I’m sure if you have lived in another country then this story will be mildly amusing but the events of tonight could very nicely summarize my life as of March 2008.
I’m in Vienna (Vien) as in Austria, the country, the freezing cold country. I have forgotten my Du dune (ie. Bubble coat, j-lo coat, down jacket) and as usual im freezing. I’m sitting at a table in an Italian pizzeria with two French men (coworkers) starring at a menu in Italian with German translations. I find something called the “scallopine” and immediately think it must be what the Americans call a “scallop” (not sure what the English call it). The French man from near the Italian border points out that Im in the meat section of the menu and I’m dead wrong! Lol. I find the fish section. Still no one knows the German or Italian word for scallop. The other French man says its probably one of three on the list. There is an ENTIRE table next to us of germans from the same company (we are on a business trip) and apparently its rude to ask them to translate so I don’t. The waiter kept pointing out the steak “scallopine” so I decided its time to text my German boyfriend back in Paris and ask him for the word. Its “Jakobsmuschel”, he texts back.
Now the Italian waiter is given the correct German word and I’m immediately reminded that I’m in an Italian restaurant and they don’t have scallops. The two frenchies agree there are no scallops in Italian cooking and I’m completely embarrassed. I’m thinking that even the first generation Italians I knew back in New York didn’t tell me they had no scallops in the Meditteranean Sea. They don’t have oysters either. Am I the only one who didn’t get the memo? I felt like a complete idiot. Lol. But we had a good laugh anyway.
All the while I’m corrected 10 times over for saying “penne” wrong and then I’m given what seemed to be the third lecture on how to properly pronounce Italian words if I choose to continue living in Europe.
Not to beat up this dead horse but please note I am describing only dinner. To bullet some other frustrating translation moments of JUST today we have:
The morning Austrian attack when trying to find the “competitive breakfast” conference room
The Serbian demonstration of some type of thoracic clinical triangle which I made him repeat at least 5 times
The crazy housekeeping lady who knocked on my door tonight while I was in the bath screaming if I wanted what I think was a “beverage”
The glass misunderstand and then ice cube misunderstanding as I attempted to order what the French call a “martini” which, even though it comes in “extra dry” bears absolutely no comparison to the American martini which is likely not even American at all. What the hell is American anyway? I think about the comparisons I make while living here to things from “back in New York” (whatever) but almost immediately realize they were not American at all. NYC really is international. More than we think. And its an extremely good prep city for moving to Paris but NOT without some intensive food/drink class for certain. You must sign up immediately.
Halfway through my Penne Pesto (which had no pesto at all and was served in red sauce) the waiter pointed out the obvious that I was served the wrong penne. But, while he was correct, the hunger situation inside my stomach was so advanced that I didn’t care and refused to give back my plate so he could correct the error.
There is this one characteristic of the coworkers (ie. French men) that I cannot seem to shake. I feel like, for at least one of them, that no matter what you say, he will always and forever have some alternate reaction. Par example:
I am cold (says I)
OH COME ON, ITS WARM IN HERE. (says the argumentative French man)
I am sad (says I)
THAT’S IMPOSSIBLE, THERE IS NO REASON (says the crazy French man)
I told them that I felt nervous about speaking french in front of them and I wasn’t ready to try and he said that was crazy. Even I know its crazy but all I wanted from him is just for him to nod his head and let me “have” (ie. Own) this feeling whether he agreed or not. I knew he would not be able to but I tried and then I told him to just let it go. Stop arguing. I don’t know if its because he’s French or because he’s so set in his ways that he cannot open his mind to the thoughts of people other than him.
The night ended with the three of us headed for the small Vien canal which I think is the Danube canal, not to be confused with the giant Danube river also running through Vien. The one Frenchie lazily checked the map and I forced him to stop caring, put down the map and let us leave! I was, as predicted, miles ahead of them, I could not slow down, even for the respect of their walking pace, I was excited to get my blood flowing as I was without my bubble coat.
We found the canal. Eventually, with little effort honestly. I had two 2 euro coins and asked the boys to make a wish. Of course they could not deal with this and insisted the “tradition” was to only throw pennies. I agreed this was even the American tradition but I had no pennies and they should just shut up and deal. I am not rich but I had at least one wish I needed to wish and in emergencies, any coin will have to do. They could not agree so another exhaustive debate was held until I had convinced one of them and we finally made our wishes. I was so tired, I’m not even sure I put in the wish I wanted.
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Monday, March 10, 2008
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