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Okay, thanks to Gwen Bell's suggestion, I am participating in the Best of 2009 Blog Challenge. See http://www.gwenbell.com/blog/2009/11/30/the-best-of-2009-blog-challenge.html? for the daily prompts for blogging. I won't likely blog every day, but some of the topics are very appealing.
My best trip this year had to be driving to North Carolina from Illinois at the peak of Fall color. The bad news was the giant rock slide that completely blocked I-40 near N Caro. I took a two-lane detour instead of the recommended interstate version to enjoy the scenery.
Little did I know that I would lose a great deal of time following a car that braked for every single curve, and there were tons of curves going through the mountains. At one point, I was finally able to pass the car in a passing lane. As I rounded the next curve, I was smack behind a transit bus.
I busted out laughing and said, "Okay, God, I guess you want me to slow down & enjoy the scenery!" Once I made that decision, the rest of the trip was absolutely lovely. However, for the return trip, I decided to follow the interstate detour to save some time. #best09
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Friday, December 4, 2009
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
My French Faux Pas - Part 2
As we continued our travels in Canada in our motorhome, I soon realized just how badly my rusty memory mis-translated phrases into French.
We noticed that most of the patrons in the café ordered the daily special (“le plat du jour”) which we also ordered. We thought it would give us a little taste of adventure, as well as a taste of local cooking. In addition, I felt confident that I could actually make myself understood. The special turned out to be two huge slices of ham loaf with a delicious creamy mustard sauce, served with two diced vegetables that were not familiar to us. After much confusion and dictionary searching, the waitress went into the kitchen and returned with samples of the two vegetables prior to preparation. We were finally able to determine that they were parsnips and rutabaga. The whole meal was tasty and satisfying, due in part to our little escapade into unfamiliar territory.
On another day we visited the pretty little church [town?] where my husband’s earliest ancestor was supposedly buried. When we entered the church, we were greeted by four elderly matrons who served as docents to visitors. We were charmed to see each of them dressed up in their Sunday-best clothes from the proper hats on their careful coiffures all the way to their spotless white gloves and their stylish shoes.
Unfortunately, they spoke not a single word of English. So I pulled out my painfully prepared translation which said we were looking for the grave of my husband’s ancestors and bravely spoke in what I thought was relatively good French. They looked at us with blank expressions, then looked at each other and asked “Que?”, which is “What?” So my confidence level in speaking fluent French was shot down a little lower.
After much confusion and skillfully pointing at individual words in my faithful dictionary, we were finally able to understand the location of the oldest part of their cemetery. It was a shame that the oldest headstones had weathered too severely over the years to be read. Apparently they were made of sandstone that did not stand up to the elements. But we were confident that we had indeed found the right cemetery.
Two of the lovely mature ladies insisted on giving us a tour of the old church. It was very obvious that they were exceptionally proud of the architecture and history. Our ancestors had emigrated from here in Canada down to a small section of land in central Illinois, where we saw surprising similarities in both the building structure and ornamentation of our church. We had not previously recognized the correlation between the two towns.
We noticed that most of the patrons in the café ordered the daily special (“le plat du jour”) which we also ordered. We thought it would give us a little taste of adventure, as well as a taste of local cooking. In addition, I felt confident that I could actually make myself understood. The special turned out to be two huge slices of ham loaf with a delicious creamy mustard sauce, served with two diced vegetables that were not familiar to us. After much confusion and dictionary searching, the waitress went into the kitchen and returned with samples of the two vegetables prior to preparation. We were finally able to determine that they were parsnips and rutabaga. The whole meal was tasty and satisfying, due in part to our little escapade into unfamiliar territory.
On another day we visited the pretty little church [town?] where my husband’s earliest ancestor was supposedly buried. When we entered the church, we were greeted by four elderly matrons who served as docents to visitors. We were charmed to see each of them dressed up in their Sunday-best clothes from the proper hats on their careful coiffures all the way to their spotless white gloves and their stylish shoes.
Unfortunately, they spoke not a single word of English. So I pulled out my painfully prepared translation which said we were looking for the grave of my husband’s ancestors and bravely spoke in what I thought was relatively good French. They looked at us with blank expressions, then looked at each other and asked “Que?”, which is “What?” So my confidence level in speaking fluent French was shot down a little lower.
After much confusion and skillfully pointing at individual words in my faithful dictionary, we were finally able to understand the location of the oldest part of their cemetery. It was a shame that the oldest headstones had weathered too severely over the years to be read. Apparently they were made of sandstone that did not stand up to the elements. But we were confident that we had indeed found the right cemetery.
Two of the lovely mature ladies insisted on giving us a tour of the old church. It was very obvious that they were exceptionally proud of the architecture and history. Our ancestors had emigrated from here in Canada down to a small section of land in central Illinois, where we saw surprising similarities in both the building structure and ornamentation of our church. We had not previously recognized the correlation between the two towns.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
My French Faux Pas
Some of the best stories we need to record are the ones that make fun of ourselves.
A few years ago, my husband Lynn and I traveled up to Canada in our motorhome. We planned to visit the areas of Montreal and Quebec, where our respective ancestors lived. We found the Canadians very friendly and accommodating, but as we got further east of Quebec City, we discovered that fewer and fewer of them spoke any English. However, I was not worried because I had three semesters of college French and two years of high school Spanish under my belt. What I was not prepared for was how my rusty memory mis-translated phrases into French.
After a guided tour of a small winery, we wanted to venture into French-speaking Canada on our own, so we asked for suggestions to a restaurant for lunch that was frequented by “locals” rather than by tourists. We were directed to a charming restaurant off the beaten track that was reminiscent of a French chateau.
Our waitress spoke no English, but how difficult could it be to order a simple lunch? In response to her request for our beverage order, I made my first faux pas by ordering “leche” (milk) for Lynn and “the chaud avec limon” (hot tea with lemon) for myself. The poor young girl was obviously confused by my order, so I pulled out my trusty French-English dictionary. It turns out that I should have used “lait” for milk instead of the Spanish “leche” and although lemonade translates to “limonade”, lemon by itself actually translates to “citron.” So much for trying out my linguistic abilities.
A few years ago, my husband Lynn and I traveled up to Canada in our motorhome. We planned to visit the areas of Montreal and Quebec, where our respective ancestors lived. We found the Canadians very friendly and accommodating, but as we got further east of Quebec City, we discovered that fewer and fewer of them spoke any English. However, I was not worried because I had three semesters of college French and two years of high school Spanish under my belt. What I was not prepared for was how my rusty memory mis-translated phrases into French.
After a guided tour of a small winery, we wanted to venture into French-speaking Canada on our own, so we asked for suggestions to a restaurant for lunch that was frequented by “locals” rather than by tourists. We were directed to a charming restaurant off the beaten track that was reminiscent of a French chateau.
Our waitress spoke no English, but how difficult could it be to order a simple lunch? In response to her request for our beverage order, I made my first faux pas by ordering “leche” (milk) for Lynn and “the chaud avec limon” (hot tea with lemon) for myself. The poor young girl was obviously confused by my order, so I pulled out my trusty French-English dictionary. It turns out that I should have used “lait” for milk instead of the Spanish “leche” and although lemonade translates to “limonade”, lemon by itself actually translates to “citron.” So much for trying out my linguistic abilities.
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