language gaffes, part "le meltdown"

well, i guess it was only a matter of time before i started in on the french way of doing things, that certain je ne sais quoi that makes you just want to stay in bed eating nutella with a spoon and watching reruns of "friends" dubbed in french... it's sort of like waking up to find yourself in a kafka novel or, worse still, a beckett play: no longer a client at the internet store or a foreign resident seeking legal immigration papers, you become hopeless characters, forced to repeat mindless activities and use language void of meaning in a world that is as absurdly amusing as it is profoundly pessimistic.

case in point: it is nearly impossible to open a bank account without official proof of your residence. a simple phone bill will do. but as it turns out, you can't get your phone set up until you've opened a bank account. riddle me that, friends.

the infuriating, brain-melting, and marriage-testing experience for K and LB came not at the bank or with the phone company, but in trying to set up their internet service. i'll spare all the dirty details about the hours spent waiting for, watching the antics of, and cleaning up after the company's technicians; i'll also forego details on the service clientèle, encounters with which nearly saw ol' LB lose her merde. instead, i'll get right to the climax: after being told a third time to patienter (her words said "bear with us" but her tone was all "hold your horses, lady") just another 24 hours before the network would surely connect but discovering after a long day at the library that there was still no connection, K calmly packed up the modem, cable, jack, blah blah blah, and walked out the door.

on the way to the boutique, the two irate americans agreed that LB would do all the talking. though K generally has superior people skills, LB's french is arguably better. but as they walked in the door, a mere 3 minutes after closing time, it was K who lost his merde (what follows is an approximate translation):

S (salesperson): hello sir. i am very sorry, but we are closed.
K: NO. it is I who sorry. one always waits one week no internet! bullshit! three technicians always still wait no internet! our apartment!
L: umm, babe...?
S: [laughs uncomfortably; looks furtively at female colleague, who is standing in the corner – totally bewildered and slightly amused]
K: three technicians... one always waits... no internet!
S: we open at 9 a.m. au revoir.
K: [turns and leaves in a huff]
L: [mortified, has already left]

now, where's that jar of nutella?