"Now repeat after me Luh GRahn GRoe Rah Rahteebwah sohn GRooyehRR", Joe's mom is sweetly trying to help me with the French throaty R's. "G-G-G-G-G Rh-Rh-Rh-Rh," she exaggerates the difference for me to repeat. I feel like I'm in grade school again. I imagine that I am choking or gargling with salt water. "G-Rh-G-Rh GRhan" She will randomly stop me to repeat this phrase over the next few days. If this is my attempt to assimilate, I have my work cut out for me.
I have to admit, I tried to avoid singing French in college. It was always so complicated & unpredictable. (Symbolic? Hmm…) Latin, Italian, Spanish and even German were far more reliable and, well, easy. I could kick myself now for not rising to the challenge. If only I knew then what I know now. (Sigh! Isn't that always the case?) None-the-less, I am making a whole-hearted attempt to learn the language…or at least SOUND like I’m learning it. Note to self: Don't speak the "s" or "t" at the ends of words or phrases unless followed by an “e”. However, there are always exceptions to the rule. Words can run together like one big contraction, so if you do pronounce the "s" its as a part of the next word and can sound like a “z”, “X” can also sound like a “z” and “F” like a “v”…PHEW! My head is spinning. Basically unless you know the context of the conversation, you are lost. I find myself lost pretty often these days. I try and listen to conversations over the dinner table, but decide eventually to give Joe my desperate "please translate" look.
If I go out, I try as little as possible to speak or even mumble anything. I probably seem like a deaf mute to most people around. At the check out counter I smile, nod and fumble for the colorful bills & change in my wallet (even the money is complicated & elegant!). When walking in the streets or passing by a person in an isle at a store, I meekly whisper "pardon" in my best French. If Joe & I are at a restaurant I look like a deer in headlights when the server tries to tell me the specials or ask for my coat. This all seems so silly. I'm a New Yorker dammit! I don't apologize when I need to pass by someone. I don't smile at cashiers. I'm not a meek person by nature. I'm afraid if I speak they will realize I am American. Why? I guess the "French people hate Americans" thing was subliminally driven into me. Apparently, I’d rather seem like an idiot than an American!
As if the language barrier isn’t stressful enough, there is the whole etiquette thing. My first trip to Paris last spring, Joe took me out to a nice lunch near Notre (don’t forget to swallow the “r”!) Dame. I ordered a pork dish from the prefix menu as my main course. I was happily enjoying my meal when I look up and see Joe staring at me with a frozen look of shock. “What? What did I do?” I say. He doesn’t say anything. I am suddenly very insecure, “Do I have something in my teeth? My face?? What???” Then he says in his French accent, “That is how you cut your meat? No, no, no, no!” He gets up, walks behind me and proceeds to show me how to “properly” cut my meat. I’d say I was embarrassed, but I felt more ashamed. I had to explain to him that my mother cut my meat until I was nearly 20. Her theory was, if she cut the meat up before she handed me the plate, I would eat more of it. I’m not a heathen. I took etiquette class, but it was never very interesting. Again, if only I knew then what I know now! My shame was soon replaced with gratitude while eating dinner with his father that evening. This was my first introduction to Joe’s family. It was a more formal sitting for dinner than I ever experienced. I suddenly felt like I needed to sit up more straight, watch my elbows, etc… The main course comes, and it is steak. I’m frantically trying to remember what Joe taught me. I don’t want to come off as a heathen American at my first meeting! I put my fork & knife in the proper position as he showed me. I glance up at Joe for approval. He smiles sweetly and shows me how he is holding his silverware and nods.
Months and months later, I am quite comfortable and proud of my fork and knife etiquette. Now if I could only manage those damn “r’s”! G-Rh-G-Rh GRhan…
Wow... there's a proper way to cut meat there?! You're not the only one that had her parent cut her meat up until 20.. My Dad did it for me till I was about 20 or 21, too... Mainly because I'm so damn uncoordinated and clumsy that I was never very good at it, afraid I would cut myself or look like a doofus doing it... or, alternatively, end up flipping half my steak off of the plate onto the table or floor. LOL Don't feel bad!
ReplyDeleteYou should write a book about your experience. I would love to read it....
ReplyDeleteMiss you and love you...