On not speaking French
I was terrified from the moment we crossed the Belgian border and we were in France. Terrified. It was the first time I had ever been in France, and I knew--just knew--that our not speaking French would be the cause of a problem. Mind you, I was not afraid of there being an emergency and not speaking French presenting an obstacle to getting that resolved. What I feared was that someone would realize that we were non-French speaking Anglophones and heap abuse on us.
It was an unreasonable, exaggerated fear, rooted in hearsay and Randy's own unfortunate experience several years ago at 5 am one morning trying to change planes at Charles deGaulle Airport. A customer service person for a major international airline responded rudely to Randy's asking if he spoke English. Coolly, without accent, he queried, "No, do you speak French?" And then walked away.
And of course, my fears were realized on the train leaving Paris.
More after the jump.
We were standing on the wrong half of the right train, now speeding out of Paris (if you missed how we got there). Sweaty and out of breath, we desperately apologized to the conductor for not speaking French, but we had no idea what to do next. In broken but welcome English, she patiently explained to us that in Poitiers we could change to the proper Bordeaux-bound car while the two halves were uncoupled. She showed us to some overflow seats where we could sit for the next hour or so. There were others in the car as well, a few people who appeared not to have reserved seating in another car, and anyone that was travelling with their bicycle (side note: How cool is that in Europe you can take the train with your bike?).
Across the aisle from us was a man that I mistook for an African-American when he started talking to us. He had overheard us talking about our situation, and he wanted to make sure the conductor instructed us properly on what to do at Poitiers. From his accent I thought for sure he was from New York, and from his familiarity with the operations of the French trains, I guessed him to be a long-time expat.
One of the scruffy older men also in our car started to speak to Myles and Brigid in French, but of course, after I coached them to say a very polite, "Bon Jour," they didn't answer him further. He then addressed Randy and me, to which all we could do was shake our heads with embarrassment. Turning to the gentleman across the aisle from us, he launched into what sounded like a rant from the tone. Of course I could not judge from the content. After watching some back-and-forth between the two, Myles asked me nervously what they were discussing. In perfect English, the man across from us lied badly, telling Myles that the French man was talking about some movie he saw.
I knew Myles was not buying it, so I put it much too bluntly than I should. "He's angry that we've come to France and don't speak French. It doesn't matter what other languages we may know, because it's not French."
The nod across the aisle told me that, yes, I understood perfectly well.
Later that night, on facebook, I wrote that one thing I wish I had learned how to say in French was "I am sorry that I do not speak French. I do speak enough Spanish, German, and Chinese to continue this conversation. Would you like to pick one of those?"
One of my French friends posted back this translation, "Je suis désolée, je ne parle pas français. Je parle suffisamment d'espagnol, allemand ou mandarin pour continuer cette conversation. Une de ces langues vous convient-elle?"
I would not want to give an exaggerated sense of fluency in any of those languages, but rather counter a perceived willful ignorance with some evidence of curiosity. And if anyone in France actually would take me up on that invitation, I can really say in each of those languages that where I went to school, there was no French instruction, but this country is so beautiful, of course, we wanted to come.
After the scruffy guy was tired of us, he returned to his seat and slept the rest of the way to Poitiers. As we neared that station, we prepared for our quick change. I thanked the man who had helped us, especially since we knew not speaking French was a potential problem. It wasn't like in China, where we've been living for the past five years, where locals were usually much more forgiving if you don't speak the language, but appreciative of any effort you could make. I added this for good measure so that he might see something redeeming about us.
China piqued his interest. He said he was considering moving his family to Guangzhou so his children could learn Chinese. It was the language he believed his children really needed for their future. With French, English, and Chinese, his kids would be set, he hoped.
As we were exiting the car, I asked him if he were French or American. He laughed appreciatively, saying he was French, but had spent five years in New York. That touch of a Queens accent threw me, I told him.
The rest of our time in France was great. We did not encounter anything like this again. In fact, I was shocked how often in trying not to assume English speaking was possible in the restaurants and ticket counters we were invited to do so. It really is a beautiful country. If the opportunity presented itself, we would return.
