Paris_ The Collected Traveler - Barrie Kerper [18]
In any given year, the French middle schooler will have one course in French orthography, one in French grammar, and one in French literature. All are hard, and all present the risk of humiliation. One reason the French are generally not good at foreign languages and avoid learning them is that they have no desire to suffer the agonies of French class all over again in another tongue. The vast majority—who by the way are not Paris waiters—are shy about speaking English because they fear they will sound funny.
A French academic I know (he’s a Spanish professor) told me the story of a confrontation he witnessed in Paris. A retirement-aged American couple approached a Parisian and asked him where “Noder Daaame” was. The man responded by shrugging his shoulders and making a sound that I’m going to spell “PFFFFFT.” Then he walked away.
Photo Credit 4.1
Now, first of all, “PFFFFFT” is part of the French language. It means “I don’t know” or “I don’t understand.” It is neither rude nor hostile. Children respond to teachers and parents with it. It is utterly unrelated to our “raspberry,” which is spelled “PHGFPGHFPFRRRT.” The man made this gesture because he was a prisoner inside the difficult French phonetic system, in which Noder Daaame cannot by any stretch of the ear and brain be transformed into Nuhtr Dom-uh.
Okay, you answer. He didn’t understand and he said, “I don’t know.” But why did he walk away instead of trying to help?
Well, France has been invaded a lot. Caesar arrived in 52 BC. Then there were a half dozen Germanic and Hungarian migrations, followed by the Vikings, who stayed a century. And let’s not forget three modern German invasions within a period of seventy years. Sometimes it is difficult for people whose country has never been invaded and occupied to understand people for whom that is a central fact of their national history. It is not admirable on the part of the French that they are not crazy about foreigners, but it runs very, very deep.
Hence, when the French insist on answering our noble efforts at their language by speaking English, we should be more forgiving. First, these are tired people trying to get through a day’s work with dead-end jobs in the tourism industry. Second, they are sparing us from looking ridiculous, and thus embarrassing them in turn.
Early in my own sojourn in France, when I was by no means linguistically up to snuff, I found myself in the express lane of a grocery store. A tall young man challenged me—I didn’t catch all the words—for being in the wrong lane. I stammered out an answer, to which he replied, “Oh, m’sieur, vous ne parlez pas Français” (“You don’t speak French”). Instead of letting it go, I said, “Mais, essayez-moi” (“Try me”), unaware that the phrase is a standard homosexual come-on. Only his wife derived any enjoyment from the scene, and her “Oh, Jean-Pierre, oh la la la la la la!” will stay with me until I die.
Once I inadvertently told a French family gathered at the dinner table that my mother used to make wonderful jellies and she never put condoms in them (les préservatifs). Once I phoned a neighbor to ask directions to a famous château and, wanting to know if she thought it was worth a visit, tried to ask, “Vous l’avez vu?” (“Have you seen it?”). But the American phonetic system (and my untrained mouth) couldn’t distinguish among the different French u’s, and so what I actually said was “Vous lavez-vous?” (“Do you bathe yourself?”). She laughed inexplicably. An hour after hanging up, I realized what I’d said.
Just learning the body language to enter and order something in a bakery in France is a small challenge. Somehow we Americans never know where to stand. We end up dead center in the store, with everyone staring at us. I can offer some advice for negotiating small shops.
Begin with “Bonjour,” followed always by “m’sieur” or “madame.” (“Bonjour” by itself is rather abrupt—even,