Paris Letters (15 page)

When I was a little girl, playgrounds terrified me. I didn’t know how to make friends or know what to say when children approached me. The whole playground friend-making affair was FAIL, FAIL, FAIL, time and time again. I usually ended up lagging behind my sister and her friends, or I played on the slide or swing, both of which are solitary games by nature. As long as I stayed on the slide or the swing, it was okay that I was alone.

My niece amazed me in her friend-making ability. I found myself studying her for tips. How did she approach other children so she didn’t appear weird? How did the other children respond? How was she not afraid?

Watching my niece make her moves at the playground got me thinking that it’s always good to have more friends, especially if Sandro was right and friends are the secret to happiness.

Christophe thought the same. While I was gallivanting around Italy, he was recruiting English-speaking girls whom he could set up with me if I decided to come back to Paris.

Melanie was in the lead. He asked for her number and explained that his girlfriend was Canadian and could use a friend. A blind date. Horrifying! But Melanie agreed because Christophe was nice and she liked his chicken. Plus, she hadn’t been here too long herself, and it was always good to make new friends.

He came home one evening, handed me her number, and told me to call her. Agonizing! He said he was running out for five minutes to go pick up cigarettes. “Call her before I get back.” So I did and I was so nervous that I would have rather just left Paris altogether because What if I hated her? Or worse, What if she hated me?

But I called because justdoitFAST. So I did it fast. And she agreed to meet me for a glass of wine. When Christophe arrived home, he and I traipsed up the street hand-in-hand but with me lagging behind. I was so scared that I actually thought that maybe the whole idea of leaving Los Angeles was a mistake and I would have been better off hanging out with the old crew.

Melanie walked up to us, introduced herself. Christophe skedaddled.

I opened the conversation with questions about how to get things done in Paris. She had been here two years and had the answers to my most burning questions: Where do you find pillows and clothes hangers? What is the Schengen Area all about? Should I be getting a Navigo pass? How does the Vélib’ bike system work?

She knew all the answers, except for the question about the Vélib’, which we could figure out together. After our rendezvous, I walked back to the bar down the street where Christophe was sitting with his friends.

“Ça va?” he asked. I told him she was nice and that we had arranged to go to a Meetup group together in a few days. “Bon.” And then he added his best Bob Marley, “Everything…is gonna be all right.” He often spoke to me in lyrics. It was good that I knew so many songs.

Why do people go to Meetup groups? I question motivations. In the purest form, it’s to meet nice people, to find new friends, to hear their stories. There is also, I suspect, an underlying desire to ward off bouts of loneliness, which require constant monitoring when one is an expat in a new country. And then there is the courting of ladies.

The Meetup group can be tough. A bunch of strangers meeting up to chitchat. It’s like online dating but odder, somehow. I think it has something to do with Meetup groups having a built-in curiosity about motivations.

Melanie and I went to an expat Meetup group that focused on wine tasting. “Go with your strengths,” she said. When we walked in, we were greeted by the organizer who asked a few questions. “Oh, you’re Canadian? How wonderful. There is a British gentleman you must meet.” And he ushered us over to Simon, a tall, dapper fellow who was reading wine labels. Soon the organizer returned with Carole, a short brown-haired beauty with Snow White skin and red lips. She was Parisian but had lived in London for many years and was therefore expat in nature. I was enamored by her immediately. Though 100 percent bilingual, she began talking in yet another language: the language of wines. She led me around to various bottles and explained a little about the regions as we sipped along. Simon and Melanie also followed her lead, and our little Brit-esque group began to take form. At the end of the night when it was time to say farewell, I stood there nervously, hoping Carole and Simon would ask for my number. I had never asked for anyone’s number before. And this Meetup group thing was beyond my scope of knowledge.

“If you come to this Meetup group again, can you let me know?” she asked.

“Sure!” I beamed and readily handed over my digits. Success!

“Let me know too,” said Simon. More digits were exchanged.

When I arrived home, Christophe looked up from playing guitar. “Ça va?”

“Ça va très bien!” I told him I made two friends and one girl who asked for my number was from Paris. A native.

“Fantastique, my darling.”