It was an unreasonable, exaggerated fear, rooted in hearsay and Randy's own unfortunate experience several years ago at 5 am one morning trying to change planes at Charles deGaulle Airport. A customer service person for a major international airline responded rudely to Randy's asking if he spoke English. Coolly, without accent, he queried, "No, do you speak French?" And then walked away.
And of course, my fears were realized on the train leaving Paris.
More after the jump.
We were standing on the wrong half of the right train, now speeding out of Paris (if you missed how we got there). Sweaty and out of breath, we desperately apologized to the conductor for not speaking French, but we had no idea what to do next. In broken but welcome English, she patiently explained to us that in Poitiers we could change to the proper Bordeaux-bound car while the two halves were uncoupled. She showed us to some overflow seats where we could sit for the next hour or so. There were others in the car as well, a few people who appeared not to have reserved seating in another car, and anyone that was travelling with their bicycle (side note: How cool is that in Europe you can take the train with your bike?).
Across the aisle from us was a man that I mistook for an African-American when he started talking to us. He had overheard us talking about our situation, and he wanted to make sure the conductor instructed us properly on what to do at Poitiers. From his accent I thought for sure he was from New York, and from his familiarity with the operations of the French trains, I guessed him to be a long-time expat.
One of the scruffy older men also in our car started to speak to Myles and Brigid in French, but of course, after I coached them to say a very polite, "Bon Jour," they didn't answer him further. He then addressed Randy and me, to which all we could do was shake our heads with embarrassment. Turning to the gentleman across the aisle from us, he launched into what sounded like a rant from the tone. Of course I could not judge from the content. After watching some back-and-forth between the two, Myles asked me nervously what they were discussing. In perfect English, the man across from us lied badly, telling Myles that the French man was talking about some movie he saw.
I knew Myles was not buying it, so I put it much too bluntly than I should. "He's angry that we've come to France and don't speak French. It doesn't matter what other languages we may know, because it's not French."
The nod across the aisle told me that, yes, I understood perfectly well.
Later that night, on facebook, I wrote that one thing I wish I had learned how to say in French was "I am sorry that I do not speak French. I do speak enough Spanish, German, and Chinese to continue this conversation. Would you like to pick one of those?"
One of my French friends posted back this translation, "Je suis désolée, je ne parle pas français. Je parle suffisamment d'espagnol, allemand ou mandarin pour continuer cette conversation. Une de ces langues vous convient-elle?"
I would not want to give an exaggerated sense of fluency in any of those languages, but rather counter a perceived willful ignorance with some evidence of curiosity. And if anyone in France actually would take me up on that invitation, I can really say in each of those languages that where I went to school, there was no French instruction, but this country is so beautiful, of course, we wanted to come.
After the scruffy guy was tired of us, he returned to his seat and slept the rest of the way to Poitiers. As we neared that station, we prepared for our quick change. I thanked the man who had helped us, especially since we knew not speaking French was a potential problem. It wasn't like in China, where we've been living for the past five years, where locals were usually much more forgiving if you don't speak the language, but appreciative of any effort you could make. I added this for good measure so that he might see something redeeming about us.
China piqued his interest. He said he was considering moving his family to Guangzhou so his children could learn Chinese. It was the language he believed his children really needed for their future. With French, English, and Chinese, his kids would be set, he hoped.
As we were exiting the car, I asked him if he were French or American. He laughed appreciatively, saying he was French, but had spent five years in New York. That touch of a Queens accent threw me, I told him.
The rest of our time in France was great. We did not encounter anything like this again. In fact, I was shocked how often in trying not to assume English speaking was possible in the restaurants and ticket counters we were invited to do so. It really is a beautiful country. If the opportunity presented itself, we would return.
Comments
The best experience was trying to explain to an innkeeper, in a tiny town next to the Loire, that I needed a non-feather pillow. I couldn't remember, for the life of me, the word for feather. I eventually resorted to impersonating a chicken and pretending to go to sleep. After she struggled with my antics for some time, she lit up, dragged me to a closet and handed me a poly-filled pillow. But, then, she insisted that I repeat ten times in French, "I am allergic and need a pillow without feathers." I think she didn't want any of her colleagues to be treated to the chicken impersonation. (sans plume, by the way. Of course!)
The only rude person I found, ever, was the clerk in a Catholic bookstore in Paris, who basically threw me out. That's was it for the rudeness of the French.