box of Roses or Heroes your Uncle John brought when he came to visit; Cursing and blinding at your sister for putting the wrappers back in the box when you’re there tossing the chocolate treats like a salad in an effort to find all of the good ones.

     When the evening hits, it’s time to head into town; Donning whatever tacky Christmas jumper or sparkly top you might have; Grabbing that bottle of Merlot from the wine cabinet on your way out, you know, the present Auntie Mary brought when she came to visit.

     I wasn’t supposed to go out. Naturally, I was supposed to be writing, but there was too much Christmas television on as a distraction and I thought: If I’m watching Home Alone for the tenth time, then I might as well be out, and not writing.

Wow, I’m such a good writer.

     Star Trek was on the Christmas side of television when I got to Rob’s house for pre-drinks, and he nearly cursed my name when I asked him if it was Star Wars (sorry) and he thanked the stars that Éamonn (another one of our besties) wasn’t there to hear me say that because he might have cried. There could have been tears.

But there were no tears. I gave the bottle of Merlot to Rob’s parents, and before long we were on our way.

     In an Irish Pub with Méadhbh, we spotted an Aiden Gillen look-a-like (Little Finger from Game of Thrones) and freaked out with excitement.

The poor man didn’t know what was going on.

     Then we went on to our favourite hipster bar with actual student prices. The music was great, but my memories are hazy now; Arctic Monkeys and classic 80’s tunes I think it was. It’s a funny thing that; Remembering that the music was great, but not really remembering the music itself.

And of all the people in the crowded pub that night, of course I ended up chatting to the only French people there. My fondness for France must have radiated through my snowman hoodie, or maybe I just smell them out, like those service dogs you see at airports.

I was on my own briefly in the smoking area when I got separated from the others, but I turned around suddenly when I heard French mumblings, and the tipsy Mairéad inside of me amplified X10, saying Yes, I am so going to talk to these French people, and it’s going to be fine, and I won’t make any grammar mistakes.

     I don’t remember it quite as clearly as the ice palace in Frozen, but I know those guys must’ve been really nice to put up with me insisting on speaking broken French the whole night, even though they had perfect English. I assured them that they had phenomenal English, and I just really needed to practise my French before I returned to Paris (clearly). I was excited to learn that one of them was from Toulouse, because I had been planning on visiting a friend in Toulouse, so I plagued him with questions on what I should do there, and what I should see. Still, he answered them politely. All was going well as I chatted with him and his friends, but alas,

 I was about to make a grave grammar mistake.

 (C’est pas grave)

     I noticed that the Toulousain was wearing a really heavy winter coat, despite the fact that we had moved away from the smoking area and were all dancing around in a crowded bar with no air-con. Now I’m not trying to be all stereotypical but I’ve noticed a lot of people wearing heavy winter coats in France even when the sun is out; (Flash forward to March 2016 when I was lounging with my ice-cream in the Luxembourg Gardens having just gotten off work early, and everyone around me was sunbathing in their winter coats…?) That’s fine if you want to do that. I’m all for alternative styles and I’m not here to judge, but it just confused me and I wanted to know the reason behind it.

Maybe I’m the one with the unusual habit of wearing a not-so-winter jacket à Paris, ‘cause France is a sauna compared to cold Ireland, especially when you live in the windy west of the Emerald Isle. Maybe the French aren’t as used to the cold as I am, so that’s why they rely so much on their winter coats, even when Paris is just a tiny bit cold, according to me.

     Anyway, at the time I still wanted to know why the Toulousain was wearing his winter coat while dancing, and that’s when the pas  grave grammar mistake occurred. In French, and on the crowded dancefloor, I asked the Toulousain:

     ‘Are you not too warm in that coat?’

