I’ve been struggling to get up the hill on the way to work lately.  I decided that this was due to my proteinless French breakfast of coffee, bread, and Nutella, and stopped at the little store just outside the train station and picked up a can of sardines for after the climb.  Zipf’s Law being what it is, this set off a three-day struggle to figure out how to read the label on the can.  I spend a lot of time in France trying to differentiate and remember the meanings of words that look alike, and this was one of those occasions.  After three days of this, I still don’t have it all figured out.  At its base, this is an issue of various and sundry words that look or sound like forms of the word arrêter.  Read on if you want to feel my pain.

arrêter: The basic meaning of this verb is “to stop,” which is simple enough, but there are some subtleties involving the pronominal form of the verb (s’arrêter) and “direct” versus preposition-specific forms of the verb.

arrêter: The verb can also mean “to arrest,” as in taking someone into police custody.  Scroll down–this picture is too good to shrink.

arrêter de: this is followed by an infinitive, and would translate as “to stop verbing.”

l’arrêt: a stop, as in a bus stop, a work stoppage, etc.  Also: a decision, as of a court.

Medical-care-specific: The verb arrêter can have a very specific meaning, which is to put someone on sick-leave.  The subject of the verb presumably has to be someone who is capable of putting you on sick-leave.   (Linguistics geekery: this kind of behavior, where the meaning of a verb can change substantially depending on the subject and/or object of the verb, is probably best accounted for by the Generative Lexicon theory, pioneered by James Pustevosky of Brandeis, and more recently elaborated by Elisabetta Jezek of the University of Pavia.)

However, just because “doctor” is the subject doesn’t mean that the verb necessarily has that meaning:

Here, the m’ is an indirect object pronoun, and it’s la pilule (“The Pill”) that is the direct object.  (That bit of extra information probably doesn’t help much–sorry!)

l’arrêté (n.m.): this is a noun meaning “order” or “decree.”  It shows up quite a bit in official communications of various and sundry sorts–see below.

l’arête (n.f.): another noun, meaning (among other things) “fishbone.”  This is the one that finally drove me over the edge to look up all of these various and sundry meanings.  I would’ve gotten this one a lot quicker, but it took me, like, three days to realize that there was only one R.

• un arrêt: a judgement or decision, in a legal context.  Un arrêt de la cour: a court ruling.
• un chien d’arrêt: a pointing breed of dog.

être à l’arrêt:

to be on point (of a dog).

Le chien est à l’arrêt:

the dog is on point.  (Thanks to native speaker

phildange

for these.)

Even after this in-depth investigation, I don’t understand all of the various and sundry permutations of these words with their as, their rs, their ês, and their ts.  Here’s an example that I came across–I have no clue whatsoever what it means.  (Various native speakers have suggested that it’s an error–see the Comments section.)  PS: in the end, sardines aren’t that great of a solution to the whole I-need-more-protein problem–they smell, and I do have office mates.  Time to ramp up my already-enormous cheese consumption yet again, perhaps…

 

There is essentially nothing that I do in France that doesn’t involve an encounter with Zipf’s Law.  One thing that I find quite useful here in France is to go to talks, conferences, and what are called journées–literally “days,” but in practice, a day-long mini-conference on some subject or another.  It’s a good way to learn the technical vocabulary of my field in French, and also to have casual conversations with my peers about it.  The other day, I went to a journée on natural language processing (what I do for a living) and artificial intelligence.

As far as I can tell, French researchers (at least in my field) primarily publish in English.  My field is much more oriented around conference papers than around journal papers–our conferences are peer-reviewed and often quite competitive, while our journals are more oriented towards essentially archival coverage of long-term research projects.  So, the latest and greatest research shows up in conferences, not journals.  The conference papers are published, and they’re cited quite a bit more than journal articles.  Although my French colleagues do primarily publish in English, there are also French conferences and journals in my field.  The French conferences and journals ask for papers written in French from Francophones, but allow non-Francophone scientists to submit work in English.  Being able to read some French has opened up quite a bit of stuff to me that I wouldn’t otherwise have been able to read (and cite).  I especially enjoy some of the work in French on lexical semantics; it isn’t necessarily any different in terms of topics, approaches, or the flavor of the results, but some of it is written so much more clearly than similar stuff that I’ve read in English.

One thing that still surprises me about French conferences is that during the question-and-answer period after a talk, the speaker and members of the audience address each other as tu, using the informal pronoun.  You can read more about this  phenomenon of French conference participation here, along with some speculations about where it comes from.

For official purposes, the French system often differentiates between French conferences and what the paperwork refers to as “international” conferences, which in practice seems to mean any conference outside of France.  (That’s not obvious–for example, a conference in Germany, attended primarily by a local audience, apparently would count the same as a conference like the Association for Computational Linguistics annual meeting, which is attended by people from all over the world.  I suppose that evidence of an international reputation is, indeed, supplied by presentation of your work anywhere outside of your home country.)

