“la parole exportée”

The Tour de France will zoom past this roundabout later this afternoon, on its way to the Champs-Elysées. I went there to take pictures of the surroundings and the signs this morning. Some people were already in place, some having a late breakfast in an empty car park close by, a few cars were parked by the roadside. Nothing exciting.

The last day is not exciting, unless you are on the Champs-Elysées. In the countryside close to Paris, the peloton huddle together, as they always do on that day. What you see is a sea of bikes, a tiny yellow spot in the middle, if you’re lucky. They play safe, saving the hard work for the very last mile, on the Champs-Elysées. And this year, they are already announcing the winner’s name on the radio, as if it were a fact. Of course, they quickly add a caveat, just in case.

This particular spot is a favorite for Sunday cyclists, some of whom cycle all the way from Paris (about 15-20 kms). I was lucky with this guy. A touch of humor.

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This is the slogan selected by a French furniture store to adorn the T-shirts worn by their store sales staff this Summer.

Just back to see the fireworks for the Bastille Day celebration, in a park nearby (and take pictures, not easy with my little Fuji FinePix). Hundreds and hundreds of people watching the display to opera music. Nowadays, this happens in the night from the 13th to the 14th. There is a ball here, too, but I wonder how many people will really go.

France is celebrating today the storming of the Bastille prison, 219 years ago. The people of France were rebelling against the monarchy, with a king who was seen as more preoccupied with his own comfort and pleasure, and aristocrats that were desperately clinging to their privileges. The political landscape was just about to change, and Louis XVI was perhaps unlucky to be the wrong man at the wrong time.

The First Republic was not proclaimed until 1792, when the king was deposed and monarchy officially ended. The French Revolution ended in 1799, after ten terrible years that ushered France into the 19th century.

In a similar vein to my previous post, I’d like to share my experience in the Netherlands a few months ago.

I had a problem with my car in a small town close to the German border (not in Amsterdam). I called my insurance company in France and about 20 minutes later, I got a phone call from the tow truck driver, who was looking for me. I tried to read the name of the street, but… although I’m a linguist, I hadn’t the faintest idea of how to pronounce it in Dutch. Until then, it hadn’t occurred to me that there might be a language problem. I know the Dutch speak three or four languages, but as I answered, I realized he spoke perfect English, and I couldn’t speak a word of Dutch, not even tell the name of the street in a recognizable manner.

He found me in the end, despite my funny pronunciation, and fixed the car. Before leaving, he told me that he was learning French, but wasn’t quite up to speaking it yet. He had a girlfriend in France, so he wanted to speak the language.

Of course.

So this is a guy who is a tow truck driver by profession, and speaks Dutch and English, is learning French, and since we were so close to Germany, I bet he knows some German too.

How’s that for multilingualism? I’ve still to find the French tow truck driver who speaks English, to begin with, let alone Dutch or Italian, or even German! Correct me if I’m wrong.