Category Archives: Salopes Aiment Ceci

Though I am assured that it is endearing when Americans speak French, sometimes you’re just over saying “Repetez s’il vous plaît” after every sentence. In times like this, I find it best to smile, nod enthusiastically, and, if you’re especially into whomever you’re talking to, let out a little laugh. Yes, sometimes you have to fake French.

For example, in class the other day, we seemed to stray from le diable et l’idée du mal to cover a more domestic area of study. What I understood was that in the second oeuf (egg), the linge (laundry) and the liberty fight le lit (bed) and it creates an obscure guafre (waffle). I decided to roll with it…you can’t really ask for an English translation à la Sorbonne. I was like, “I never knew Victor Hugo had such an affinity for kitchen appliances!”

As it turns out, the oeuf is oeuvre (work), linge is l’ange (angel), still not sure what the bed really is, and guafre is gouffre (chasm), but I didn’t learn any of this until after the fact. If I had dwelled on the details of Mr. Hugo’s egg work, I would have been frustrated the rest of the period. Faking French gets me through the day! If a French man yells something unintelligible at me from a bar across the street, he must be very politely saying that I look like a sophisticated young lady, right? “Merci!” If a woman mutters something about the loud American tourists in the back of the metro, I roll my eyes in agreement. “Ugh, les Americains.” If I can’t hear the waiter over the commotion at the restaurant, he’s probably asking if I want more wine. “Bien sûr!” Anyway, my français is coming along slowly but surely, but when in doubt, the answer is always oui.

This song is kind of horrible, but it resonates with me basically I just like their costumes…

What better way to improve your français than to practice speaking French, and who better to practice speaking French with than les mecs français?

That’s right, the post you’ve all been waiting for…

French Guys

Just kidding…

FRENCH GUYS

The thing with French guys is that half of you thinks, “Aren’t all French guys, like, mimes or something?” Then half of you says, “Oh, I’ve seen Unfaithful,” while the other half of you says, “But I’ve also seen Taken!” But another half of you is like, “YOLO!” (I don’t care if that’s too many halves, I dropped calculus for a reason.)

The whole courting process is way different here. First of all, French guys are much more forward. Aux Etats-Unis, strangers rarely compliment me, whereas en France, it’s all the time! “Do you have a cigarette? No? Well you’re really pretty anyway.” “Do you know what time it is? Thanks, also you’re beautiful.” Living in France is the biggest confidence boost since going to Dollywood on a Saturday.

To demonstrate the differences, I would like to tell you a story about a friend of mine, let’s call him Jacques, for the sake of confidentiality. So Jacques and I meet these guys that we think seem fun, and we go to a bar with them. One of these guys, let’s call him Henri, is totally cute but has been talking about how he has a girlfriend blah blah blah. So I’m mid-Frenchy-flirt with one of Henri’s friends, when, tout de suite, I look up to see Henri and Jacques KISSING across the table in front of me. And I don’t mean a little peck, I mean a vraiment French kiss. So obviously we’re all, “Henri, WTF was that?” and he’s like, “It seemed right in the moment.” OKAY. Profitez bien, y’all.

There are plenty of ways to meet French guys. Kat, for example, likes to win les coeurs of Frenchmen by impressing them with how she can steal objects nearly twice her size, like a television set.

A less drastic way might be at a café or bar.

Anyway, French guys get a bad rap (but don’t all guys get a bad rap?), but the ones I’ve met have been really nice and totally cute.

Also, they insist that our super American accents are très adorable (though I have my doubts).

Oh, and, when it comes to les hommes français, one last thing to remember…

Age is just a number baby 😉

The French LOVE her, and I love that they love her.

Lana Del Rey is like Adele’s hot younger sister.

And she’s everywhere here. Her music is always playing, remix versions too. She’s my host-sister’s ringtone. She’s even the bored/tired/slightly scary face of H&M.

Look, she’s so bored. Bored betch.