Just following the schedule gave me trouble, which doesn’t exactly make me feel bright.  Here are some really basic words that I came across in the course of the day:

• la pause-café: this is what WordReference.com gives as the translation of “coffee break.”
• plein écran: full screen.

This winter, the expression on everyone’s lips seems to be pas mal.  We learn this in college as meaning not bad.  However, colloquially it can also mean something like a lot.  In fact, I’ve been hearing it quite a bit even from a friend who prefers the 17th-century language of Molière to the language of today and doesn’t speak very colloquially at all.  You can find good examples of how to use pas mal in this sense on Laura Lawless’s Lawless French web site.  Here are some more:

If you use pas mal to modify nouns, it’s a quantity term, and is followed by de:

Be aware that even the expression as we learn it in school–that is, with the meaning not bad–can be difficult to understand, with the intended meaning being conveyed in part by intonation.  There’s a very nice video on the intonational subtleties of the expression here, on the Français avec Pierre YouTube channel.

My morning routine includes studying French vocabulary, which means flash cards.  I make my flash cards from what we call in English index cards or 3x5s (pronounced “three by fives”–they take that name from the fact that they normally measure 3 inches by 5 inches).  Recently I’ve been amusing my younger coworkers by sharing my current vocabulary flash cards, and I have been impressed beyond belief by the breadth and depth of the English vocabulary that these kids have.  “Talon”?  No problem.  “Greenhouse”?  They’ve got it.  Yesterday I ran into the word rate, “spleen,” in the play Le malade imaginaire, a 17th-century French play by Molière.  One of them explained to me the various and sundry forms with which the English word “spleen” can be translated into French.  The word has at least five meanings in English.  The most common meaning is the internal organ that most vertebrates have, located on the left side in humans near the stomach and playing a role in a variety of processes, including ridding the body of old red blood cells and being involved in the immune response.  The other meaning, which is not nearly as common but is still found in the language, is given by Merriam and Webster as “feelings of anger or ill will often suppressed.”  These get split into two different words in French.

• la rate: spleen (the internal organ).
• le spleen: melancholy or ennui, and archaically, the same anger-related meaning as in English.

It was quite impressive to hear a computer scientist explain the 17th-century meaning of the word–that’s not something that I would expect an American computer science grad student to be able to do for the English equivalent.  I’ve been reading Molière, and apparently she has done so, too–again, I wouldn’t expect an American computer science grad student to be familiar with Shakespearean vocabulary.

It amazes me that there seems to be no French equivalent to the 3×5.  (I saw friends exchange the sidelong glances that I inspire so often here by accidentally saying inappropriate things when I referred to them by the Canadian term, fiches vierges–it can mean “blank cards,” but also “virgin cards.”)  I only survived my education by using these things to obsessively memorize pretty much every term, equation, and random fact that I was taught.  Considering the very demanding nature of the French educational system, I’m baffled by how French students manage to pass the  exams that are required to progress through the system without some equivalent of index cards.  I throw several packs of them into my luggage every time that I come to France, and can’t imagine learning as much as I do without them.

The radio show that I listen to in the mornings (Les matins de France culture) starts with the various and sundry reporters going around and saying a few words about what they’ll be talking about.  Yesterday one of the reporters said this: I’ll be talking about the attacks in, um…in, um…well, there are so many of them.  [Nervous chuckle.]  This morning I woke up to the news of the latest attacks in Brussels: two bombings at the airport, then one at a metro station.  All major European capitals are on heightened security at the moment, especially at transit points, but other than that, planes are flying (except to and from Brussels), the trains are moving (except in Brussels, where all subways, busses, and trams are shut down, and people are being advised to stay at home), etc.

It’s depressing to note that I now know most of the words in any given story about a terrorist attack.  However, Zipf’s Law never really goes away, so here are some words from stories about this morning’s bombings.  For the full story from the source, click here.

• survenir: to occur, to arise.

 Une explosion survenue dans le métro, à la station Maelbeek, aurait fait une dizaine de morts et de nombreux blessés.

“An explosion that took place in the metro, at the Maelbeek station, has caused a dozen deaths and numerous injured.”

• réaffirmer: to reaffirm.

Nos pensées vont naturellement aux victimes, à leurs proches ainsi qu’à l’ensemble des autorités belges auxquelles nous réaffirmons notre solidarité.

“Naturally our thoughts are with the victims, with their dear ones, and we reaffirm our solidarity to all of the Belgian authorities.”

• faire le point sur: to take stock of, to review.

