French Expressions for the Intrepid, Outspoken Traveler

My friend Elissa is getting ready to move to Paris, as part of her ongoing job saving the world. Elissa is eloquent, clever, with a strong sense of self, not afraid to speak her mind and knows exactly what to say to get out of a sticky situation. So as part of her farewell I found some French phrases she may find useful in her upcoming two-year adventure. Here’s to Elissa! May she return from France after having many saucepans hung on her ass!

À boire ou je tue le chien!
Bring me something to drink or I kill the dog!

Arriver comme un cheveu sur la soupe
About a remark in a conversation, to be completely irrelevant (literally: “to arrive like a hair in the soup”)

Avoir des atomes crochus avec quelqu’un
To have a lot in common with someone (literally: “to have hooked atoms with someone”)

Avoir les chevilles qui enflent
To be very full of oneself (literally: “to have one’s ankles swell”)

Avoir des casseroles au cul
To be haunted by a scandal (literally: “to have saucepans hung on the ass”)

Avoir un poil dans la main
To be lazy (literally: “to have a hair in the hand”)

C’est le pied
That’s great (literally: “It is the foot”)

C’est une autre paire de manches
That’s another story (literally: “It’s another pair of sleeves”)

Chat échaudé craint l’eau froide
Once bitten, twice shy (literally: “A warmed cat fears cold water”)

Coincer la bulle
To bum around (literally: “to wedge the bubble”)

Découvrir le pot aux roses
To discover a secret (literally: “to discover the roses’ pot”)
Note: This expression does not spell “découvrir le poteau rose” (i.e., “to discover the pink pole”).

Démerden Zie sich
German-like expression for “solve your problem yourself” (literally: “get out of the shit yourself”)

Dire tout et son contraire
To say contradictory things (literally: “to say everything and its contrary”)

Donner du fil à retordre
To make life difficult to someone (literally: “to give threads to twist”)

Enfoncer le clou
To drive the point home (literally: “to drive the nail in”)

Être de mauvais poil
To be in a bad mood (literally: “to be of bad hair”)

Être fagoté comme l’as de pique
To be dressed any old how (literally: “to be dressed like the ace of spades”)

Il en a bavé des ronds de chapeau
His eyes nearly popped out of his head (literally: “he dribbled hat circles”)

Enfoncer des portes ouvertes
To state the obvious (literally: “To break down open doors”)

Être comme une poule qui a trouvé un couteau
To be at a complete loss (literally: “To be like a chicken who has found a knife”)

Faux cul
Hypocrite (literally: “fake ass”)

Il n’y a pas de quoi fouetter un chat
It is nothing to make a fuss about (literally: “It’s no reason for whipping a cat”)

Il y une couille dans le potage
There is a problem here (literally: “there is a ball (i.e., testicule) in the soup”)

Je ne vais pas faire long feu ici
I will be leaving soon (literally: “I will not make long fire here”)

La vache!
Expression of surprise (literally: “the cow!)

Laisser pisser le mérinos
Don’t react to a provocation (literally: “to let the merino piss”)

Laisser tomber quelqu’un comme une vieille chaussette
To jilt somebody (literally: “to drop somebody like an old sock”)

Les bras m’en tombent
I am stunned (literally: “my arms are falling”)

Ne pas avoir inventé la poudre
To be a little dumb (literally: “not to have invented gunpowder”)

Ne pas savoir sur quel pied danser
Not to know what to do (literally: “not to know on which foot to dance”)

Noyer le poisson
To evade an issue (literally: “to drown the fish”)

Pas piqué des hannetons
Great (literally: “not bitten by cockchafers”)

Peigner la girafe
To do something useless (literally: “to comb the giraffe”)

Poule mouillée
Coward (literally: “wet chicken”)

Prendre entre quatre z’yeux
To have an argument with someone (literally: “To take someone between four eyes”)

Quand les poules auront des dents
Never (literally: “when chickens will have teeth”)

Sauter du coq à l’âne
To jump from one subject to another (literally: “to jump from the rooster to the donkey”)

Se faire chier comme un rat mort
To be extremely bored (literally: “to make oneself shit like a dead rat”)

S’en donner à coeur joie
To have a tremendous time (literally: “to give oneself heart joy”)

Sortir de la gueule d’une vache
This is said about a clothing item that looks cumpeled (literally: “to come from a cow’s mouth”)

Sucer les pissenlits par la racine
Be dead (literally: “to suck the dandelions by the root”)

Tirer des plans sur la comète
To build castles in the air (literally: “to draw plans on the comet”)

Tous les 36 du mois
Never (literally: “each 36th day of the month”)

Un peu mon neveu!
Of course! (literally: “a little bit, my nephew!”)

