“Please don’t cut my horses too short.” That was always my normal request to the stylist, and I was able to deliver it in a fairly flawless accent. Unfortunately I’d used the phrase for over six months before someone explained that the French word for hair was cheveux and not chevaux.
Having made the decision to settle in France, I duly applied myself to learning the language. It quickly became apparent that any use of school French was a no go situation. La plume de ma tante no longer exists; these days when a pen is required, a request for une plume is met with the same kind of disbelief that would greet a dinosaur’s arrival. A stylo or bic is today’s writing implement. This type of problem is easy enough to overcome. What is far more difficult (if not downright impossible) is getting an English speaking mouth to pronounce French vowels, hence having my horses cut every six weeks.
Another linguistic impossibility is jeune and jaune. Only one letter separates them and mispronunciation leads to some very strange looks. Jeune means young, but any reminiscence about youth that begins: “When I was yellow…” is never taken seriously.
By using the incorrect word I have embarrassed myself in a variety of situations, from telling a bemused shoe store clerk that my husband needed new hooves, to inviting our neighbors to join us in eating a saucepan. I’ve said that I was dying when I meant that I was sweating, and I’ve insisted that I’m a vacuum cleaner when I only wanted to comment on how difficult it is to breathe during exercise.
Fortunately for us, our French friends and neighbors have taken all of this in good part.
A really embarrassing incident happened shortly after our arrival here. A hurricane swept across France in 1999, leaving a trail of devastation in its wake. All utilities were out of action for two to three weeks. Gas stations were unable to operate for several days until generators were put in place. When word spread that gas was available at the local service station, people naturally arrived from far and wide, and it wasn’t long before long lines had formed, filling the neighborhood roads.
As I approached I joined the shortest line. A kindly young gendarme tapped on my car window and asked if I needed gazole, at least I think that’s what he said, my French still being very basic at that time. “Oui, oui,” I replied.
After about 20 minutes, an employee who was assisting the gendarmerie to prevent line jumpers taking an unfair advantage, approached my car and indicated that I should leave this line to join another, which was much longer. I could understand very little of what he’d said, but I knew my rights, and there was no way I was going to budge. “Gazole, gazole.” I repeated constantly, trying to make him comprehend my urgent need for gas. With a very Gallic shrug he gave up and went back to his colleagues.
The second employee to approach, no doubt sent over by a friend to deal with this very difficult foreign woman, spoke fluent English, and to my chagrin explained that his colleague had realized that my car ran on unleaded gas, but that I was in the queue for diesel. The poor man had been trying to help, but each time I had heard the word gazole, thinking it was French for gas, had nodded like an imbecile and said oui, oui.
One way of appearing more fluent is to learn lots of catch phrases. You’re welcome, that’s right, it doesn’t matter, and I agree, are all widely used by the French, and it aids conversation greatly if you nod and are able to use the appropriate phrase. Unfortunately my husband learned the phrases, but constantly mixed them up, even telling someone who had apologized for kicking him that they were welcome to do it again.
I came unstuck myself in the doctor’s surgery, I was having my annual breast cancer check, and I wanted to say that I had suffered no discomfort. Unfortunately, what I actually said was: “That feels good.” I’m not sure which of us was the most embarrassed.
Clearly lessons were required, and my husband and I duly signed up to join a group of similarly linguistically disadvantaged individuals. The improvement in vocabulary was impressive, and the use of the correct tense meant that I no longer told anyone that it will rain yesterday or that it was cold tomorrow.
Our lessons, given by a delightful lady who was able to say only four things in English (yes, no, hello, and goodbye) were progressing nicely until a conversation (mainly a monologue on her part) included the phrase ‘donkey shot.’ Totally at sea, as we had been (we thought) talking about the Crusades, I decided to query the phrase. “Donkey shot?” I repeated in my best French accent. “Oui, oui, Donkey Shot,” she confirmed. Richard, the most quick-witted of our class, piped up: “Well that’s the end of the Crusades, if the donkey’s dead.” Only when this mysterious phrase was written down did it make any sense: Don Quixote. Obviously pronunciation was going to require more work.
I’m pleased to say that our French cousins have the same difficulties as we do when it comes to conversing in a foreign tongue. My neighbor proudly proclaimed in English that she had finished ironing all her husband’s skirts. Clearly she meant shirts (unless they do things differently to us behind closed doors).
Integration is much easier if you are able to converse in French, and I was beginning to feel more comfortable in the language, to the extent of trying out for the local tennis team. Sadly for me there is only a subtle difference of pronunciation between champion and champignon. My chances of making the team stumbled at the first hurdle. I told my doubles partner that he had played like a real mushroom.
© Lorraine Mace 2003
