I heard myself saying it. I knew better. I had told myself it
would just lead to trouble, but out it came: “Bonjour Pierre” I heard myself
chirp to our new doorman.
And there I was again, frozen, waiting for the inevitable,
breaking out in a sweat. Pierre did what
I knew he would do, he responded to me in French.
And I couldn't come up with the next sentence.
Standing there in our building’s lobby I felt as though I
was back in Paris, facing salesclerks, waiters, ticket sellers, small children,
any type of French speaking life form. It was always the same scenario: I would
serve a nice little phrase in French but I as sure as hell couldn't return the
volley.
Once again, I am at the ticket line at the Opera Garnier,
barely aware of how beautiful it is, as I wait my turn to purchase tickets to that
night’s performance. It was a ballet, an American ballet, and I am practicing
my question over and over.
I watch the sales girl, a darling, chic, little thing,
smiling and speaking in turn to each of the ten people in front of me. I can hear
and yes she speaks only French. My heart is in my mouth as I near the head of
the line. I don't even ask about parlezing in Anglais, I get out my request. “Bonjour,
Mademoiselle, Avez vous two I mean deux billets pour le performance ce soir?”
And she’s off. Rattling away with a long explanation that contains only one
word I truly comprehend: “Non!” “OK , no,
that's good,” I say to myself, “I got the no all right but she is adding
something about vues and dix and per cent. I think she is saying partial views.”
So I triumphantly turn to my husband to hiss “only seats with partial views -10% sight line”
- and he shakes his head no.
I just might be off the hook and can leave and he says “Ask her
about next Tuesday.”
And I am dead in the water again.
And what does the chic, petite Mademoiselle say? “S’il vous
plait, you may tour the backstage libre for 10 euros.”
“Merci, thank you very much.” I got that, free for a fee. We
can walk around by ourselves. No one will talk to us. In French or English. I
love it.
I now could appreciate the Opera. It is belle époque to an
extreme. I know someone has said it looks like a wedding cake and it does but a
wedding cake only the French could dream up. The grand marble staircase and the rococo reception hall are marvels of glass and candlelight reflected in myriad
mirrors. And there really is an enormous chandelier to give you the feeling of
phantoms lurking about. Couldn't find the underground caverns though and of
course to Jim’s chagrin, I refused to ask.
On the way home we stopped at an epicerie displaying the
most gorgeous strawberries I had ever seen and I bought a few of les fraises, which were perfectly
ripe and red and delicious looking and cost 18E - that’s about $23.00. Jim didn’t
say a word except “Its up to you. They do look awfully good.”
Actually they were the very best strawberries either of us
had ever tasted. I just wasn’t sure of the 23 bucks. But hey, we’re in Paris
for a whole month and we have a really cute apartment in Montmartre and we have
figured out how to work all the appliances except the TV and the elevator is
just like the ones in French movies - all wrought iron and capable of holding
two people max.
If it weren’t for the French thing this would be heaven. I
don't care that it has been about 45 degrees inside as well as out. And that Parisian
landlords do not turn on the heat in May no matter what. Hey, I like my coat
and if not that the bath towels are large enough to serve as shawls.
I can take long soaky baths in the extremely French claw-footed
tub, which is the warmest place in the apartment. But we have a postcard view
of a flight of stairs leading to Sacre Coeur.
It would be perfect if I could just master this French thing.
Jim keeps repeating at least once a day and to any American he can come up
with, “Usually when Paula and I travel I
bear the burden of speaking the local languages, but, boy, am I enjoying this
trip because Paula can do all the talking” Yeah sure. Like the 23 dollar strawberries.
I did manage to get us fed very well though. There are
regular super markets where if you are really cagy you do not have to say much
beyond “Bonjour and Combien est-il?” The cashier swings the register around to
show you the price and so what if I have a purse load of change? I use it in the metro. And the grandkids will
want some as souvenirs.
I found a charcuterie at the bottom of our Rue Chappe that
sells what sure looked to be fresh quiche. The thing about France is that you
think you know all about food like quiche. But you don’t. This quiche Lorraine
is like no other quiche either of us has tasted. It is crowded with chunks of savory
ham, not little, bitty bacon bits. There is no cheese in the creamy filling and
the crust is so good I know it’s more than just butter doing its thing.
This is top drawer eating. This is falling in love eating.
