Talk to Me

Talk to Me I had to have one. Though I was unaware of it before arriving, macaroons in France are pretty well known. Devouring the crisp, sugary shell bearing gooey sweet filling suddenly became the main goal of my existence. There, right across the cobble stone street where I stood, a shop of these lovely treats beckoned me forward. With a fresh stack of Euros in my pocket, who could resist? I went over to the counter, and then I remembered. I resist the programmed custom I’ve been raised with to say hello to the shop owner. “Hello” doesn’t cut it here. We’re in France. You speak French. Bonjour was my correct and welcomed greeting to the owner. Soon after my hello I got the expected stare down from the owner. Whatever accent Americans had in France, I certainly had it too. She knew I was a tourist. Her eyes told me right then and there any English would not be accepted at her booth. This was a test. She expected— no, wanted me to speak English, so she could go home and tell her family how rude these Americans were. I’d bet my hat she spoke English too, but she’d never admit to it. Not to me. Right now, it was all up to me. If I gave in, I’d forfeit any shot at respect and become the stereotypical American tourist. If I used my broken French, I’d sound like an uneducated bum and probably screw up my order. I didn’t have time to contemplate; the owner was waiting. I took a breath: “Je vous dre… nutella,” I managed, pointing to the one I wanted. They’re very picky about language here, the French. And who can blame them? You might as well hike up to your local McDonald’s and order in Arabic. Not only will nobody understand you, but you’re not making any effort to respect the local customs. Even a slow spoken, mispronounced grammar nightmare effort is better than no effort at all. And believe me, my French was poorly said. Though I made a mild attempt to study French before I left, all past experience went out the window as soon as I stood in front of a real Frenchman. Not only was the language spoken too quickly to comprehend, but my mind would always blank on all learned vocabulary. When you study a second language in America, it never feels like a real language. Not literally of course; I know it exists. But growing up around all English made the idea of anything else seem silly. It was mind blowing to be in a place where this mythical “French” was used frequently every day. Here was a place where English seemed distant and silly. Here, I learned something vital to understanding mankind but which can never be taught in a textbook or a classroom: being a minority. As I slowly improved, I learned to ask for crepe de nutella instead of a nutella crepe. When I bumped into something, the automatic “excuse me” became “pardon” or “excuse aye mwa.” When the sandwich shop clerk jabbered a long, incomprehensible sentence in French, my best bet was to nod, smile and say oui. To my delight, people became much more responsive to my French. I was able to order food more confidently and fluidly. Locals would make a bigger effort to step aside when I asked in French, compared to others who asked in English. I was becoming comfortable in a language I barely understood. After my experience, I know if I ever met the macaroon lady again I would order correctly and clearly. And maybe, I’d be able to ask about her day too.