Today at Fnac (think Best Buy plus Borders, minus the space to make a mega store the size of an airport), I bought a clock radio. I chose the cheapest one they had, and begrudgingly (because I wouldn’t need the clock if I could have gotten my phone, but they won’t give me my phone without a bank card and they won’t give me a bank card without proof of my previous American address and they refuse to acknowledge my Minnesota driver’s license as a legitimate ID)–all of which is to say Grace à Dieu que j’ai acheté l’horlage du radio!
In the U.S., I felt very grateful to live in the Holy Land of public radio–not only because it’s wonderful on its own merits, but because any commercial station gives me a headache and an earbleed–but in France, I can’t get enough of it! The stations are–get this–exactly like American stations. The music is mostly American (Top 40 kind of stuff that I’m normally wayyy too cool for) and between songs there are loud station ID’s and obnoxious call-in game show monkey business–oh but here, it’s all in French!
Up and down the dial of my lovely little (piece of junk plastic glued together in China) radio, even when the songs are American, there’s nothing but French, French, French!
The moral of the story: even something as obnoxious as commercial radio sounds lovely when it’s en français.
I still don’t even know what station I’m listening to, but I figure that if I listen in my sleep, I’ll learn tons of casual French by osmosis or something.
Oh, and on that note, I’ve decided to take up smoking.