And so is the salade d’asperges which turns out to be white asparagus, which I
have tasted before and passed on as stringy. It is a whole new thing here. It
has been peeled and is tender and delicious and of course the vinaigrette is a
marvel. So what if the sweet man selling the stuff resorted to pointing and gesticulating
as I asked for this and that. He picked the correct coins from my outstretched
hand after I had failed to understand what he was saying about the cost. I don’t
know if it was because I didn't get it or was too flabbergasted by the amount.
Anyway it was bang up superb meal.
Of all the places in the world to get stuck on, why did I
have to choose France? It was Gigi and Jackie Kennedy and Colette I was in love
with them all. I studied French in high school and got A's but couldn't help
but notice that the kids who had chosen Spanish were speaking to each other
within a couple of months. We in the French
class watched a French movie in stone cold silence and waited till we were on
the bus home to admit we hadn’t gotten a word. Except “alors.”
We were told we needed to go to France to really learn to
speak the language. I wanted to go to Paris like those girls in books did. I
would be an au pair or live in a garret and write poetry and learn French from
some romantic Louis Jourdain type. But reality intervened and I put French on
the backburner until I was into my 20th year of teaching and learned that
travel sabbaticals were available. Well I went back to night school, took
French courses and planned my dream all over again.
This time I would study French and the French library system
to appease the granter of travel sabbaticals but try as I could there was no way
I could afford to stay longer than three months, surely enough time to learn to
speak French. I signed up to stay with a family in Paris where I would study at
the France Langue a few hours each day.
When March 15, 1995 rolled around I boarded Air France. I couldn’t
remember a word. I was so frazzled by the time I arrived at the apartment of
Gilles and Anne Bonfils that they took pity on me and spoke to me in English. We
never switched to French. They were wonderful and perhaps trop gentil.
I took French everyday and visited libraries all over the place.
I had a wonderful time but it was clear that was going to need a lot more time
than three months to gain any sort of proficiency.
So now here I was in Paris another 20 years later in roughly
the same spot. I had studied French on and off over those years but obviously
wasn't exactly the top of the class.
There was an assumption that anyone who had spent three
months in Paris spoke French. I stopped talking about it.
My desire to return to France proved stronger than my fear
of communicating and at last Jim and I decided to do it big time. We would go
for a month, rent an apartment and pretend we lived there. And of course, Jim said
I would make it so much easier since I spoke French.
The pressure was on. I took another French course. Two to be
exact, financed by my children as a 70th birthday gift. I found I could
understand the teachers pretty well. And when I discovered Google Translate I
thought I had it made. I would make up sentences I thought I might find useful,
write them out and then check the Google version. Well, I said, this is just
the ticket. But of course it was just serving again. I mean I became borderline
proficient at asking questions but Google never answered them and there I was,
always serving but never the returning a volley.
I figured out quickly on the first visit that the secret to
finding nice French people is in being polite. All you have to do is say
Bonjour and Merci. I am not kidding. Go into a shop and fail to say bonjour and
you will be glared at. Try to buy a train ticket without a bonjour and you will
get a lecture on civility – in good English. I also learned - which never helped
with the fluency issue - that if I said my sentence in French the French person
would smile and switch to English. I know I shouldn’t have been so grateful. I
know people who are actually put out by this.
I guess I just don't want to suffer.
Anyway I found that buying cheese was fairly easy, as long you
wanted to buy the little round ones. If you want a slice you had better figure
out kilos. A kilo is roughly two pounds. But if you want a quarter pound, you
need to know to say one-eighth kilo. Un huitieme d’un kilo. Pas mal.
Kilos gave me a lot of trouble. I became quite popular when
I requested a petite piece de la pate de maison at that lovely charcuterie. I
did read the sign 89E per kilo, but I figured I would get only a tiny slice. Don't ask how much it turned out to be. Just
know it was worth it.
About half way through our month I was staring at the phone
waiting for the moment Le Table d’Eugene would open in order to confirm our lunch reservations.
Jim
called from the kitchen, “Why are you sitting by the phone? Eat a little
breakfast before you call.”
I responded I couldn't, I was too sick to my stomach about
the call. So he said, god bless him, “Stop worrying about this French thing. You
are fine. Your French is what it is. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t
so stop driving yourself crazy. If you don’t, you’ll miss out on too many croissants
because if you don't come and eat this damned thing I just tromped down the
hill to fetch, I will.”
So you know what? I ate the croissant, which wasn’t any
better than the ones I buy here. The phone call went passably. I only said two
three weird things before the French maître d guy switched to English.
After that I stopped going nuts and sort of let it go. I
enjoyed Paris even more. Sometimes I understood and was understood, sometimes
not.
So, “Bonjour Pierre,” my very kind new doorman, “Je parle un
peu.”
