Language Difficulties

FERME AUX CROCODILES

So, Ken and I were driving (OK, he was driving, but at least I was awake!) from Avignon to Lille (a really long haul), and we saw this sign on the superhighway that said (in all caps)
SORTIE PROCHAINE
TROIS CHATEAUX
FERME AUX CROCODILES
(translation: next exit, 3 castles, closed to crocodiles).
Hmmm, we wondered… why are these chateaux closed to crocodiles? And is this really a big problem in France? And what’s up with this anti-croc species-ism? Are hippos allowed in castles? We thought and thought about this sign for close to a hundred kilometers, when, all of a sudden, Ken had a revelation and solved the mysterious sign: its correct translation was “CROCODILE FARM (FERME)” (which happened to be located near three gorgeous castles!

So, this translation error demonstrates the problems with language that one can experience overseas. Here’s another one for you: Amy, one of the students with Yann and Rita, is a bright girl who also speaks decent French; yet, when she arrived to her host family’s house and discovered that they had a cute rabbit (LAPIN), which she wanted to see and pet right away, freaked out her family who thought she really wanted to inspect the bread (LE PAIN) she would be eating while there!

And these are problems we had in French, a language we know. (BTW, there were some successes as well; Ken even preached a great sermon in French in Lille the last Sunday we were in Europe!)
You should have heard the amazing conversation I-who-don’t-know-any-Italian had booking our hotel room over the phone with an “I-don’t-know-any-English” woman. Ken and I drove (OK, he drove, but I was awake yet again) to Orvieto by faith and not by sight or confirmed reservation. When we arrived, both she and I were delighted

Making Out in Paris

1 June 2005

Making Out in Paris

Since Ken isn’t with me until Saturday, I must participate vicariously in the “Paris is for lovers” aura that permeates this city. Maybe the girls’ and my favorite spot is a little park just at the Eiffel-tower end (but far from there) of the Isle de la Cité. We sat there for close to two hours, I think, talking and resting, eating our snack of (what else?) bread and cheese, and watching people. We loved one little boy, just barely walking, who maybe burned more calories than I burn in a month by toddling across the width of the portion of the island he owned for a time, maybe twenty feet total, complete with gargantuan hills of around six inches and a dazzling mix of textures for his new-found feet. And we were frankly amazed at the couple who, standing the whole time, hands appropriately on one another’s backs and shoulders, were French-kissing when we arrived and who were French-kissing when we left. And we thought we were making out pretty well in Paris…