Meerkat being helpful

Another hysterically funny episode from the life of the bumbling meerkat.



Monday morning was supposed to be my first lesson in French. So I arrive early, circle the building (in fact, several buildings) trying to get in. Nothing new there. This is what I always do. Finally I spot some people with knowledgeable faces coming from the bus stop which gave me some hope that they would

know where to go. Of course they did and following them, I got into the building.

It was quite simple after that: I went straight to room 028 that had been indicated in my invitation. Said hello to the three people already there and took a seat. The teacher was late, I mean, very very late. So I just sat there and listened to the other people's conversation. But I did wonder how such experienced and long-time translators still didn't know any French ... based on what they said everyone had a house here, to say nothing about a car and a family! They seemed very settled in!

Eventually another old-timer came in, put his briefcase down next to me, whipped out his invitation and pushed it under my nose, demanding: "Is this the Croatian class?" I had noticed his name on the paper: it was Estonian. "No, it's not," I told him in our mutual mother tongue. "In fact, its French, beginners' level. You'd better go and try to find your Croatian class, 'cause this is not it." "Oh fuck," says he, picks up his satchel and marches out of the room, banging the door.

Some more waiting followed and finally, the teacher arrived. She was greeted, in FLUENT FRENCH, by my classmates. Now it was my turn to oh-fuck. Mentally, of course! So that's how it's going to be! I had heard horror stories about those langage courses for translators where everyone actually has excellent command of the language. Why they enrol at the beginners' level, remains a mystery to me.

So I say, in English: "Khm, I think we have a problem here. I actually REALLY don't speak any French." A surprised silence followed. "Oh-uh," says the teacher in very wobbly English. "I guess I could try to put it in English for you ..."

I sit, seething. She pulls out a textbook and sends it around, saying that this is the book they have always used for those lessons. Even from the other side of the room I could tell that this was NOT the book I had been told to buy (which I did and paid good money for it, let me tell you).

So I seethe some more and wait for the book to reach me in order to make another biting comment. It did reach me. And what do you think? The book was for learning CROATIAN !!! At that point I jump up, and yell: "Is this the French class for beginners?" "No," they tell me in chorus," It's Croatian!"

I burst out laughing and so does everyone else. For some comic relief, for heavens' sake! "And now," say I, "I only have to find that poor soul whom I sent to god knows where in search of the Croatian class..."

To cut a long story short: I finally found my French class. The first lesson was almost over. But nobody minded. The teacher was a pretty and funny girl and my co-students: eight strapping lads. Which made the lesson really fun and lively as everyone was trying to impress the teacher! In the end, meerkat had great fun. And nobody spoke much French either.

As for the Estonian gentleman: I saw him marching towards the bus stop, briefcase under arm, very red in the face and looking (understandably) peeved. I hid behind the corner of the building and didn't come out until he had alighted a bus. I will have to be very careful not to bump into him in the future :))))

On double numbers and potato salad

Yesterday yours truly set out around lunchtime to find the place where to get an internet connection for my new place. It was another warm and sunny day and so I thought I'd go on foot.

The building that I was looking for was supposed to be located at 283 Route d'Arlon (or Arlon Road). I started walking at the beginning of the said road, thinking that it would be pretty easy. Just march on and on, keeping a healthy tempo, and soon enough you'll reach the place you're supposed to be. In addition, nice exercise will be had.

So that's what I did. It was much farther than I had thought. The sun was beating down on the little meerkat head, and the road went steadily uphill. In an hour or so I started to have regrets of not having taken the bus.

Eventually I reached a house with a sign clearly saying: 283, Route d'Arlon. Two blokes were having a smoke outside. So I ask them: where can I find Numericable, the company?

Bla bla bla, bla, bla, bla ... they gurgle in French, waving their arms as they tend to do. The only thing I got was the word NON! I asked once again. They go bla bla again. This time I understood that they were trying to tell me that this is not the building. That there was another building with the same number somewhere in that direction ... up the street.

I left reluctantly, dragging my feet in the dust. I was almost 100 % sure they were pulling my leg or nose or any other protruberance of choice. I was sure they must have been thinking: oh what a boring afternoon we are having! Let's have some fun at the expense of the stupid meerkat, asking the way in its silly meerkat language!

I then remembered that someone had mentioned that the said offices are next to a big department store, called the Belle Etoile, or the Pretty Star. So I decided to ask for directions to that from the next person I'd meet.

Two kind women waved their directions, also up the street but said that I'd better take a bus because it would be a long way. Waiting for the bus, an elderly woman picked up a conversation with me in mixed Letzebuergisch and French and by the time the bus came, I knew all about her family and her many ailments ... which was quite a lot, considering that I speak neither. I think it must be one of the two things: either I look a complete nutter (because that sort of thing happens to me all the time) or I simply have that kind of a face :)))

Finally, the Pretty Star shopping center. I enter and ask for further directions. Another guy says: non, non, non ... it's not here, the address here is 380 Route d'Alon! You have to go back! And he waves me down the street.

At this point, I was fuming. I marched down that blasted road, cursing loudly in Estonian. The thing I was most afraid of was that I'd now march DOWN the street and UP to the same damn building I had just come from! If that would be the case, I thought, I would look up those men and give them a piece of my mind as well as a thorough stuffing!

So I keep walking the Arlon road ... 360 ... 340 ... 300 ... and ... 283!
And it IS another building!
Those blokes had been telling the truth!

After getting my breath back and my contract in order, I asked the customer service to answer this question for me: how is this possible?

The explanation was simple. There is one Route d'Arlon. Within the limits of Luxembourg, the numbers reach from one to about 300. Then Luxembourg ends and Strassen begins and ... wait for it ... wait for it .... THE NUMBERING STARTS ALL OVER AGAIN FROM 1 !!!!

CAPISCE ?!?!?

After that I took a bus straight home. It was half past 4 pm. On my way home, I passed by the food store, and bought:

1. potatoes
2. a cucumber
3. eggs
5. sour cream

because, frankly, I felt I needed some proper home made nourishment!
Boiled the potatoes and eggs and made me a salad ... and the meerkat was happy again.

Purring, in fact :)))