The Corrections

I learned two interesting French facts during this most recent trip:

1) French people love to correct non-native speakers, and

2) the good people in charge of security at Charles de Gaulle have lost their minds.

Point 1

Nick swears that it happens to him, too, but I suspect that there is something about the way that I desperately try to come across as fluent that makes the French want to pounce.

It just so happened that I was visiting during the winter sales (there are two sales per year, and they really go all-out), so of course I had to check out the shopping.

It went well for the most part; my main focus was on reducing the percentage of times when I looked like a deer in headlights after being asked a question. We did have a cute little cultural moment after Nick (blushing and reluctant) followed me into a lingerie store. When I headed for the fitting room, a saleswoman stopped me and strongly suggested I use the one downstairs. "There is a larger one," she explained. When I questioned her about the open one straight ahead of me, she repeated herself, and added more. Although baffled, I complied, and Nick found a nearby bench where he could sit and stare at the floor.

Back on the street we compared notes (we often catch different words), and realized that she had been directing us to the larger changing room so that Nick could come in with me. Apparently we are not quite as progressive as we like to think, because our jaws hit the pavement as soon as the light bulb went off.

We had another little glitch on the way to Olivier and Penny's for dinner (that's Nick's boss and his wife). We had a bottle of wine to bring, but stopped off for flowers as well, and the florist said something incomprehensible. It didn't help that he was gesturing to me, since I was not involved in the transaction at all--and there was clearly some reference to the wine bottle in my hand, although we could not tell what. "You don't understand me," he suddenly said, appalled, and began apologizing profusely.

We got it eventually: he was jokingly asking if the bottle was for him. "French merchants joke a lot," Olivier confirmed. "They are very embarrassed if it does not work."

"The next one will be for you," I told the florist once we caught on. He laughed uproariously to show us that all was forgiven. "So now he thinks we are both witty and a bit stupid," I told Nick as we headed for the Métro. "Both kind of fit in this case," he pointed out.

The real frustration, though, naturally came when I felt that things were going unusually smoothly. At a shoe store off of Rue St.-Honoré, I was blissed to discover that 1) I did in fact know my correct French shoe size, and 2) French shoes fit me comfortably, which closed-toe American shoes virtually never do. So I was having a blast trying on both practical and silly shoes (all half-off!) while Nick tried not to fall asleep.

After a while, though, I started to notice that every time I tried to specify a pair of shoes, the saleswoman corrected me. "I would like to try these," I would say, pointing. "These-here?" she would ask. "May I see those in a 38?" "Those-there?"

Now. I acknowledge that there is a difference. And Olivier confirmed that the French are quite particular about the distinctions between these-here and those-there and these and those. But I was pointing to quite clearly indicate which pair I meant. There could be no doubt.

And around the tenth time she did it, I realized that it was deliberate, precisely because I was leaving no doubt as to my intent. She could only be doing it to make a point.

She was not the only one. As I headed off to Charles de Gaulle this afternoon, I chatted with the driver about the weather (freakishly warm still). "Terminal two?" he suddenly asked.

"Yes: 2E." I pronounced it somewhere between "eh" and "ay."

"E," he asked, pronouncing it more like "eu" (it's a sound we don't have in English). I would have thought that he was just clarifying, except that I glanced up just then and saw his half-smile in the rearview mirror as he glanced back.

Apparently, the moment I lose the deer-in-the-headlights thing, people pop out of the woodwork to tell me just what I'm doing wrong.

Point 2

But, speaking of Charles de Gaulle...well, the foreshadow was that my checked luggage was searched for the very first time. Which...fine. I don't think they really needed to roll my deodorant all the way up or snap the nozzle off my perfume bottle, but...fine.

Before the flight home, though, I had a first that was less fine--let me tell you, I would not have minded living out my whole life without ever getting patted down. My boarding pass was taken away and not returned until after the patting...and the bag searches (they asked if I had jewelry--why??)...and the wiping of my hands for explosives residue (I assume--they refused to answer when I asked).

I did eventually get to the gate, and just as everyone was lining up to board, we were told that, because of a plane change, we would be delayed by two hours. Eventually someone let it slip that it was a security issue, but they broke out free sandwiches and soft drinks, so I forgave them.

Temporarily.

When we finally began to board, I made a timing mistake, and ended up momentarily adrift just as the security agent doing body scans had released someone. And I accidentally made eye contact.

As he waved me over, I had this moment where I just wanted to refuse. I mean: I almost did. And then I thought of something better, and the best part was that I thought of it in French.

I stepped over to his table and set down my bags. "This is the second time today," I said a bit icily. "I would never have believed that I look dangerous."

"You speak French," he noted cordially, and even though the next thing he did was fire up his scanning wand, I think that that was the best news I had heard all week.