That sounds fine, doesn’t it? There doesn’t seem to be anything at all wrong with that question. Well, I’ll explain. There’s this one great thing (of many) about French that makes speaking it a lot easier for a non-native speaker like myself. Should you raise your voice at the end of a sentence when speaking French, it automatically turns your sentence into a question, so you don’t even have to worry about that whole grammatical way of forming questions (Est-ce-que etc.) That stuff is only for the written form of questions. We do the same thing in English, but technically it’s not correct to do so in English, and we only do it when we’re being sarcastic or if we’re a movie’s antagonist like a bond villain, for example. You wouldn’t get any marks for it in an oral exam, but in a French oral exam, you would. Well isn’t that great!? Yes, but, the music and chattering on the dancefloor was so loud that night that the Toulousain didn’t hear my voice raising at the end of my question, so to him, it was a statement. At this point I was thinking, well this isn’t a huge grammatical mistake of mine, because obviously he’ll realise that I meant for it to be a question. (C’est pas grave)

It’s cool. It’s fine, I thought. The Toulousain is going to answer my question now, and I’ll finally know why I keep seeing winter coats in France. But you already know, that’s not how it’s going to go. The Toulousain said to me in English:

‘You’re really pretty! Would you like a drink?’

I was taken aback to say the least, because his outburst came out of nowhere, and he just ignored my question and I still really really wanted to know what was up with the winter coat. Still, I was paying rent in Paris and only working 12 hours a week. I wasn’t going to turn down a free drink.

     ‘What’s there to lose?’ I said to the Toulousain, and followed him to the bar. (Hey, I never said I was good at jokes, but I am ‘good’ at puns)

     Two minutes into my vodka coke, I realised what I’d done. (C’est pas grave)

 My Secondary School French teacher’s voice swam around in my mind saying;

     ‘J’ai finit means I am finished, but Je suis finit means I am dead!’ and the whole class laughed, saying who would ever confuse those phrases with each other? Then the teacher said:

     ‘J’ai chaud means I am warm, or I have a temperature, but je suis chaud means-

Oh!

Oh.

I nearly choked on my vodka coke.

So,

Instead of being nerdy like I thought I was being and asking the Toulousain why he was wearing a winter coat and why there are so many coats on people in France, and woww the weather is so much colder in Ireland than it is in France.

Well, what I actually said was:

     ‘You are so attractive in that coat’

-          to put it mildly.

(C’est pas grave)

     And so at the bar, when this realisation hit me, I flinched like a gazelle in the wild when they hear a noise and think it’s a hyena, but cool as I am, I just pretended it was because I really loved the song that the DJ had just put on, and it was a nice surprise. Yep, I played along and got away with it. Hey, at least my brain waited to make this grammatical error for the cute guy at the bar, rather than a random teacher at my work place, or I don’t know, maybe one of the random infinite strangers I see on a regular basis walking around Paris with heavy winter coats. Meanwhile, in the same weather, the sun could easily burn me. (Hey, don’t judge, I have Irish skin!)

     Fast forward to the following morning –

I wake up in the guest bedroom at Rob’s house, dehydrated, regretting spending God knows how much money on chips, and reaching for my phone to delete my 5am Facebook friend request sent to the Toulousain. Yep, because misusing grammar embarrasses me that much, but certainly not enough to make me stay at home, skip St. Stephen’s Night in the first place, and write that chapter I was supposed to write for that book I should be writing right now.

That said, I had a fantastic night!

I can’t wait to do it all over again next Christmas when my grammar skills have improved, and this time I’ll remember to order many pints of water from the bar.

Moral of the story:

If you’re drinking vodka cokes, drink plenty of water too, because the dehydrated sand storm scene from ‘The Mummy’ is not a good look.

Also, grammar, much like punctuation, is very important. Don’t disregard it!

(… And I still don’t know what the deal is with those winter coats.)

C’est pas grave.

Ciao,

Madame Mayreed.

