Angry Familiarity: 3 Oct 2005
Bonsoir tout le monde!
I can tell when I've started to culturally acclimate to a place based on when something first makes me angry. It isn't till I've been somewhere for a while and gotten used to at least some of the local norms before it occurs to me that something might be irritating. In the meantime, I just walk around investigating what is new or familiar.
For example, when I traveled to St. Petersburg, Russia last summer, it wasn't until almost two weeks there that I got angry at a woman that wouldn't rent me opera glasses for a show of Schatokovitsch "The Nose" because I wouldn't also pay her to tend to my coat. I shook my hand back and forth and blew air out of my mouth in a sort of clicking sound as I walked away. She returned the gesture.
In contrast, when visiting Alaska I am guaranteed to get angry within only minutes of getting into the car to head to my parents house from the airport. The drivers there, having spent most of their time driving only in Alaska, have a frustrating way of meandering between lanes without purpose.
Anger didn't cross my mind in Montreal until a couple of days ago. Based on some of the e-mails I've received from friends regarding the stories about Rachel's school lunches, you'd think that the no-peanut-butter rule would have set me off. But it took almost two months for things to take hold, apparently.
At some of the major intersections in town you'll find men with a squeegie that they've apparently stolen from the local gas station, since none of the gas stations here have squeegies anymore. In one hand they'll swing their squeegie, in the other they'll have a loaded water bottle ready to douse the windshield of which ever car reaches the red light first.
In the last week I happened to be that car on three different occasions. While I understand men doing their best to earn a duex-ie (a two dollar coin), the frustration comes in them soaking my car and starting to wipe the window without ever making eye contact with me so that I may agree or decline. Then they have a trick of placing their face behind the frame of my car window so that in order to get them to stop I have to yell very loud, lean forward over my steering wheel, and then shake my hand back and forth while blowing air out of my mouth in a sort of clicking sound.
The clicking sound is apparently a universal expression of frustration because the window washers always stop right away when I make it, as long as one of my side windows is rolled down so that they can hear it.
The other day it was raining hard enough that you'd be soaked through within minutes if you were outside. I pulled up first to a red light and there was the window washer squeezing out his own sweatshirt over my windshield, blocking his face from mine with the frame of my car window. As if the rain wasn't already doing his job. I yelled, leaned forward, shook my hand, blew air out of my mouth in a clicking sound, and he moved on to the second car at the light.
Rachel and I are both picking up French. I've managed to have a number of interactions only in French with the dry cleaner, Rachel's after school care teacher, all of the grocery stores and depaneurs in the area, and my voice mail system. Trying to set up the greeting on my phone with a French only guide took me about half an hour but it's done.
Our new favorite game goes like this:
Me to Rachel: Bonjour!
Rachel: Bonjour!
Me: Ca va?
Rachel: Tres bien! Et toi?
Me: Tres bien! Merci!
Rachel: Oui! Oui!
Simultaneously: Bonjourne! Bonjourne!
Reste en contact!
Elaine
I can tell when I've started to culturally acclimate to a place based on when something first makes me angry. It isn't till I've been somewhere for a while and gotten used to at least some of the local norms before it occurs to me that something might be irritating. In the meantime, I just walk around investigating what is new or familiar.
For example, when I traveled to St. Petersburg, Russia last summer, it wasn't until almost two weeks there that I got angry at a woman that wouldn't rent me opera glasses for a show of Schatokovitsch "The Nose" because I wouldn't also pay her to tend to my coat. I shook my hand back and forth and blew air out of my mouth in a sort of clicking sound as I walked away. She returned the gesture.
In contrast, when visiting Alaska I am guaranteed to get angry within only minutes of getting into the car to head to my parents house from the airport. The drivers there, having spent most of their time driving only in Alaska, have a frustrating way of meandering between lanes without purpose.
Anger didn't cross my mind in Montreal until a couple of days ago. Based on some of the e-mails I've received from friends regarding the stories about Rachel's school lunches, you'd think that the no-peanut-butter rule would have set me off. But it took almost two months for things to take hold, apparently.
At some of the major intersections in town you'll find men with a squeegie that they've apparently stolen from the local gas station, since none of the gas stations here have squeegies anymore. In one hand they'll swing their squeegie, in the other they'll have a loaded water bottle ready to douse the windshield of which ever car reaches the red light first.
In the last week I happened to be that car on three different occasions. While I understand men doing their best to earn a duex-ie (a two dollar coin), the frustration comes in them soaking my car and starting to wipe the window without ever making eye contact with me so that I may agree or decline. Then they have a trick of placing their face behind the frame of my car window so that in order to get them to stop I have to yell very loud, lean forward over my steering wheel, and then shake my hand back and forth while blowing air out of my mouth in a sort of clicking sound.
The clicking sound is apparently a universal expression of frustration because the window washers always stop right away when I make it, as long as one of my side windows is rolled down so that they can hear it.
The other day it was raining hard enough that you'd be soaked through within minutes if you were outside. I pulled up first to a red light and there was the window washer squeezing out his own sweatshirt over my windshield, blocking his face from mine with the frame of my car window. As if the rain wasn't already doing his job. I yelled, leaned forward, shook my hand, blew air out of my mouth in a clicking sound, and he moved on to the second car at the light.
Rachel and I are both picking up French. I've managed to have a number of interactions only in French with the dry cleaner, Rachel's after school care teacher, all of the grocery stores and depaneurs in the area, and my voice mail system. Trying to set up the greeting on my phone with a French only guide took me about half an hour but it's done.
Our new favorite game goes like this:
Me to Rachel: Bonjour!
Rachel: Bonjour!
Me: Ca va?
Rachel: Tres bien! Et toi?
Me: Tres bien! Merci!
Rachel: Oui! Oui!
Simultaneously: Bonjourne! Bonjourne!
Reste en contact!
Elaine
posted by hawkbrwn at 8:32 p.m.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home