Fiche-moi la paix!

La Belle et Bonne Bianca Castafiore? She begins to drive me batty. Yes, je ris de la voir si belle dans ce sacre miroir! How awful to be seriously wishing she would develop a bronchite or maybe some mildly debilitating skin disease best treated by an extended stay on a desert island.

Elle m'emmerde.

Though I don't think it her intent, La BBBC can make me and the Fredster feel like poor relations who have overstayed their welcome -- and since it is a question of Marlinspike Hall, deep in the Tête de Hergé? We aren't about to go ANYWHERE! Hence, considerable tension. (We've as much or more right to be here than the Castafiore -- We knew the Captain first.)

For every one of her implicit Fou le camp... we posit our own mutely responsive Putain! Salope! Morceau de merde! Sometimes language fails.

Screeeeeechhhh! (This is the sound of Retired Educator veering off topic.) Still, cursing can be such fun, and illustrative, as well. For instance, please be cognizant of the following cultural distinctions (that you'll find detailed here):

Well, it should be made clear that the swear words you learn in Paris will not help you in Québec, with the Acadians or with the Cajuns. The French tend to use swear words dealing with bodily functions or that have sexual connotations. Here is a list of some of the most common:

salope (=slut)
putain (=whore)
merde (=shit)
chier (=to shit, verb)
So, a Frenchman (or woman, for that matter) may indeed swear at you in the following manner:
"Toi, ma putain de salope, tu me fait chier avec tes trucs de merde!"
Now, the québecois, on the other than, rely mostly on religious material for their swear words, due to the early and pervasive influence of the Catholic church. Here is a list of the some of the most common swear words used in Québec:
tabarnac (=tabernacle)
calisse (=chalice)
hostie (=the host)
ciboire (=another cup)
christ (=Christ)
So, a Quebecker might swear at you in the following manner:
"Hostie! Toi (pronounced 'tway'), mon tabarnac de ciboire de St. Sulpice, tu me fais chier en christ!"
Finally, the Acadians swear like the Quebecois, but with healthy and regular doses of English thrown in. For example:
"Toi, mon christ, t'est completement fucked up!"
A few other random points -- sacre means "profanity" au Québec (I guess that's pretty clear!). Tabarna*k* is pretty common -- more common, actually. And we cannot ignore the eMs, maudit and mozusse, etc.

I spent some time doing slave labor (recording people) for a study of Joual during a stint in Montréal and the richness of her linguistics was a testament to her competing politics and social strata. Now *that* is a city that lives her politics, where conversation is truly vivante.

When I think back to those long hot summer days at the Université de Montréal, the weirdest memories surface. Obsessively eating lunch at the same restaurant on blvd Edouard-Montpetit because of its incredible trout, the incredible trout! Truite fumée, truite aux amandes, tartare de truite saumonée, clafoutis de truites, truite de mer rôtie. Yes, I was on a trout kick. The cyclist I met on the train. Ahem. Yes, moving on... The football celebration downtown, and the huge crowd of Italians that seemed to come out of the woodwork. That stupid Fabienne Thibeault concert. The Underground City (now the RÉSO).

It was a fun time, but strange, as I was completely unattached -- personally, professionally, academically. All the hours on the phone, trying to connect with where I used to be.

No, that part was not fun.

La Belle et Bonne Bianca Castafiore holds her past life close to the vest -- we've never met old friends, a lover has never greeted us in the morning, she does not speak of family. In lieu of a wall of beloved photographs, she keeps a collection of vintage opera programs and posters.

We are both here thanks to the good graces of Captain Haddock. She constantly bungles his name -- Captain Drydock! Captain Stopcock! -- but she loves him with something close to maternal love.


It is a crime that no one will extend to her a new role -- as she, and those who live with her, tire of her repetition as Marguerite in the Faust of Charles Gounod: "Ah my beauty past compare, these jewels bright I wear!...Was I ever Margarita? Is it I? Come reply...Mirror mirror tell me truly!”

And that damn mirror -- once a prop, now almost an extension of her arm!

Awww, she's alright. I'm ashamed of my silent curses because I know that every syllable is written on my face -- I have been told that for as long as I can remember, that I hide nothing, it is all there in my expression, my mouth, my eyes.

My bloodwork from last week came back -- J. called with the results last night, and she faxed them to the orthopedic surgeon whom I will see tomorrow -- the ID doc at 11, the OS at 4. All the signs of infection are there -- the elevated white count, c reactive protein, and yadda -- I can't remember. It will be nice to come home afterward. Nice to hang with La Belle et Bonne Bianca Castafiore, have a mug or two of tea, chatter endlessly about bright and shiny, tinselly things that are not quite meaningless.