    

Limbo

DIARY EXTRACTS

 

Friday, November 13^th  Paris Orly Airport, 9:36am 2015

Dear reader,

I’m sitting in the airport lounge right now, waiting for my flight to London Heathrow. That’s right, I’m flying on Friday the 13^th, oooohhhh. (That was supposed to be the sound of a ghost)

Well, the Friday the 13^th thing doesn’t scare me, but airplanes are scary every day of the year. I’d say I’m mildly afraid of flying on a good day, but it’s always weather dependant, or just completely sporadic other times. Sometimes I can get very anxious, like today.

I wasn’t always like this, but then remember Malaysian Airlines and Air Asia? A lot of plane crashes have been brought to our attention in the media this past year and a half, and it scares the living daylights out of me. I know, I know, airplane crashes are so unlikely but I can’t help but feel anxious when there’s turbulence or when the plane does that dip, leaving moths swarming in my tummy; Not butterflies, but moths, because the butterfly feeling tends to have positive undertones. (although I’m not too fond of butterflies either)

It’s ironic because I hate to travel; Airports are stressful and too crowded, and flying is so uncomfortable. But then I love to travel; Seeing new, beautiful places and writing about them afterwards.

Ugh, I wish teleportation existed.

I was only in this airport two weeks ago when I was coming back to Paris from Dublin after the Oireachtas Festival. God, was that two weeks ago? It really doesn’t feel like it. It feels like two days ago!

I’m off to Oxford today for my sister Bríd’s graduation, so it’s sure to be lovely. Anyway, this was a very quick chat with you because now I have a headache and I have to go and board my plane.

Ciao,

Madame Mayreed. xxx

P.S Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I have this completely under control and I’m worrying about nothing.

It’s all in my head.

Sunday, November 15^th 5:40pm, A Train in the United Kingdom, 2015.

Dear Reader,

I should be in Paris right now, but instead I’m on a train to Sheffield with my sister Bríd. On Friday evening, we were just in the door of the hotel in Oxford after we had all had dinner in a restaurant. That’s when I got a FaceTime call from my best friend Caoimhe back home, asking me if I was okay after what had just happened. I didn’t know what she was talking about.

When I looked at my phone properly, I finally saw that it was as good as frozen; Chopping and changing and unable to cope with the bombardment of caring messages flashing through to inquire about my safety.

There were terrorist attacks in Paris; One of them in The Bataclan in District 11. I’ve walked by there before, and it’s awful to think that it was peaceful then but it will never be peaceful now. I can’t even say ISIS without wanting to gag, and I hold my breath so I won’t cry, but I don’t think I will. There is something calming about trains, and switching between connecting trains so that your mind is always wandering to different places. I’m on a train in the UK, so I can just pretend I’m going to Hogwarts, and not entering limbo in Sheffield, where I’ll wait around, deciding on which step to take next; Not that there’s anything wrong with Sheffield, home to Arctic Monkeys and my lovely sister. It just feels wrong and I shouldn’t be here. I should be there.

I detach myself from the situation like I often do, and pretend it’s not the 11^th arrondissement of Paris that’s in the papers, but the 11^th district of Panem rather, from The Hunger Games. It’s just a part of the books I missed; The pages that had to have been missing from my copy. Fiction. That’s what it is.

But then I think that’s total BS, and I should stop being so ignorant. This happened, and it’s heinous, but there’s no point in pretending it didn’t happen. What an insult that would be to all of the people who have died. If I’m going to make a Hunger Games comparison, then let it centre around the fact that I live around District 13 of Paris – The Hunger Games’ rebel district; Parisiennes pledging to continue eating out at cafés without fear. That’s what we all like to hear. Don’t let the terrorists win – Isn’t that what the papers say?

I’m not concerned for my own safety, but I’m heartbroken for Paris and France, because it feels like my home now. I can’t imagine being French and having this happen to my country, landing it in a state of emergency. Ireland hasn’t even been in a state of emergency, not even when times were dire up North.

I’ve been in touch with the school where I work, and everyone is safe and okay, although ‘okay’ doesn’t seem like a suitable word. A teacher from a neighbouring school was among the dead, and I didn’t know her, but it must mean that I know people who knew her and that scares me.

