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| Il Pleut |
It's raining, and it's not just that 'il pleut'. It's raining buckets. It's raining cats and dogs. Or as the French would say:
Il pleut des grenouilles / des cordes / des hallebardes / des clous / à seaux / comme vache qui pisse
it's raining frogs / ropes / halberds / nails / buckets / like a pissing cow
It is 11:30 in the morning here and it is pouring rain, but they have daylight forever here at this time of year. Guy and Helyn serve a family style dinner here at the KOM Lodge around 8:00 PM, but it is still light out until after 9:00 PM. So if it stops raining I might get a ride in this afternoon, but it will not be the grand tour I was thinking of last night when we thought the weather would be good here today. French meteorologists are about as accurate as Colorado meteorologists when it comes to guessing at future weather condition. (If meteorologists study the weather who studies meteors?)
So I might get a ride in later and if I do I will blog about it, but in the meantime I would like to write about speaking French with the French and with other cyclists on the road.
One of the things I really enjoy about being here is brushing off my college French and speaking with the locals. It's fun. I had to take four semesters of French at the University of Colorado when I got my degree is Spanish and I really enjoyed it. I speak enough French to get by and I reviewed it before I came over.
The French get an undeserved rap from most Americans for being rude or uncivil. That has never been my experience with them here. They are delighted that I am trying to speak French. They are helpful and unfailingly pleasant. And it is much more fun to speak the language on a rudimentary level - exchanging pleasantries, politely ordering something to eat or drink in a cafe or asking how much you owe for same, or getting help with road directions - than it is try to speak about something more complicated - like US politics or literature.
The French like to know where you come from. If they have been to the US they like to talk about where they were there and what they did. The other day in the cafe I stopped in on my way up the Col de la Croix de Fer I conversed for about ten minutes in mixed English and French with a gentleman who had lived for three years in Wyoming. I got to hear all about his cowboy hat in French. It had shrunk and he was trying to figure out how to stretch the band out. It was not a Stetson, but he really liked it. The French also want to know what you think of their Alps and if you think the road climbs are hard.
The French are like the Mexicans in that they always respond to the greeting 'Bonjour' in kind, with a reply of 'Bonjour.' I remember being in Mexico once and when a man failed to respond to the greeting 'Buenos días' the Mexican I was with seriously postulated that perhaps the man was deaf. It's the same way here. People never fail to greet each other. Around dusk 'Bonjour' becomes 'Bonsoir.' The French make no special discrimination of the afternoon, there is no 'Buenas tardes' or 'Good afternoon'. It's just 'Bonjour' until around 6 PM.
Speaking with other cyclists is even more fun because there is so much bike tourism here that you never know what country they are from until the conversation gets rolling. You start speaking in French and they start speaking in French, and then you figure out that they are French or English or Dutch or whatever. Sometimes the conversation switches to English. Sometimes it is a mix of French and English.
Two days ago at the bottom of the Col d'Ornan I spoke with three very fit riders who were dressed head to toe in immaculate white kit from Lance Armstrong's bike shop in Austin, Texas. The white jerseys and shorts had the Texas star and the name of the shop, 'Mellow Johnny's, Lance's Tour de France teammates play on the French words 'maillot juane' or 'yellow jersey.'
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| The same jersey from the Mellow Johnny's webpage |
Sounds like a great trip despite the rain.
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