Nous venons de faire le point sur notre dispositif en place aux frontières et dans les transports.

“We have just reviewed our security team in place at the frontiers and in the means of transport.”

• rehausser: to raise, to boost.

Nous n’avions pas attendu cette attaque pour réhausser notre niveau de sécurité.

“We didn’t wait for this attack to boost our level of security.”  Note: the news story spells the word réhausser, but WordReference.com gives it as rehausser.

 

 

 

 

The military has this problem.  People transfer from one “duty station” to another fairly often, and you need to be able to get them integrated quickly–you can’t have someone taking up unproductive space on a ship or on a base for very long.  The US military has gotten this integration process down to a science.  Basically, when you show up at a new command, you’re given a check-sheet.  You take it around to various and sundry places–the medical clinic, the pay clerk, the base library, etc.  The people who work there do whatever has to be done to get you integrated into the unit.  They sign your check-sheet, and you go on to the next place.  It takes maybe two days to get totally set, and then you’re productive.

The place where I work when I’m in France has a similar system.  By now, je connais déjà cette musique–I know the drill–and I can usually get all of my administrative stuff done the first day back in the lab.  There’s only one problem: I have to successfully pick up the check-sheet.  The issue is that it’s called a feuille jaune–a “yellow piece of paper” (it is indeed a piece of paper, and it is indeed yellow), and I constantly mess up and ask the administrator for a feuille jeune.  Only a one-vowel difference, but it means “young piece of paper,” not “yellow piece of paper.”  This gets me confused looks, or by now a smile.  I was reminded of just how ambiguous this really is on the way to work this morning, when I saw the poster that you can see at the top of this post.  What’s interesting about it is the word jeûne, which is pronounced the same as the word jeune, but spelt differently–notice the circumflex accent in the former.  As I said, they’re pronounced the same, but jeune (no accent) is “young” or “youngster,” while jeûne (with accented û) is a fast (that is, when you don’t eat).  The pair of words has been much in the news lately.  The issue here is that the French government will be instituting a spelling reform at the beginning of the next school year.  Among other derangements of the current system, some words with circumflex accents will be losing them.  There is a major Twitterstorm about this.  One funny tweet that I read pointed out that the circumflex accent on jeûne (a fast) is the only difference between je vais me faire un petit jeûne (I’m going to take a little fast) and je vais me faire un petit jeune (I’m going to have myself a little youngster.)

Now, “fast” is a perfect Zipf’s Law sort of word: it certainly is not common, but it also is certainly not particularly weird in any way–any native speaker knows it.  I had never run into jeûne before the Twitterverse went crazy about the spelling reform, and in fact, that’s how I learnt it.  Now it’s a couple months later, and there it is: right there in my face as I went to work this morning.  Zipf’s Law!

• jaune (adj.): yellow.
• le jaune: scab, strikebreaker.
• le/la jeune: young person.
• le jeûne: fast, fasting.

 

If you look on question-answering web sites like Quora, or even just do a quick Google search, you’ll see many people asking this question: Why do Parisians hate tourists?  The answer: Parisians do not hate tourists.  On the contrary–Paris is very aware that tourists are part of the life-blood of the city, and they are happy to have foreign visitors in droves.

However: there are definitely things that tourists do that can interfere with the flow of your daily life here, and those things can be irritating.  A lot of those things happen on the métro, the Paris subway system.  Every morning, 2.5 million people get on that thing for their commute to work, and then they do it again in the evening.  In hopes of preventing you from being one of those tourists who irritate the locals, here are some notes on metro etiquette.  You’ll note here many instances of what I understand to be the basic principle of French behavior: don’t inconvenience the other guy.

• Entering/exiting: When you’re waiting to enter a subway car or train, stand off to the side of the door so that you’re not blocking it.  People will exit through the center, and then you enter at the side, or through the center if it’s not obstructed.  (This is a really common rule for tourists to break, and it’s really irritating during rush hour when lots of people are trying to get off and into the cars.  Don’t be that tourist.)
• Hold gates open: When you go through the gate, hold it open behind yourself for the next guy.  You don’t have to stand there and wait for him, but if there’s someone right behind you, this is the polite thing to do.
• Luggage: Be considerate about trying to wrestle your big, bulky suitcase through the turnstile when there are lots of people trying to go through it–wait until traffic lets up, so that you’re not keeping everyone else from getting to their train.  Some stations also have a space next to the turnstile for luggage, so look for those.  Also note that you shouldn’t be taking your @#$% luggage on the metro anyway–see this post for reasons why that’s a bad idea.
• Strapontins: Subway cars in Paris typically have a couple of folding seats right next to the doors, called strapontins, believe it or not (it’s the general word for a folding chair).  If the car is crowded, don’t sit in them–you will see French people who are using them stand up when a bunch of people enter the car.
• Be quiet: If you hear someone talking or laughing loudly on the metro, they will probably be speaking English.  If you hear someone speaking on a cell phone, they will probably be a foreigner.  In general, Parisians tend to be quiet on public transportation.  See here for a funny story about what can happen if you’re not.
• Backpacks off: If a car is crowded, take off your backback–even if it’s a little one.  If you don’t, it’s super-awkward, both for you and for everyone else.
• Offer your seat to pregnant/elderly people: Even kids from bad neighborhoods will offer their seats to an old person or a pregnant woman on the métro.  You should do the same.
• Say pardon: You will often have to squeeze by a few people to get on or off of a crowded car.  The polite thing to do is to say pardon when you do so.
• Don’t block the quai, stairs, or escalators–move to the right.  If you’re walking along the subway platform or going up/down stairs and escalators, stay to the right.  People will pass you on the left.  Similarly, if you need to stop and figure out which way to go, don’t stop in the middle of heavy foot-traffic–get out of the way while you get your bearings.

