The struggle, pain and embarrassments of learning a new language are a daily affair. Come the moment you realise that you finally have arrived, the experience is an anticlimax and always less glamourous than anticipated.
Mine happened last summer in Cannes when a woman driving a beaten-up Clio pulled out unexpectatly into the road and nearly ran into my car. As I slammed the breaks and watched her passing me unabashed, she frowned at me and mouthed quite a bad swear word in my direction through the car window.
Apart from the shock of having escaped a near accident and being the object of this unwarranted verbal violence, the greatest kick I got was that I had actually understood what she had said. The next day I skillfully and firmly handled an unwanted marketing enquiry from a call center in Morocco, declining an offer to find out more about solar energy or double-glazing.
The battle with grammar, prepositions, tenses and personal pronouns continues and will probably never stop.
The fun element of being semi-literate in a language of European origin is of course its continued misunderstanding, adding meaning and insight where perhaps there is actually none.
Upon first arriving, I was rather shocked to hear a very nice friend continually talk about himself as cretin and explaining he was part of a cult. What he actually meant was that as a Christian (chretien) he worships (rendre une culte) in his own way.
A heartfelt “Je suis desolée” inspires me to a dramatic pose Sarah Bernhardt tableau style, hands wringing, face in a desolate mess – it sounds so much grander than the plain “I’m sorry”.
My favourite remains the message every ATM throws at me when I want to withdraw some money. “Nous allons intéroger votre banque” it always informs me sternly. I see a little man running off within the machine and holding my bank manager to ransom in a good cop/bad cop routine in some dingy little room, shouting: “Are you sure we can give her 80 Euros? Think now!!!” Whatever the outcome of this interrogation – the little man always delivers.
The inebreated aunt (“Tant pis”) has helped me to remember the her nicer sister: tant mieux (so much the better), while I still haven’t figured out why estate agents insist that the property they are advertising is a “Villa standing” – it would be rather disappointing if it was piled up in a heap.
The restauranteur’s friendly encouragement to “Installez-vous” always leaves me looking for a toolbox so I can hook myself into the wall.
When someone asks you to come to the village square, because there is a “grande foule”, it is not to show you the biggest idiot being recorded for the Guinness Book of World Records, but just a great crowd that has gathered to perhaps watch a football match or visit the market.
So we are fully functional in French now, being able to write grammatically correct absent notes for school, purchasing dental floss from very clean and very intimidating pharmacies, and realising that the once revered Georges Brassens actually uses a shocking amount of dirty words in his wistful songs.
This is also a good time to decide to stagnate, because the next step in this particular learning process is that you end up understanding much more than you care to know.
