So, is it possible for the French think I am a snob? This will probably be a “I guess you had to be there” story, since there is no conceivable way I can convey the accents and communication challenges that are in play during this lengthy interaction with some Frenchmen.

Our landlord has returned toJapan, so she arranged for her friends to walk through the flat with us, sign the papers, and hand over the keys. Here enter the French.

Joe and I park the car and have to bring Liv with us because…well…we are homeless and have nowhere else to put her. We meet the French couple outside and introduce ourselves, as well as Liv. There is some important back-information to know here: When we put Liv in the kennel, we always sign her up for a grooming session on the day that we are going to pick her up. Our kennel gives a free night when you have your dog groomed, and the grooming is cheaper than the price of one night, so we save a whopping $2 and get a clean dog! One of the girls at the kennel really took a liking to sweet Liv and started putting a bandana and matching stick-on earrings on Liv’s ears when she is finished grooming her. This particular pair of earrings has managed to stay on since we left Jersey.

Back to the street scene: Mrs. French pets Liv and asks about her earrings. I try to explain that the groomer likes to put those on her. “Oh, so the dog has her own personal coiffeur?” she asks, as she mimes looking in a mirror and sweeps her other hand around her hair. “No, no,” I try to explain, “it is where we keep her when we are away.” She smiles, but I am unsure if it is because she doesn’t understand, is still trying to understand, or understands clearly and thinks I spoil my dog.

The four of us (+ Liv) start to walk around and inspect the flat, logging any damages and imperfections that are present prior to our acquisition. Here is some more information needed to help this situation make sense: our flat building was originally French barracks from one of the many times  the town was either owned or occupied by the French (the exact date is still a mystery). We have the entire floor, because our landlord purchased both flats and knocked down the wall between. It is basically one really long hallway with all the rooms branching off. The French couple lives in a building of the exact same design and lay out, at the end of the same street. As we are walking down the hall together I say to Mrs. French, “This is quite a hallway.” She laughs and says, “Yes, you will need roller skates to get down this hall. You are lucky; we have our three children and only half the flat.” Time for me to open mouth, insert foot. I quickly ask questions about her children to divert the conversation away from the fact that we have twice the space, less than half the people, and are still concerned with how to fit everything in!

Move the scene to the cellar, an hour and a half later: We had purchased numerous European appliances from the previous tenants, since they were moving back to the States. These were all being stored in the cellar. As Joe is going through the items he says, “Here are your three hairdryers, Trysta.”  Mr. and Mrs. French look at me….I have nothing to say. Thank goodness for Joe’s quick wit, because he made some jokes about needing to dry his own hair.

Finally, we are looking at the electricity counter and the couple is explaining how we will be billed. Mr. French keeps saying “how much you conceive” instead of “consume” and I smile and nod as if it is perfect grammar. Mrs. French, though, recognizes the error and says “con-SU-may-tion”. More nods, and ja (yes)….ja (yes). This then leads to a conversation about the word “refrigerator” and Mr. French things is it so funny how we, the Americans, say refrigeraTOR. He does his best to mock our accent and Joe returns the favor with a “re-fregh-urgh-reigh-atore”. Ahhh…chuckles all around.

After two hours of sticky, exhausting attempts at communication, all the papers are signed and we are left with 20 keys to the flat. No exaggeration here. Twenty…as in 2-0. Joe and I stand alone, in the long, empty, hallway, hands full of keys, and just look at each other. There is minimal energy left for talking.

Some time later, after wrapping my head around the whole thing, my only lingering concern is: I think the French think we’re snobby!