With not a taxi to be found after early Mass today at Notre Dame, I listened to the warnings from The Knee and canceled my plans for a day at the Louvre, so here's a little bit of potpourri about Paree...one visitor's perspective.
While dreaming my dreams of this Parisian getaway, I arrogantly underestimated the importance of understanding French. I diligently practiced "ou sont les toilettes?" all those months before the trip, and truly do know (in my head) what to say in most situations... but having the guts to actually SAY it is another matter, and understanding the spoken French replies -- well forget it.
Like our Hispanic friends in California, the French speak well beyond the speed of sound, never taking a breath and pronouncing nothing as do "Charles" and "Jacqueline" on my instructional CDs. Eavesdropping in a restaurant is pointless except to enjoy the musical cadence of conversational ebb and flow -- alto rat-a-tat-tat from her, mushy bass slurs and growls from him... and incessant soprano giggling from all girls under 18.
I was right in my pre-voyage assumption that most service people (shopkeepers, taxi drivers, etc.) speak enough English to assist the mute American; in fact, I suspect they speak more than they let on as they certainly understand questions and intent. Those who don't speak much English still understand bad French, but are diligent in correcting one's pronunciation with subtle condescension. I don't mind that -- this is their country and it is their language I am slaughtering, however good my intentions are. Yesterday, one French-only taxi driver rattled me so much I instructed him to give me back "dos dollars" in change, forgetting that espanol is not the same as francaise (and I never speak Spanish at home). I'm sure I blushed as red as my coat.
Written French is much, much easier to comprehend as many word roots are Latin or German and very closely related to English, and many places are kind enough to post notices actually in English. The trains, however, are not that accommodating and this is one situation where understanding French could be critical.
I'm sure it's boring to keep reading about my lost-again syndrome, and you probably think I have the IQ of a dizzy gerbil, but this has been, by far, the most frustrating part of this whole experience. It happens every time I go somewhere, even if I've been there before. I've passed the embarrassed stage, the laugh-about-it stage and I'm well into the pissed stage. I've even checked restaurants to see if they have "braised brain of homing pigeon in garlic butter" on their menus, but no such luck. I have good maps. I know which section of Paris is which and what to find there. I refuse to admit that I am stupid... why then, please tell me why, do I always turn the wrong way and head away from my intended destination?
What is funny is how many French people have stopped ME to ask directions. All I can do is assure them in my halting toddler French that "I am an American, I do not speak French, and I am lost also." They smile, nod knowingly and move on, leaving me with map in hand, staring at street signs with tears in my eyes and wondering where in the hell did the Seine go NOW?
If there's a secret to successful city street navigation and you know it, please share it with me at cynblogger@aol.com. Look at my typing -- am I kidding? No, I'm not.
As an avowed lover of all things French (except their bloody meat and disgusting snails,) I could sit here all day and write about their better way of life from my viewpoint, but I hate generalizations even more than snails, so I'll stop here. I'm not even going to complain about the horrendous crush of traffic in Paris, but I will say that when God created the noisiest thing on Earth, He named it Vespa, and it was not good.
