Franglais
I have been so preoccupied with improving my French that it had not really occurred to me until yesterday just how difficult it must be to come here without any. Nick's parents are very brave, is what I'm saying.
"I figured out why we never found the restaurant last night," his mother announced. "Your father finally confessed to thinking that gauche meant 'right.'" Seriously--that'll make for a long day.
Fortunately, the new lost city exhibit (they found an Egyptian city under a Greek bay, and brought it to Paris--wouldn't you?) had English translations. Unfortunately, it also had French people, so we were in for a bit of a cultural education.
You know how, in a crowded museum, you kind of stand back from what you want to look at, so that other people can stand at about the same distance, and everyone can see? The French take that as an invitation to step directly in front of you.
It happened to me at the airport, too--I stepped aside to let a woman pass through the line, and the guy behind me walked right around me. It was in JFK, so in theory I could have used the chance to expand his cultural horizons, but I chickened out. I'm definitely too timid, then, to try it in France, where this sort of thing is apparently completely normal.
Anyway.
After a few minutes at the Louvre's balcony café (lovely, by the way), we headed over to Chaumette, which a mild illness (mine) had prevented us from visiting the night before. And that was when the mess started.
Chaumette is run by two men, who spend the whole night running around like beheaded chickens. One remembered us from the other night, but since the other one seated us, we all ended up with English menus. The second man, noticing this, apologized profusely, and offered French menus...to Nick and me. There was a localized chaos of languages, translations, apologies, and repetitions, until it only seemed appropriate when the group next to us capped off the evening by accidentally lighting a napkin on fire.
Nick's father promptly made friends with them--mostly in English, but as the night wore on, he was more willing to try out his sporadic French words.
"Fiancés!" he crowed, pointing to us. And then, "Parents!" gesturing to himself and Nick's mother.
"With a little wine, he speaks French," I told the waiter.
"He should drink more," he deadpanned.
"I figured out why we never found the restaurant last night," his mother announced. "Your father finally confessed to thinking that gauche meant 'right.'" Seriously--that'll make for a long day.
Fortunately, the new lost city exhibit (they found an Egyptian city under a Greek bay, and brought it to Paris--wouldn't you?) had English translations. Unfortunately, it also had French people, so we were in for a bit of a cultural education.
You know how, in a crowded museum, you kind of stand back from what you want to look at, so that other people can stand at about the same distance, and everyone can see? The French take that as an invitation to step directly in front of you.
It happened to me at the airport, too--I stepped aside to let a woman pass through the line, and the guy behind me walked right around me. It was in JFK, so in theory I could have used the chance to expand his cultural horizons, but I chickened out. I'm definitely too timid, then, to try it in France, where this sort of thing is apparently completely normal.
Anyway.
After a few minutes at the Louvre's balcony café (lovely, by the way), we headed over to Chaumette, which a mild illness (mine) had prevented us from visiting the night before. And that was when the mess started.
Chaumette is run by two men, who spend the whole night running around like beheaded chickens. One remembered us from the other night, but since the other one seated us, we all ended up with English menus. The second man, noticing this, apologized profusely, and offered French menus...to Nick and me. There was a localized chaos of languages, translations, apologies, and repetitions, until it only seemed appropriate when the group next to us capped off the evening by accidentally lighting a napkin on fire.
Nick's father promptly made friends with them--mostly in English, but as the night wore on, he was more willing to try out his sporadic French words.
"Fiancés!" he crowed, pointing to us. And then, "Parents!" gesturing to himself and Nick's mother.
"With a little wine, he speaks French," I told the waiter.
"He should drink more," he deadpanned.
posted by Caroline | 2/17/2007 11:11:00 AM
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