We, as everyday people, watch things like Game of Thrones, because when the credits roll on screen we can remind ourselves that it’s just fantasy and we can detach ourselves from the violence and bloodshed. Such distractions are fine and healthy in small doses. That detachment doesn’t last very long with real life though, but maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Maybe we shouldn’t detach ourselves from real life situations like I so often try to do. It’s okay to feel… feelings! Why else do we watch the 6:01 news? It’s so we won’t live in ignorance, and so that when the time comes to deal with these situations head on, we won’t shrug off helping loved ones who could be hurting right in front of us.

So, you might be wondering what the deal is with Sheffield. Well, I didn’t feel right about going back to Paris today. Not only that, but that would’ve meant going back empty handed, not a lesson plan to my name. The lesson plans I had planned for my students this week were all centred on the poetry of Séamus Heaney - a wizard with words. That would be perfect any other week, but there’s no way I could stand up in front of my classes, presenting them with Heaney’s themes of death and the afterlife, no matter how magical his words truly were. There is no page in the Language Assistants’ Handbook telling you how to deal with your classes after something like this has happened.

So I have to enter limbo in Sheffield,

for the sake of my students, and for the sake of my parents who worry about me.

I’m very proud of my sister for graduating! Although Friday night was a scary, sad occasion, Saturday was a great day for Bríd and for us. Admittedly, it was so hard to keep my mind off the attacks, as I concentrated all of my energy on not crying. I didn’t mind a few tears slipping out though, because people are supposed to cry at graduations anyway.

It’s crazy to think that on the morning of Friday, November 13^th, I was sitting in the airport lounge and writing to you about my fear of flying, when all along I was actually leaving behind a city in grave danger, and my worries were obsolete. People were murdered that evening and it’s disgusting. It’s like the headache that teased my brain as I boarded my flight with British Airways, was a warning of the tears to come. It really puts life into perspective. There’s no point in worrying when the plane takes off. It makes more sense to cherish life, and to embrace the world around you, be it Paris or elsewhere. Be hopeful about what’s left to discover in the world. Be hopeful that someday it will be better, or at least, not as cruel as it is right now.

I hope to be back in Paris soon even though I know it won’t be normal, but right now, I miss it. And I hope that at some point, I’ll convince my teenage students that poetry really is cool, and we’ll talk about Séamus Heaney ‘till the school bell rings.

We should be in Sheffield shortly, so this is where I leave you.

Here’s to my limbo, home to Arctic Monkeys and my lovely sister who’s letting me stay there. I can’t wait to meet her housemate’s cats.

Ciao,

Madame Mayreed.

In Hindsight

Tuesday, May 3^rd 2:28pm, Somewhere in the West of Ireland, 2016

Dear Reader,

Imagine if there was a one year anniversary between a lad and a girl, my age maybe. No, actually older. And the girl gets the guy a really expensive watch, now, not a Rolex watch – Nothing mad fancy like that. Just a nice watch, a ‘My Grandad gave this to me’ kind of a watch. A family heirloom, they call it.

And then the guy gives her

     Dante’s ‘Inferno’.

One of the greats, sure.

But she doesn’t know it as ‘one of the greats now’. She knows it as the most confusing present she’s ever gotten from a lad, ever.

     Are we breaking up, now?

     This thought popped into my head today in the Dairy Products aisle of Joyces’ Supermarket.

I’m not quite sure why.

I don’t know where the thought came from. And then I think maybe it’s because I was buying milk, and a cold pint of milk is the opposite of hot hell.

     But milk is not the contrary of hell. I hate milk, if it’s not in my cereal or not in my tea. Milk on its own is my arch enemy. My hell would be full of milk.