Vendre la peau de l’ours avant de l’avoir tué
To count one’s chickens before they are hatched (literally: “to sell the bear’s skin before killing it”)

To read even more outlandish French expressions, click here.

Destination Daydream: 14 Breathtaking Rooms with a Vista

RITZ-CARLTON PUDONG, SHANGHAI

LONDOLOZI TREE CAMP, KRUGER NATIONAL PARK, SOUTH AFRICA

SHANGRI-LA HOTEL, PARIS

HOTEL SALTO CHICO, TORRES DEL PAINE NATIONAL PARK, CHILE

INTER­CONTINENTAL SYDNEY

TSCHUGGEN GRAND HOTEL, AROSA, GRAUBÜNDEN

LAS BALSAS HOTEL, VILLA LA ANGOSTURA, ARGENTINA

SEVEN HILLS HOTEL, SULTANAHMET, ISTANBUL

JADE MOUNTAIN, SOUFRIÈRE, ST. LUCIA

AL QASR, MADINAT JUMEIRAH, DUBAI, UNITED ARAB EMIRATES

OL DONYO WUAS LODGE, CHYULU HILLS, KENYA

HOTEL LOS JUANINOS, MORELIA, MEXICO

AVALON COASTAL RETREAT, SWANSEA, TASMANIA, AUSTRALIA

RIO OTHON PALACE, RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL

Excerpt: Exactly What He Means

It’s starting to get really hot in the dungy Parisian club, and I can feel my shirt sticking to my sweaty back. The boys and I go over to the bar to order another round. He turns to me and says something in French, something he knows I won’t understand. The sentence is too complex, and the vocabulary is nothing they’d teach me in college. But maybe it’s his body language, how he got closer to me with every syllable uttered, or his facial expressions, how his eyebrows rose with excitement after certain words, or his eyes, how he looked at me and then down at my jeans. I may not understand what he says, but I know exactly what he means.

Excerpt, Confessions of a Boy Toy

Photo: Gerard Estadella

Love Retrospective

It is universally acknowledged that a boy toy in possession of a good fortune must be in want of true love.

And he will look in all the wrong places before he finds it…

Bridge Builder tried to get me to cross to the other side. But in matters of the heart, pushing and shoving only results in a halt. Even though we might be uncertain as to what we want exactly… it’s always helpful to pinpoint what we do not want. And I knew that this relationship was going nowhere.

“Pretty soon, his calls and e-mails turn into a form of suffocation—a commitment I’m not ready to make. Maybe because he is 28 and I’m 21 or maybe because he has built a life in Chicago and I still want to go to New York. Or maybe because I enjoy being on my own. Or maybe because I know that he isn’t the bridge that is going to get me to the other side. Not now, anyway.”

So I began casually dating. I’m sort of traditional, so getting hammered and making out with strangers on the dance floor was how I met most of my Chicago paramours at this time. That’s how I met Canadian Stallion, DJ Dreamboat and Straight Guy. And even though we all fantasize about meeting that hook-up that hangs on to our heart, one-night stands rarely commit into the morning after.

“For one minute I let myself get caught up in the moment: the good boy with the lazy smile making breakfast while watching the morning news. A moment he would never recognize, a moment I’m ready to own.”

The carefree fooling around continued when I went to study abroad in Madrid for six months. My next-door neighbor, Chico Rock, impressed me immediately with his Euro-cool and in-the-know approach. But he turned out not to be as solid as I had hoped.

“I open my hand and see that he’s given me two pills. I take one and hand it over to Chico Rock, but he shakes his hands and says, ‘They’re all yours.’”

I took a little detour to Paris for a week and found myself in trouble once again – having to sneak into my flight back after almost getting caught in a ménage á trois.

And then – back to the states. This time, New York City after landing an internship with a magazine. The city was a whirlwind. I went out almost every night and met the most fascinating, life-driven individuals: polysexual party monsters, Wall Street trophy husbands and beautiful boys I should have had the courage to gone up to introduce myself.

