FIFA world cup as seen by the Girl in Guadeloupe

I may have heckled Oakland A's fans when they played the Red Sox at Oakland. I may not so silently have wished that USA would win the gold medal over and over again during some Olympic games. I also bought two Red Sox baseball caps for les Monstres. (which got them quite a lot of criticism from grown men in Disneyland - dude, the kid is 5 and he speaks French so back up, no really) ..and I MAY ...may.. have been a cheerleader in high school...for hockey. Go ahead. Re-read that. It's there. I said it. It's best to save the horrid details for an entirely different blog post. As it is, with that small line I suspect I shall be the recipient of The Pirate's famous smirk later on, followed by clever set-ups into which I will walk blindly, so that he can get some good punch lines in at my expense. So be it. This, my friends is what you do for love.

Despite all of this, I am not a sports fan. I don't follow any team. I don't idolise any player. I never had posters of athletes in my bedroom as a teenager. Just Michael Jackson's thriller poster. You know the one, yellow around the edges, he's all dressed in a white suit. I see now that a tribute to Joan Jett would have been far more explainable in years to come. Sigh.

Here I am - in soccer - sorry FOOTBALL - country. French football country. As the local paper accurately pointed out: what will have Guadeloupeans in front of the television more so than all possible road bike races combined? You got it: The FIFA world cup!
I have noticed many signs around town offering 'Football sur le grand ecran'...Soccer on the big screen! This is really something for Guadeloupe, which is not at all set up in the American sportsway, tv's in every corner of every establishment under all circumstances at all times hell or high water whatever you do don't begin a conversation that needs to be longer than this commercial....
So it's big, is what I'm saying. People are excited. Groups are gathering. Bets are being placed. Big bets, a friend has twenty grand on Argentina over France. Beers and rhum are being consumed. Women who don't watch are getting some free time from their pirates. Oops! Did I say that? I did. Sure, sometimes I take advantage and leave The Pirate to roar 'Aaarrrrrr' all day with his mates, but sometimes I'm happy to join in. Why not? It's social. It's fun, and it's a good mental challenge this year with the location for the World Cup being in South Africa. What I'm talking about is the vuvuzela, an African instrument which, when multiplied by thousands of people using them at once, sounds like a never silent angry beehive. I find it a serious mental challenge not to hear this and a challenge to focus on the game instead.
I enjoy the connection I find during this time due to the world cup. When I go on facebook there are comments and friendly eggings-on. Lucky for me I'm connected to a few big time followers so I can follow their status updates and be in the know. Great way to seem like you're into it, you know what I mean? I'm not fake. I'm simply trying to participate in a conversation with my limited knowledge.

As it heats up I admit to wondering how the US team is doing. Perhaps deep down I have a need to heckle. I need a team to cheer on so that I can really participate, instead of hearing the proverbial record come to a scratching halt when I start over-reacting to something I thought was live but was an instant replay. Sigh. I'm not sure how into it I'll get, because to be honest, what is more interesting to me than the match itself is how people respond to and support the teams. It might be a good way to get to know people, once you see who they're cheering for, maybe there is an interesting story as to why. Soon we'll be in San Francisco for vacation and I look forward to walking through North Beach, past the bar where all the crazy Italians watch football and drink expresso when the time comes, arms flailing, cigarettes smoking, fists pounding the tables in bad times and hugs and cheek kisses in good... Ahh...nostalgia. See? Even for a non sports fan it's memorable. Sports are like music - everyone can enjoy even if not everyone can play.

Tweetage Wasteland : Say Hello to My Little Friend

A re-blog of another blog. Because it's relevant. Although my French is (according to some friends) much better than it was a few months ago, I still don't really pick up on conversations going on around me if I'm not trying to participate. What I'm saying is, I don't overhear things. I tune it out. It's too much work. Do I tune it out conversations going on around me at the mall back home? Probably. That being said, I could overhear with greater ease something being said in English.
Since I'm not snooping on my neighbors conversations, I choose to spend my waiting time - have I mentioned that there is A LOT of that here - looking at stuff on my iphone. In the doctors office, at the post office, the bank, the supermarket, the school parking lot, in traffic, walking in the mall, at the restaurant. With the Pirate. Sad but true folks. Much like the writer in my re-blog, I have used the excuse that my iphone keeps me in touch. With who? With my family and friends back home. It provides an opportunity to communicate with ease, to understand jokes, to make snarky comments on peoples facebook posts. Ahhh, the simple things in life.
But what of real conversation? I miss it. I know as I post and read completely gratuitous things that I'm not truly participating in a conversation. I know that with every hour spent looking at a screen I am keeping myself from practicing French, and from meeting people where I am RIGHT NOW.
And you know what? I can't stop. I don't want to stop. I'm not ready. Perhaps I have not hit my rock bottom and I'm happy dwelling in my semi-reality; iphone in hand, laptop within reach, English language jokes a plenty to keep me laughing. Ahhh. Yes. No celebrity rehab for internet over-users here. Not yet. Hey....what's that? Is that a new app? Where ya goin'?

Tweetage Wasteland : Say Hello to My Little Friend

Why do the French call it that?! Confusion with candy and movies

I credit my love for candy to my father. He always had -and still does - a healthy stash of candy somewhere in the house. Since I know my mom reads these things, I won't disclose said location, although I wish I could because it's super funny. He's like Stan Smith with that candy: top governmental secret that nobody cares about except my mom. When I lived on the west coast, my father would use this crazy thing called the post office to mail me a roll of Necco Wafers just to let me know he loved me. Cute huh? What's even cuter is how here in Guadeloupe they have 'post offices' yet I've unveiled the fact that such locations are only fronts for people who need a place to hang out and say things like, "this line is closed", or "that's not possible". Hey, everybody needs a place to be.

All men candies are not all created equal. I'm still not sure if that quote is grammatically correct but whatever. Let's say that it is, and let's agree that it's true. All candies are not the same the world over either, even if we do share some of the same name treats. There are however some universal truths about candy:
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1. Off the shelf chocolate bars such as KitKat are better in Europe. Why? The chocolate. It's different. It. Just. Is.
2. Treats from your childhood were awesome. Really they were. But they're kind of like old high school friendships - when you try them again years later, more often than not it's a case of some things are better left in the past. Those dried up little pellets sold in cheap sandwich bags that you looked forward to so much as a kid? Skip 'em. Trust me. They suck now, and your friends won't invite you to fancy parties anymore if you tout them as excellent.
3. If the same candy that exists in Boston, USA exists in Guadeloupe, FWI, it surely does not have the same name. As they do with movies, the French love to give things that already exist with perfectly good names new names.

Cotton candy would be a good example. it looks like cotton. In French, this is even almost exactly the same word: coton. And it's candy. So we call it cotton candy. Easy.
It's called Barbe a Papa here. Yeah, like the cartoon Barba Papa, except the literal translation is papa's beard. Now, normally I will admit to getting hysterically agitated over the changing of movie names because they don't make any sense at all. But this renaming of a treat I happen to like...Barba Papa. It works. Nice one, France!