Ah, the trials and tribulations of traveling to a foreign country. Albeit many, many things fall under this umbrella, language and communication are the focus of this lamentation.
For example, after spending three weeks in Paris, I now speak what I’ve coined as franglais (a mix of English and French), as it is common when visiting a foreign country to develop the habit of saying certain words in the native tongue, such as, “oui” or “merci” or “excusez-moi”. As a result — and to the annoyance of the other members of my family as well as everyone I’ve encountered working a register or waiting tables in the 3 days since I’ve returned — I now reflexively answer simple inquiries with “oui” or “non merci,” along with several other basic French anecdotes. Although it can be embarrassing, I am disappointed to stop speaking the language because I was just beginning to get the hang of it.
Of course, I’m certainly nowhere near fluent, and as a result, was forced on occasion to improvise. Admittedly, I far too often took a gamble and answered a question in which I had merely surmised the meaning based on the circumstances and the few words I was able to pick up. It’s not a horrible method depending on the situation, but becomes exceedingly dangerous if answering an unknown inquiry affirmatively, as you just never know what you may be agreeing to. A good example would be my experience with the 60+ year old waiter that served me lunch at the outdoor cafe on my last day. He was rambling on, from what I could surmise, something about him teaching me French. Well, I didn’t really have time for this as I was about to lose that window of opportunity to feed a hangover without serious ill-effects. So, wanting nothing more than to order lunch — and naturally assuming he was referring to the language and not the other form of oral communication — I simply nodded and agreed with something like, “yada, yada, oui, merci. Je voudrais le quiche du jour, s’il vous plait.”
In hindsight it is entirely possible — rather, more than likely — that I missed an important part of the content to his message because every time he passed my table after that he puckered up and aimed an air kiss in my direction. After performing that odd grooming ritual a few times, he came over and proceeded to write his name and number on the back of my bill. I quickly expressed that it was my last day, but nearly before I could get the words out he said, “ce soir!” Well, you can bet I wasn’t going to be spending my last night in Paris with a dirty old French man twice my age, so naturally I made something up. Yet despite my excuses, he repeatedly attempted to persuade me to return to the restaurant at 8:00 for a rendez-vous. Not wanting his spit or any other special ingredients in my creme brulee, I merely shrugged and politely said, “peut-etre,” meaning maybe.
As I eventually pay my tab, more than ready to continue on, he hands me back the bill, flipping it over, reminding me not to forget his number. Doing whatever I must to get this scenario behind me, I nod again as he hands me the “imperative” information, when all of a sudden he is literally in my face trying to give me an oral exam! Shocked and mortified, I exclaimed an instinctive, “non merci!” and backed away. The old Frenchman simply shrugged but was grinning like the cat who swallowed the canary.
I sat there frozen for a minute or two, literally stunned at what had just happened, and then, glowing with embarrassment, slowly craned my neck around in an attempt to assess the number of witnesses. Wishing I could disappear from the Parisian audience, I rose from the table as nonchalantly as possible attempting to make an inconspicuous exit. Just as I was taking my first step, the wanna-be “language” tutor shouts from across the tables not to forget our date at eight!
Right.
Since he obviously wouldn’t take no for an answer, I replied an affirmative “mais oui! A bientôt!” Then I disappeared into the crowd, grinning like the cat who swallowed the canary.