“But if we genuinely feel the sparks and believe that the scruffy guy to our right is right, right now, then what’s stopping us from going for it, not like a mindless missile but like on a mission? The worse that can happen is old and rusted rejection. But we’re all big boys here. We can deal.”

New York was not all frisky, no strings attached. I began hooking up with my roommate, Sunny D, and getting dangerously close in our convenient, yet comforting relationship. He could see right through me, but it took him being jealous of a certain Toy Soldier to show it.

“‘So is that really what you think of me?’ I ask as I begin to walk back towards him. ‘That I just use guys? They’re totally disposable to me? Is that what I thought of you?’ The last question is particularly poignant because I’d recently expressed my feelings for him. He’s silent, so I continue. ‘What the hell was that all about? You have a boyfriend, remember?! So just… leave me alone and let me fuck whomever I want. Let me be the giant slut you think I am!’ I drunkenly shout on Avenue A. For some reason, no one thinks it’s weird.”

After all the conflict, I let the dust settled, Sunny D went home and I moved to a new apartment on the Lower East Side. And when I least expected it, I found my superhero… ironically, right before we were both about to jet to somewhere else. He went to California, and I went back to college in Chicago.

My Summer of Love ended, and after the roller coaster ride that was Europe and New York, I started feeling displaced, belonging to nowhere and to no one. I began to crave security, no more casual affairs, but a genuine connection. But that got me in even more of a predicament, because things are rarely what they seem. Denim Boy and Mr. Danger proved that.

“And I was so certain that this real boy would be different. He would care and be kind and not play games, not lead me on and resort to me whenever he wanted, like some plaything that would be available to him whenever he wished. What happened to the good old days when a boy kissed you because he meant it, not to just show that he could?”

But my search was not all a bunch of disillusions. For even when things appeared the grayest, I met a boy that would brighten up my world in multicolor.

After graduation, I moved to San Francisco and realized that my high school crush, Peter Pan, hadn’t grown up at all while I was gone. Chico Boricuo taught me more about myself in one night in a hotel room on Valencia. And I got caught in yet another bizarre love triangle with a Potential Player and an All-American Reject.

But after everything I’ve gone through, I still refuse to give up. No matter how many terrible first dates, misunderstood text messages and heartbreak – I still full-heartedly believe there’s a superhero out there for all of us. Not to rescue us but to fly high along with us. And we shouldn’t settle for anything less that will keep us grounded.

Now that I’m done writing about toy love, I’m focusing all my creative energy to my new bi-weekly column for EDGE. HomoTech ponders the impact of technology on gay lifestyle. Here’s my piece about why I decided to stop writing this blog. I’ve also re-launched my Tumblr, with a new focus on comic book superhero worship.

Thanks for flying along with me,

Oscar

(photo taken in my college dorm, circa 2008)

Paris Is Burning (Part II)

I can’t fully focus on making out with Paris Boy #1 because I’m worried about my small black bag, the only luggage I’ve brought with me to Paris, getting stolen or stepped on. Or who knows what other things can happen to an unattended bag in a gay club in Europe…

I step back and feel another body right behind me. I turn around and see a tall boy with thick, wavy, auburn hair and wearing a loose, black silk button-up. Paris Boy #2. He walks over to Paris Boy # 1, puts his arm around him and whispers in his ear. He slowly rests his forehead on his friend’s head and turns to look at me. He smiles, and I’m almost sure he flashed his tongue. Paris Boy #1 takes a sip of his drink and comes over to talk to me. I’m assuming that Paris Boy #2 doesn’t speak English so #1 has to step in as translator.

“This boy here, he is my boy friend,” he says to me, placing emphasis on the last two words. He wants to make me understand that Paris Boy #2 is not his friend who happens to be a boy; he’s the boy he happens to be fucking. Not a boyfriend. But a boy friend.

I give Paris Boy #2 a genuinely smile, then try to make a joke in my bastardized French. I’ve realized that playing funny is a sure way to show my non-threatening disposition. It’s my last night in France, I’m not going to get involved in a coup d’etat.