•  le strapontin: folding seat, jump seat.
• le quai: platform, dock, quay.
• le wagon: subway car, train car.

 

I happened to be on the metro on the way home from work during rush hour yesterday.  Onto the packed train climbed a young woman wearing an enormous backpack.  Her travelling companion was similarly encumbered, and was also carrying an enormous, ornately embroidered, blue velvet sombrero.

Their backpacks took up at least as much space as two additional people would have.  Furthermore, since they were wearing them on their backs, there was no way that they could move without smacking someone with 65 liters’ worth of stuff, and no way that they could maneuver out of anyone else’s way in those tight quarters.

You didn’t even have to be able to hear them to know what their nationality was–just by watching their mouths, it was pretty clear that they were Americans.  (Yes, the mouths of American English speakers move quite differently from the mouths of French speakers.)  They had probably read their Paris guide books closely–and they had been lead astray by them.

Any Paris guidebook will tell you that you can get from Charles de Gaulle Airport (or Roissy, as the locals call it) by taking the train into Paris, and then switching onto the subway.  This is certainly true.  What the guidebooks don’t tell you is that even though you can, you should not do this. 

There are two basic problems with the take-the-train-to-the-subway plan, and I see those two problems raise their ugly heads all the time.

1. There are a heck of a lot of stairs in some of those stations.  I can’t tell you how often I have come across someone trying to struggle up–or down–a long flight of stairs in a Parisian metro station with a huge suitcase.  (Oh, there really ARE nice people in the world, said one old lady with an absolutely enormous suitcase who I found almost in tears at the top of a loooong flight of stairs in a metro station.  If I hadn’t recently been training to fight in Nationals, I don’t think that I could have carried that big honking thing down the stairs, either.)  Even if your plan is to take the train to someplace from where you can catch a taxi, versus transferring to a subway, you are not going to escape the stairs in the train station.
2. Trains and metro cars can both be absolutely packed with people.  Want to get stared at with deep dislike?  Try to squeeze your suitcase with a week’s worth of vacation wear into a subway wagon filled with people jammed [trying to think of a non-vulgar way to put this] together like sardines already.  Enjoy the welcoming looks of all of the people on their way to/from work as they try to squeeze around your giant suitcase, which is now mostly blocking the door.  Roll your 49-pound suitcase over the toes of some nice Parisian woman’s $835 asymmetric-strap Manolo Blahniks.  Or, roll your 49-pound suitcase over the toes of some nice Parisian woman’s $10 Converse knock-offs after she’s just spent all day on her feet at her job as a cashier.  Or…well, the possibilities for pissing off people on a crowded train or metro car are endless, really.

Is that really how you want to start (or end) your vacation?  Probably not.  I recommend that instead, you spring for a taxi.  Due to a recently-passed law, the price of taxi rides from either Paris airport into Paris proper is fixed: 50 euros to the Right Bank, 55 euros to the Left Bank.  You get in the taxi, the total price shows up on the meter, and that’s it.  After a looong flight across the Atlantic, this is the only civilized way to start your Parisian adventure.

I ate my dinner last night while mulling over what the heck that kid could possibly have been doing with that giant sombrero.  Using it to cover his eyes while he slept on the plane?  Using it to cover his entire body while he slept on the plane?  Bringing it as a present for some unsuspecting Parisian who couldn’t possibly have enough room in their tiny Parisian apartment for a Sombrero of Unusual Size?  Hard to say…

• fourvoyer: to mislead; to lead astray.  The American tourists with their giant backpacks (and their giant sombrero) were led astray by their guide books.
• se fourvoyer: to be mistaken, to get something completely wrong; to get lost, to stray from one’s path.  I do this pretty much all the time.