Parlez-vous Franglais? Studying French in Paris

As part of my writing sabbatical from the hotel industry this year, shortly after the launch of my latest book I hopped on a plane to embark on a three-month sojourn in Paris. I had hoped my time here would be like a non-stop wine-and-cheese party, but upon arrival I knew no one, and the first couple of weeks were overshadowed by solitude. Now, six weeks later, I’m happily settled into an apartment near the Centre Pompidou and am writing by morning, studying by afternoon, and hanging out with my new friends by evening.

Part of my motivation in coming to Paris was to improve my French. Years ago, after four years of university French, in the great tradition of Canadian university students I was unable to conduct even the simplest yet most essential transactions, like asking for directions to the nearest bar. Last year I spent five glorious months in Montreal, but it’s impossible to learn French there because most people speak English. I used to test how long I could get away with speaking French with a local before he or she switched to English, and often I got no further than “Bonjour”. Occasionally I conducted an entire conversation, and I would walk away feeling triumphant. In retrospect I suppose ordering a coffee at Starbucks wasn’t that big a deal.

Here in Paris I’m taking French classes every weekday afternoon for three hours. During my placement interview the counselor asked me why I had come to Paris. Desperately hoping not to be placed in the remedial class, I gave a reply that was less about my opinion than about the French words I could remember. “You like Parisians?” she exclaimed, pressing a hand to her chest. I blinked. In fact, Parisians had been cold bastards since I arrived, and none had seemed adequately appreciative of my efforts to speak their language. She went on to say that she is from the French countryside and even she finds Parisians to be rude; she could only imagine how difficult it is for Canadians, who are so pleasant and polite. I just nodded and smiled, like any good Canadian would, in part because I had no idea how to respond in French, and in part because inside I was quietly weeping in solidarity.

In class I write pages and pages of notes. Later, while out with my French friends, I can only conjure up the same handful of French words I’ve known most of my life, words like yes, no, how are you, and my that cheese is smelly. Occasionally a word I learned in class will come to me and I’ll blurt it out whether or not it has anything to do with our conversation. I never think it will fly, and brace myself for the blank stare, the pained expression, the plea to speak English. If my friend simply nods and carries on with our conversation, I’m so thrilled I insist we back up so he can properly acknowledge my genius.

At school there is a constant influx of students from all over the world, but only French is spoken in class. Some students don’t even speak English, which I still can’t get my mind around. I mean, really. When I don’t know a word in French I’m used to substituting it with an English word, but here that has as much effect as ancient Hebrew. In class I get to hear French spoken in a variety of accents: Swedish, Russian, Spanish, Australian, etc. So far I find the accent of the Chinese woman the most intriguing, and by intriguing I mean irritating. She barks out French like a fish vendor in a crowded market, and I never have any idea what she’s saying. It’s far easier to understand the American, who speaks French exactly like English, without fussing over rolling R’s or nasal sounds.

In Canada I’m a hotel executive and the author of three books. Here in France I’m regarded as a middle-aged man who speaks like a five-year-old and appears to have a severe learning disability. In class my behavior also reverts to that of a five-year-old. When I know the answer my hand shoots into the air, waving frantically. If I’m wrong, far more frequently than I care to admit, my face goes red, and I smolder with resentment toward my teacher and all my classmates, especially the Polish girl who always gets the answers right.

On principle I feel vastly superior to all new students, and quickly write them off as showoffs, hopelessly stupid or bad dressers. One day a German student came to class wearing lederhosen-like shorts, and I couldn’t stop staring at her legs, so hairy they appeared to be covered with spiders. Occasionally I decide I like someone instantly because she seems cool or he has nice shoes, but I’m always disappointed. Over time I find myself liking the people I originally loathed and loathing the people I originally liked, which doesn’t say much for my judgment.

Often I’ll start getting friendly with a student, and suddenly he or she stops coming to class. I’m sure it’s not personal, but it is kind of creepy, like the Gestapo is back in Paris and foreigners are being pulled from their beds at night. The real reason is most students are here for a short stay, sometimes only a week or two. After only four weeks I’m one of the most senior students, me and that Chinese woman, and we’re like bad-ass lifer inmates running the prison. Or the dumb kids in class who keep getting held back.

While walking home the other night I ran into some fellow students on their way to a local park to drink wine and smoke, and they invited me to join them. My first impulse was to run away, but then I reminded myself that this was the kind of experience I came to Paris for—to smugly drink wine in public parks while friends and colleagues back home were chained to their desks—so I shyly accepted. We sat on the grass and spoke bad French while passing around a bottle of wine, and it reminded me of my early days as a backpacker. Except now I’m a lot older, and I couldn’t help but worry by their furtive glances that they suspected I was an escaped child molester.

I have a few expressions I use frequently here because they make me feel French and in-the-know, like “Quoi de neuf?” and “On y va!” Recently I discovered I was misusing one. A Parisian friend texted me to cancel our plans, saying his sister was sick, and I texted back “Tant pis!” Later I discovered that although this phrase technically translates as “Too bad”, it conveys a sentiment closer to “Whatever”.

An upside to having a cold in France is it really helps with nasal sounds. At home I often practice speaking French by myself, and sometimes my accent is so beautiful and Parisian I’m moved to tears. But when I try to emulate it in class or say, in the bakery while ordering my third pain au chocolat of the day, it all comes out terribly wrong. The other night I went to a French play, and at first it was all quite thrilling, but by act two I had a headache and kind of tuned out. In one scene the actor parodies an American who considers himself Parisian after six years in Paris. The audience found his portrayal hysterical, but I only pretended to laugh along. Six years? I had started calling myself Parisian after only three weeks.

These days, I no longer resent Parisians, I love them. They’ve been incredibly warm and hospitable. Sometimes while out at night I become so absorbed in a conversations with them I don’t even realize I’m speaking French. But then I panic and bail, and my mind shuts down, refusing to produce anything but the usual words: yes, no, and can I borrow some money. I expect my friends to acknowledge my disability and switch to English, but they never do. It makes me long for those days in Montreal. But then I remind myself why I came to Paris, and I soldier on.

If the Chinese fisherwoman can do it, so can I. Tant pis.

***