But unlike American boys, the French don’t get off on competing with one another, marking territory, claiming possessions. Fucking with each other leaves everyone empty-handed. French boys are more about teamwork and alliance. At least, this is the conclusion I come up with to explain how I went from making out with a boy, to telling jokes to his boy friend to trying to make the couple forget my trespass to what’s happening now: me grinding with both of the Parisians in the middle of the dancefloor. Paris #1 is in front of me with his hands on to my hips and putting his nose up against my cheek. Paris #2 is behind me, grabbing on to his boy friend’s torso and pressing our bodies closer together. Paris Boy #1 is eyeing me like he wants a kiss. So I kiss him, while playing with the back of his neck. I hand him my drink, turn around and place both of my hands on Paris Boy #2’s shoulders, to regain my balance. Then I go in for his lips, slightly higher than mine. I bite his lower lip and then smile while he’s still caressing my mouth with his tongue. I run my fingers through his thick, wavy hair and pull a little.

It’s starting to get really hot, and I can feel my shirt sticking to my sweaty back. The boys and I go over to the bar to get a drink. Paris Boy #2 turns to me and says something in French, something I shouldn’t be able to understand. The sentence is too complex, and the vocabulary is nothing they’d teach me in school. But maybe it’s his body language, getting closer to me with every syllable uttered, or his facial expressions, how his eyebrows rose with excitement after certain words, or his eyes, the way he looked at me and then down at my jeans. I don’t understand what he says, but I understand what he means.

I look over to Paris Boy #1, my original partner, and notice that he too is eager to learn of my response. Yes, these boys are sweaty, sexy. Yes, it would be electrifying to keep playing with them. Ah, a threesome in Paris, every boy’s bubbly daydream.

But no. I have a flight to catch. A flight I can’t miss (again). There will be other sweaty, sexy boys, other electrifying nights, other times to get fully drenched in daydreams. But now, nothing screams reality like starting to get sober and a feeling your watch ticking all the way down on your wrist.

I write down my e-mail address in a wet napkin, and fair the fine boys adieu. My black bag is still where I left it hours earlier.

I wonder if how far we would’ve have gone last night…

“Excuse me, sir? I can’t find your reservation in our system.” And just like that dream is over. The airline attendant at Charles de Gaulle is condescending and British. She’s been having trouble finding my return ticket back to Madrid. But I assure her that she’s oh, so wrong. I mean, how else did I get to Paris.

“I’m sorry, but at this point the only thing I can do is suggest you purchase another ticket,” she tells me.

“But I have a ticket. Here, I have my printed out reservation.”

“Well, it looks like the ticket has been cancelled. I can’t do anything about it here, you need to talk to customer service, I’ll direct you.”

So there I go again– trying to talk my way into a flight back home. The customer representative is even less helpful and way bitchier. She is not going to give me a break. She lives for moments like this. She tells me that since I missed my original, non-refundable flight that my return ticket had been cancelled, and I had no choice but to purchase a new one if I wanted to return to Madrid. The price? 875 euros.

My friends have already boarded their respective flights, I have no one with me, my phone has just died and I have about 35 euros in my bank account. And I’m stuck in Paris.

I go get some coffee to regain my compusure and figure out an escape plan. I have to get on that flight. Boarding is going to commence in a few minutes. No mom, no friends, no money. All I have is this piece of paper stating that I purchased a flight. It’s all on me. I down my coffee, look at the clock above my head, think about the cute Parisian boys, grab my Kenneth Cole bag and stand up. “I’m getting on that flight,” I think and give myself no other option.

With collected bravado, I walk up to the security guard, and flash my reservation and passport. He looks at it, marks it with his red sharpie and lets me through. No questions asked. I wait until the original British girl who denied me my ticket takes her break and find another. She’s brunette and a lot cuter. I give her all my details, and she smiles and says, “Madrid?”

“Si,” I say with the biggest good boy smile I could muster this early in the morning after having my tongue down two cute guys’s thoart (almost at the same time).

“Oh wait…” she says after she catches an indiscretion on the screen, probably a big sign reading: DO NOT LET THIS BOY OUT OF PARIS. And I think, “shit.”

But then she gets distracted by an Italian tourist, bitching and yelling about something. So she steps out for a minute to try to help her co-worker deal with irrational Italian.

And that’s when I see it, my boarding pass. Dangling, freshly printed from my machine. My ticket out. So close, within grasp. I don’t even look around to see who’s watching. I just snatch it and run away.

It’s not until my flight takes off, with me sitting comfortably in my seat, that my hearts stops pounding. I feel like… Matt Damon! I’m a spy.

[Paris Is Burning (Part I)]