The Bidet

Today in class, we were studying the syllables with the letter B (Ba, Be, Bi, Bo Bu). In our workbooks, we had several pictures of words starting or containing syllables with B.

There was a bathroom sink (lavabo), the act of drinking (boire), a banana (you can guess...), etc. But for Bi, there was a bidet. In case you don't know what it is, I've included a picture above. It's for washing anything out of your lower hemisphere that you don't want there. Since this is a G rated blog, I'll let you do the math...

Anyway, I came across the word today with the women in my class. For this particular word, I was really hoping they'd just circle "Bi", and we could move on. We'd had the word bidet in our workbooks last year, and last year, when they understood less, they didn't question anything. They just circled the right answer, and we rolled along.

Today, I was ready to move on, relieved no one had said anything yet, when one of my students said, "So a bidet is a toilet, c'est ca?"

"No,"I replied. "Not exactly."

"You don't go to the bathroom in it?" she asked.

"No."

"So?" she asked. "What's it for?"

"Washing up," I replied.

"Your hands?" she asked. "It's a sink?"

"No."

"Then what?"

All the ladies held the books up to get a better look at the picture, turning the books this way and that, analyzing the picture.

"Well," I said, "when you go into a bathroom in France, you'll see that there are two toilet looking things..."

"Oui?" she said, looking like she'd seen this before.

"So," I said, gulping, turning more than a little red, "the French people go potty in one and wash up in the other."

She stared at me, still confused. I didn't know if she lacked the vocabulary to understand or if she simply wasn't getting the concept behind the bidet.

After a few more failed attempts, I pulled over two chairs. I sat on one, pretending to be using the restroom. Then, I moved over to the other chair and said, "I'm washing myself." Or if I'm honest, since I was not sure how to best--and most easily--say what I wanted to, I said, (this is my attempt at a direct translation): "I'm washing my butt cheeks." (My poor mother. She'd be appalled!)

"Ohhhhhh...." my student said, and then, quickly translated in Arabic to those around her.

And all the sudden, everyone started laughing, while I quickly rearranged the chairs, saying hastily, "So, lavabo...that containts which syllable with B?"

That Bad Habit...

My boyfriend and I have developped this bad habit of making a running commentary on the lives of everyone around us. Normally, the people we come across aren't English speakers, so we comment on where we think they're going, what we think they're doing, how they could improve their looks, etc. Though they occasionally receive curious looks from us, they generally have no idea what's being said about them.
Last Sunday, Stephan and I were sitting in church, and this man and his son walked in.
"I wonder how he got his wife..." Stephan mused.
"Really?" I asked, "Because I feel like he's way better looking than she is."
"I know," he replied. "That's what I meant."
"Strangely, they've got a cute son," I said.
We then, moved onto something else, talking about the music or what the message would be or something equally banal. But a few minutes later, the pastor got up and announced that we'd be having a guest speaker that day.
"Please welcome Trevor Harris," he said.
My heart dropped as the man directly in front of us stood up with a curious smile on his face. Trevor Harris isn't a French name. It's a very, very English name.
Realizing this, I tried to replay our whole conversation over in my head, and I felt my face get so red. And then, I tried to remember how loud we'd been talking...could it have been a whisper? Or was it in a regular voice?
By the end, the only conclusion I came to was that it would be best to never, ever say anything that I wouldn't want to be overheard.
There we go. That's New Year's Resolution #3412.

Questions

Before coming to France to work with the women in my classes, I had a training session where I was told what to expect from the kinds of women I'd be working with. For one thing, I was told they would ask very invasive questions: Are you married? Why aren't you married? Do you have kids? Why not? .... things like that.
Well, for the most part, I haven't really experienced any of this aside from the occasional teasing I get for being 24 and single.
But the other day, a woman in class said to me (from my perspective, the question came completely out of the blue), "How much money do you make?"
I was taken aback by the question, because I'd never imagine asking anyone this. "Enough," I replied vaguely.
"No," she continued, "How much money do you make?"
I then explained that I'm a volunteer and that I received a monthly stipend.
"And you don't work?" she asked.
"Si!" I said, nettled that she thought teaching her French didn't constitute working. "I do work."
"What do you do for a living then?" she asked.
"Teach," I replied.
"Where?"
"Here," I said.
She paused a minute, considered this, and then said, "You're so funny."
"No," I replied. "Really. I'm here to teach you French."
"That's not work," she said.
"What is it then?" I laughed.
She smiled, "Oh, I don't know..." And then, with one final look at me, she left, laughing her way all the way down the rue Telegraphe.

But oh my. I enjoyed that conversation. I really love my work...or, from her perspective, my lack there of.