Every time I think I’m starting to get the hang of speaking French… I have a day like today.
I had to drive downtown to the train station to buy tickets for an upcoming long weekend in Paris. (and the fetching of some house guests from the airport) I’d been told that they have a window for English speakers. The ticket counter has maybe a dozen agents (well, spots for that many. Not that many were at work at lunchtime. Honestly, I feared the whole thing would shut down for the two hour French lunch break) Anyway, over each agent is a digital sign that says something like Bienvenue a la gare sncf then, for some, it changes to say English spoken. Pretty handy. I’ve studied how to buy a train ticket in French. And if it was one single simple trip, I could have muddled through it (I think). But this just had too many pitfalls to even attempt it. I was relieved not to have to.
So while I’m waiting in line, minding my own English-speaking business, the kind old lady behind me asks me a question. I think she said something about billets (tickets), but I have no idea what. I asked her to repeat herself and when I still had no clue what she was asking, I just fell back on je ne parles pas bien francais. She just smiled at me and gave up. Whatever she needed to know wasn’t THAT important, because she didn’t speak to anyone else. It’s like the French government sends in spies to try to hold conversations with non-French speakers… just to remind you that you don’t really fit in.
I didn’t let that bug me too much.
But then this afternoon my confidence took another blow at Carrefour. Earlier this week when I went (yes, I had to go twice in one week… ) I managed to sign up for the cart fidelite … their version of the frequent shopper card. But this afternoon, that accomplishment was wiped out with one little question.
I was at the meat counter to buy some steak to grill. I didn’t even really want to go through the ordeal of ordering from the butcher, but Kaitlyn was fascinated by all the dead birds in the case and while we were standing there identifying them (chicken, duck, pigeon) someone shoved one of those little tickets with a number on it in my hand and I couldn’t find anyone else to pass it off to, so I figured I’d just order some steak. I managed that, sort of. The guy corrected my pronunciation of griller, so he knew I’m not real good at this whole French thing. Then after we established what I wanted, he started messing around putting away some turkey (which I did not order or mention) then he looked right at me and said avez vous le temps? I was completely stumped. Normally, I understand the question. But I didn’t really expect a butcher to ask me the time. I was trying to figure out what the hell le temps was in relation to beef or a cow. Or maybe a grill. He repeated himself and another woman standing there tapped at her wrist. I didn’t have on my watch; if I did I think I was too flustered to give the time in French. (It’s hard enough without having to also convert to military time, which they use in excess.) Even if I’d wanted to order something else… pigeon perhaps… I was too embarrassed to.
I want to be able to speak French. Really I do. And Bill tells me that I know far more than I realize. But all I ever realize is that I know enough to skate by… as long as whoever I’m talking to stays on topic… and even then there are no guarantees. Ce n’est pas facile!