     I stopped at Joyces’ earlier today with Mam to do some grocery shopping while on our way to Granny’s house. I think it’s my first time seeing Granny since Christmas, ‘cause don’tcha know, I’ve been in Paris for the year. She just turned 98 last week, yet she’s still great for a chat, with more consistently good social skills than my own, you could say.

     Hypothetically, if she were at the airport (like I’ve been a lot lately), she would wish the airport guy a good day, rather than a good flight, like I always seem to do when the airport guy says:

     ‘Have a nice flight, Madame!’

And then I say:

     ‘You too!’

          … Oh Dear.

     Then on the plane, she’d compliment the flight attendant on his olive green tie, and include him, along with his wife and children in her prayers; Saying grace over a cup of tea because the airplane food is too expensive.

     I’m not stupid though. I just like to imagine.

I know a 98-year-old has no place on an airplane, but even in her rocking chair on the other side of Galway, she would say all of the same pleasantries to kind cousins and visiting neighbours.

     Granny’s sitting across the table from me now, at the far end of the tablecloth that’s plastered with olive images and olive trees and olive jars, and French and Italian calligraphy.

     She sits, reading from her prayer book labelled ‘Pieta’, with a picture of Rome’s Pieta statue on the cover. And Auntie Margaret fumbles with a biscuit tin; The most stereotypical, French looking biscuits you can imagine. – Butter based biscuits that I brought back for Granny for her 98^th birthday, with a picture of the Eiffel Tower and a biscuit wearing a beret on the tin.

     We’re leaving soon, and you know what? The lambs in the fields have gotten fat, and more adorable, if that’s even possible.

     Mam’s spotted me writing now and she’s saying: ‘Write down that Granny loves ketchup’. Well, she does love ketchup. Funny thing about ketchup, the word comes from Cantonese originally (pronounced like kets-up) This knowledge I’ve acquired is all thanks to a dear friend from Hong-Kong.

But I have to say,

I prefer mayonnaise.

There, I said it.

    

Why am I even talking to you about ketchup and mayonnaise? I suppose I’m just avoiding the topic of ‘Creative Writing’ and ‘Final Submissions’, because sending in that first draft of my book was scary and it made me feel grown-up, but I don’t know if I like that feeling.

Look at me: Old enough to drink in the states now. How have we all gone through University so quickly?

At least we’re going forward, in some sense of the word. It’s just not in the way that I expected. I for one, should be writing the second draft of my book right now, but instead, I’m writing about writing, learning how to play the ukulele, and learning how to speak Italian. (Badly, I might add).

But hey, it’s something.

     After all, teaching English to High School students in France for 7 months made me miss learning things for myself. Then again, teaching changed my life forever and I learned so many things from it. Come to think of it, I’ve learned so much in Paris, like:

-   That the River Seine sparkles in the sun

-   That boulengeries are my sanctuary, and pain au chocolat(s) are my saviour.

-   How to pack a suitcase efficiently

-   Where to find the cheapest and best crêpes

-   How to read poetry aloud, the right way

-   How to hide your kettle from your landlord

-   How to purchase your own Netflix account; Thus becoming an adult

-   How to get your phone stolen on the Metro

-   How to cry about your book characters that don’t exist, and how to feel okay about it

-   That the Eiffel Tower is more magical at night and more muggle during the day

-   That the French love Zinedine Zidane, and I mean, they adore him!

-   That you can get breakfast for 90c

-   That kebabs are a convenient lunch time snack

-   That a pair of good walking shoes are essential in life

-   That it is such a gift to speak Irish, and such fun to speak French

-   That as you become more confident as a language assistant, so will your students, and that is the most rewarding feeling

-   That the world, is cruel.

It is cruellest

to some people,

and it’s sad

in a city as pretty as Paris,

yet now the Seine has never sparkled

quite like this.

     So looking back in hindsight, I am blessed to be wherever I am, be it in Ireland or Morocco, or whatever stage of life I might be in, even if scary Final Year is just around the corner.

Aren’t we all?

Ciao,

Madame Mayreed x