Le Jour Deux
Happy Mother’s Day, Mum!!! Love you!!!
Today, or yesterday by now, was a good day, at least on the surface. Don’t get me wrong, it was a great day, but as I wandered the beautiful streets of Paris, I had a million tiny mood swings and a few not-so-tiny ones. At about nine o’clock I left the room and headed for the metro. On my way out the gate, a woman sweeping leaves and petals said “bonjour.” A few blocks from the metro, a woman stopped me on the street with a question I could not understand. As I began to tell her that I do not, in fact, speak French, she waved me off and turned to a woman with a stroller approaching on my left. As I turned around, I could see the woman with the stroller pointing, giving directions. Less than 24 hours and someone has already asked me for directions.
I took the train to Cluny (which is at Notre Dame). And I wandered, over Ile de la Cite and stopped in a cafe for a crousant with orange juice and a caffe au lait. Now this orange juice was the real thing, fresh squeezed from fresh oranges. And the crousant, again was the real thing, and delicious. A woman began speaking in French and from her gestures I deciphered that she was headed into the cafe to use the bathroom and would I watch her things for her. “Oui.”
When I finished, I headed off in the direction I had seen several people come bearing shopping bags. Sure enough I hit a shopping district. I could easily blow my entire budget in Paris on clothes and food alone. But of course, I have three months ahead of me…
And it wasn’t long after that when I began feeling ugly. I imagined myself then with the bare minimum of make-up I usually wear, my complexion suffering from air travel and sleep deprevation, my hair in a messy bun. I felt self-conscious next to the women with their smooth dark hair, flawless complexions, and equally flawless clothing. I actually wanted to hide. Granted, I got no sign from anyone that I didn’t belong. No one showed any inkling that I was a loud, obnoxious American. I suppose my collared button-down and brown drawstring cargos helped. Americans often don’t know I’m American.
But despite this feeling of wanting to hide, I sat in the open in a park and watched children play on a statue, and then I began to sweat. And a wave of fatigue washed over me. My legs turned into jelly as I stood and began to walk. I needed food. So crossing through the Louvre entirely by accident, and crossing a bridge, I found a Brasserie. As I entered, a waiter began speaking to me in rapid French, asking me questions. I could tell he was making a joke, but I had no idea about what. So I told him I don’t know French.
“You speak English?”
“Yeah.”
“One person?”
“Yes.”
And the rest of the wait staff broke into laughter.
I shrank further inside, having no idea what they were saying or why they were laughing. But I sat quietly at a table that looked out onto the street. I could see in a mirror that I had a serious expression, but I couldn’t make it go away. And I sat sweating.
The waiter brought me the menu, and returned to take my order in Franglish. And then he came back a third time, this time bringing a fellow waitress along. She wore a pink polo shirt and her head was shaved, but she was cute in her way. She told me (also in Franglish) that she was the translator and after lengthy conversation in French on their part, which I only partly understood to be something about complication and language, the woman came out with it… “He wanted to say, we weren’t laughing at you. We were laughing because we think he has bad English.”
I felt better then, still self conscious, but at least he had picked up on my discomfort and in a way had apologized. And in the past two days, I have found every French person I’ve come across to be respectful, helpful, friendly. And only about three of them have spoken English. Granted, I haven’t mentioned to a single one that I’m American, nor does the fact that I speak English necessarily imply that I’m from an English speaking nation. So far they have even gone out of their way to help me. Now of course, my accented French (which is relatively minorly so compared to many Americans) baffles many French people. When I ask where the metro is, or where la gare is, they ponder the word, turning it over and over out loud as they determine what I must be asking.
As I wondered the streets across the Seine from the Eiffell Tower (which was smaller than I expected… not an insult, just an observation), thunder began to rumble, the sky grew dark, and rain began to fall. And I needed to find the metro. I stopped in what seemed like a small department store and as I asked a woman in the jewerly section where the metro is, and as she turned the word over on her tongue, and began to spout directions to my blank face, a girl standing by asked me if I spoke English. When she couldn’t come up with the English word for “left,” she ran outside, into the rain to point me to the station and ask her mother to help translate.
I am impressed.
Tags: 4. Europe, 4A. France, 4A1. Paris, food, language
Drea
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