Suzy Says

I have a confession to make.

The name of my site makes no francophone sense. You’d think that a noted Francophile like myself would know this, but non. Kim’s boyfriend David explained to me that “c’est la bombe”, like me, makes no sense, though it’s close in words and intent to two actual French expressions:

1. C’est une bombe, meaning “She’s a hottie”; and
2. C’est de la bombe, meaning something is cool.

Linguistics major that I am, and possessor of trivial mind that I am, I found it fascinating. And it doesn’t hurt that I can blame the mistake on John, who bought the domain name for me and who doesn’t really speak French, though he tries hard whenever we are there. In fact, he is less shy about it than I am, for reasons that I can’t fully understand.

And for those of you who subscribe to the widely-believed notion that the French are, as a nation, rude to tourists, I can only say that I have never, from my first visit to France more than 20 years ago to now, ever had that problem. Perfect strangers there have been as kind to me as Blanche Dubois could ever have wished for, and even cops have given me directions, one of them with his arm around me to better show me the map, which my father found unnecessary.

The first time John and I were in Paris together was in mid-April, and it was everything Paris in the spring should be. We were walking along the river, looking at the bouquinistes, when John went ahead of me to have a cigarette (France is the polar opposite of California in that smoking in public is tolerated and even encouraged). It was pretty crowded and we managed to lose each other in the crowd. After looking fruitlessly, I decided the best thing was to go back to the hotel, where he would surely find me.

But non. What John did after looking fruitlessly was to go the police, who pretty much laughed at him and suggested that I had obviously ditched him for some passing and irresistible French guy. An international incident very nearly ensued. John repaired to a nearby tabac*, where he was defeated by the intricacies of the French payphone and the phone book. However, a couple of students showed him how to find the hotel phone number and make the call, whereupon I answered the phone and burst into tears as soon as I haerd his voice.

By the time John had calmed me down, the students had vanished before he could say thanks. But merci anyway, both to the unknown students and to David. You’re the bomb!

PS: Julie pointed out the same thing in the post below! Guess it’s about time I learned something.

*Tabacs are very, very useful. You can not only, as the name implies, buy cigarettes there, you can also get the cards no pay phone works without; debit cards for parking meters; stamps; M&eacutetro tickets; gum and candy; lottery tickets; racing forms; and at some, displaying a red diamond, renew your car registration. Most have a caf&eacute/bar, so you can get a cup of coffee or a glass of wine, too. God, Paris is civilized!