I had forgotten my cardigan at the wine bar and sent a message to my little group, asking if anyone had picked it up. Simon was the last to leave and saw the cardigan. Not knowing it was mine, he handed it in to the girl behind the bar. The next day, I had Melanie call (I couldn’t quite master French on the phone). The girl on the other end said there was no sign of any cardigan, but I knew it was there somewhere, so the next day I traipsed off to the bar to look for myself. When I walked in, I saw my cardigan immediately. On the girl. She was wearing it. Oh dear, I thought. Now I have to deal with this situation in French! I approached her and talked to her eyebrows, not wanting to look down at what was clearly my cardigan. I asked her if she had seen my cardigan and that a friend had left it behind the bar for me. She nodded and scurried to the back, coming out a minute later with the cardigan in her hand. Warm. I smiled, grabbed it, and did my own scurrying out the door. I nearly ran to the Métro, feeling like I had stolen back my own cardigan.

Sharing my cardigan story would be a good excuse to get together with my new friends. We started meeting all over Paris for brunches, searching for the best Bloody Mary. We found it at a New York restaurant called Joe Allen. Not surprising, as the French aren’t masters of brunch. Leave that to the New Yorkers. Later, we went in search for the best apéro, the cocktail hour after work and before dinner. We found it at Tourn’Bride on 104 rue Mouffetard. Eventually, we graduated to the search for the best wine bar. Simon found a little wine bar that offered an impressive wine list and served delicious tapas. It was called 5e Cru at 7 rue du Cardinal-Lemoine, and this cozy little bar soon became our place. The walls were lined with wines you choose yourself, the quiche was the best I’ve had in my life, and the long tables were lit with candles dripping down from empty wine bottles. Soon our little group of four grew. Melanie brought another friend, who brought another and another. Before long, I was sipping wine and sharing in the delights of daily life in Paris in cafés and bistros all over the city with a lovely little collection of friends with whom I could eat, drink, and laugh. Sandro would be so proud.

Dear Áine,

For my first two months in Paris, I was like Goldilocks, traipsing all over the city in search of the best café—a place I could call my own. One café would have a cozy atmosphere but terrible coffee. Another would have great coffee but terrible food. Then I came upon the café that was just right. It had it all—great coffee, cozy atmosphere, and traditional French cuisine. Plus, its location on the pedestrian-friendly rue Mouffetard makes it the perfect perch for people-watching.

Being here makes me feel like I’m in a timeless Paris—the version you see on all those postcards. People still sit and write letters, read the paper, and catch up on the latest gossip. I often linger here with my journal—sipping, dreaming, and listening to French words flutter by on the breeze. I plan on putting in plenty of time here, and at the end of my days, I’ll likely haunt it ever after.

We all must find our place in this world. Here in Paris, I believe I’ve found mine.

À bientôt!

Janice

21

Franglish

When I told people I was dating someone who didn’t speak English, they said, quite reasonably, “But how do you COMMUNICATE?” and they drew out the word “communicate” as if I don’t know what the word meant.

I usually said we didn’t talk. Then I winked.

But it was a valid question. English is Christophe’s fifth language, and with such a well-developed language brain, whatever words he picked up seemed to stick in his head. Conversely, the French words I picked up in one ear went out the other and back again like a pendulum until eventually they settled somewhere inside my noggin. Most of his English education came from song lyrics, which he continued to incorporate into our conversations. When I made a delicious meal, he informed me in song, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.” And eventually he sang, “Je m’en irai poser tes portraits à tous les plafonds de tous les palais.” These were lyrics from a lovely Francis Cabrel song. “I’ll hang your portrait on the ceilings of all the palaces.” There are advantages to not speaking the same language.

But then the guy who sells hummus next to the butcher shop taught him a few choice English phrases, and he came home to ask, “What is dirty sex?”

“You’re not going to find out.”

While he learned on the fly and spoke English better every day, I was still befuddled by most of what Parisian people said. I still listened to my French language podcasts, still meandered my way through my online courses, and still flipped through my offline books. I still wrote out the conjugations of verbs and I still wondered if it helped. So many of these verbs that were perfectly understandable on the page were completely imperfect when uttered in the real world. Especially the imperfect tense.

Back in school when I was taking French with other English students, I was a star. When we were learning only what was put on the page in front of us, my French was not just pas mal, it was stellar. Even my professor said, “Janice, you speak beautifully.” But then he followed with, “Now if only you could understand what you were saying.”

