On Saturday after dinner we saw some incredible African drumming at Zebulon; the place was packed & everybody was really into the show. We were clustered round a dark little table near the door & the guys we were sitting with had brought in their own Stellas from the bodega & were rolling a joint right there on the table. I rolled my eyes over at Laura. "Classy," I said, even tho really I didn't mind & later I went outside with one of them to smoke it. After the band was done we moved up to the bar & drank Hoegaardens & this man tapped me on the shoulder & said "Pardon, mais comment tu t'appelles?"
I asked him how he had guessed I spoke French.
"Parce que tu portes des lunettes," he replied.
"Oh, I'm wearing glasses, so I must be smart?" I said. "C'est un stéréotype."
Anyway it turned out that it had been an easy guess for him because up by the bar when the music was over it was clear that Laura, Polly & I were just about the only non-Frenchies in the whole place. Between the bartenders, the drinkers & the musicians from Mali there was barely a lick of English to be heard. I learned useful phrases like "saoul" rather than ivre for drunk & "pâtés de maison" instead of rues for blocks. Around 4 a.m. I decided I'd had enough & 2 of the French guys walked me home on their way to the subway. A funny thing happened on our way out of the bar: my French, which had surprised me by being free-flowing & sharp all nite long despite such a long period of hibernation, fell away at once. Outside Zebulon on the barren stretch of sidewalk on Wythe I switched back to English & my chaperones, while still speaking French themselves, carried on talking like they didn't notice. So maybe my stellar French exists somewhere in that bar. Bizarre, n'est-ce pas?
In completely unrelated news, Brawny has launched some sort of strange marketing campaign that lets you spend virtual quality time with the Brawny man himself. The idea is that he's this sensitive man living in a cabin who spends his time building rocking horses for disadvantaged kids & opening pickle jars for you while telling you how beautiful you are. The more you watch, tho, the more he seems like he's on some very heavy meds or possibly even been lobotomized. Completely hilarious yet a touch disturbing, it reminds me of something Jean Teasdale or Cathy Guisewite would love. There are several possible encounters you can have with the Brawny man but this one is my favorite. Tho I can't figure out what it has to do with selling paper towels.