Getting my hair cut meant that I had to rehearse in front of the mirror at home. I didn’t want to screw that up. Buying a summer frock started first with remembering how to ask if I could try it on. And to ask for the price of something? Oh, forget it. If it was anything over the number sixty-nine, I was screwed. As soon as something costs anything that sounds like a really long number, I flubbed up and just kept handing over twenties until they were satisfied. Often they asked for exact change. The French adore exact change. When I understood what they asked for, and if I had it, I handed it over. Other times, I would stick my nose in my change purse, pretend to be scrounging through my coins, and say Non, désolé (no, sorry), which was really me saying, “No, sorry. I haven’t got a clue what you just said. Just give me my strawberries and let me get out of here, mmmk?”

I pulled out the Non, désolé a lot. If someone on the street was trying to hand me a paper about the latest elections, I said Non, désolé. If they were trying to get me to sign a petition for AIDS, Amnesty International, Greenpeace, or whatever group was standing around with clipboards wearing the same colored shirts, they got a Non, désolé. A lady asking for spare change? Yep. You guessed it. Non, désolé.

I learned to not judge people who appeared rude. They were probably just trying to learn the language.

On one gorgeous October morning, a lady handed me a song sheet because she and her friends had gathered to sing songs by the fountain. I gave her my Non, désolé before I even realized what she was handing me. She replied, “Il faut” (roughly translated, “It is necessary” or “You must!”), and she looked disheartened by my hand gesture that accompanied my Non, désolé.

It was a song sheet. So I could sing songs. With a group. By a fountain. IN PARIS! So I started lightening up on my Non, désolé-ing.

Sometimes people on the outside remarked about how lovely and easy my life was here in Paris. Try getting alterations at your French-speaking tailor, and you’ll realize that living in another country before you get the hang of the language is hard (she says as she writes in the dress she altered herself because Iwilljustdoitmyself). Every little errand took longer. Everything required rehearsal.

Most of the beautiful bookstores in Paris were tragique to me. Each book was an ocean filled with ideas and adventures I couldn’t begin to understand. There were characters I could love inside those books. I just knew it. But alas, would we ever meet?

I wasn’t even funny in French. And I still couldn’t flirt in French. I was simple in French.

When Christophe discovered the word “boobies,” he laughed his head off and proceeded to use the word in fits of giggles for weeks after. He thought it was the funniest word ever. Boobies! Ha ha ha! Boobies!

I wondered if I sounded like a five-year-old when I spoke French.

It wasn’t all bad. For instance, you’ve likely heard the expression Ooh la la, which roughly translates to Wow, Oh My, Oh Dear. But it has another meaning. I’ve heard it a lot while people were haggling over chandeliers and dyed feathers at the antique fair that erected itself around the corner from my apartment. Buyers were saying Ooh la la la laaaa, which translates to Are You Frigging Kidding Me With This Price? Then the potential buyer offered up another number (which I didn’t catch, naturally) and the seller pulled another Ooh la la la laaaa, which translates to You Can Go Screw Yourself And The Horse You Rode In On If You Think I’m Selling That To You For That Price, You Crook.

And when Christophe watched soccer, he stood and said, “Ooh la la la laaaa!!!,” which translates to What The Heck Kind Of Call Was THAT, You Arse Ref!

The best part of this language lesson was that I already knew how to say Ooh la la la laaaa, and it worked in many instances. Ooh la la la laaaa (translated, I’m Onto Something And It’s Goooood).

But communicating in relationships requires a whole other level of comprehension. So how did Christophe and I communicate with each other on the big things? We spoke Franglish. He spoke French and inserted the English words he knew. I did the same. And we said a lot of sentences twice in French and English. We used a mix of hand signals, words, charades, drawings, and mostly, we only said what was important. We didn’t mince words. We didn’t rattle on. There were no snide remarks. I let a lot of stuff roll off my back, and I suspect he did as well. And if I was triggered, I had a moment of silent reflection first to see if I was triggered by a snag in my soul or something we needed to discuss together. Usually it was a snag. I let it go. Important conversations were clear, slow, and usually took place at home because we needed a quiet room to muddle through what we were trying to say. Temperatures didn’t rise quickly because we were too focused on finding the right words. Though sometimes when we were frazzled, we spoke quickly in our own language while the other one stared in silence, which looked like listening even though there was no comprehension. On a day he came home from work perturbed, the most gorgeous soliloquy of words came rolling out of his mouth. He used many words that were not in my French livre. I stared back and nodded, all the while wondering where I could find a French dictionary of swear words. When he finished, I said, “Bière?” He sighed, smiled, and nodded as I handed him a bottle. I didn’t need to know what he had said. I understood.