And a dent is not “a depression” that you might find on the side of your car. It’s “a tooth.” I learned that the hard way. I once noticed a caved-in fender on a Peugeot belonging to a French friend of mine and said, “What an ugly dent.” My friend, whose teeth were, coincidently, less than perfect, covered his mouth—partly for shame, but more out of glazed dismay for my insensitivity.
* * *
TO TRULY ENJOY THE FRENCH EXPERIENCE, you must have a decent working vocabulary. The best way to do that is through full immersion. You have to mingle with the French. Those who lock themselves away in a hotel room will, of course, learn nothing—except perhaps a few novel ways of using the bidet.
You could probably get by in France with a 500-word vocabulary—hello, goodbye, come, go, sit, stand, eat, drink—and a lot of American tourists make do with considerably less. But to be quasi fluent, I place the number of indispensable vocabulary words at 3,500. That will not make you a native speaker because, like Americans, the French have an active vocabulary of 20,000 words and a passive vocabulary (words understood but not used) of 40,000 words. I know that 3,500 words is a sizeable number, but given a common Latin base, it is not insurmountable. Thousands of French words have been incorporated into the English language, which accounts for about thirty percent of our vocabulary. All an Anglophone needs to do is learn how to pronounce those words in French, which is not as difficult as it might seem. (See Appendix C for resources that will help you build and pronounce French vocabulary.)
One invaluable source of vocabulary for me was the local hiking club. I was continually pummeled with new words: flowers, trees, animals, weather conditions, all together mixed in with the constant chatter of everyday life. Sometimes, when I was lucky, I learned more than one sense of the word.
On one hike in the mountainous Cévennes region north of Montpellier, Nicole, a slender blond Frenchwoman with a passion for English, led me to an oak tree at the edge of a clearing. She cupped a seed in her hand and asked me what the word was in English. I rolled the oak fruit between my fingers for a moment.
“We call it an acorn,” I said.
“Acorn,” Nicole repeated.
“Yes, acorn. What is the name in French?” I asked.
“Un gland,” Nicole said.
“Ah, un gland,” I echoed. “I see.”
After that brief botany lesson, I walked back to the group, all of whom were taking a breather in the shade. I stripped off my backpack and propped it against a granite outcrop. I was taking a draw from my water bottle when Guy and Michel, two of the group leaders, drifted over to where I stood.
“Should we tell him?” Guy asked Michel, grinning like a teenager in a locker room with a wet towel, sizing up the vulnerable array of behinds.
“No,” Michel said, turning away with a chuckle.
“Tell me what?” I asked Guy.
“Never mind,” he said with the same lewd grin smeared across his face.
And then, finally, Michel turned back to me. “Okay, I’ll explain,” he said, pulling me off to the side. “A moment ago, you were fingering an acorn.”
“Right?”
“An acorn has a second meaning.”
“Okay.”
“It has to do with a man’s … well … private parts. And playing with un gland—especially with a woman present—could be interpreted as an invitation …”
Okay, you don’t have to paint a picture. I acknowledged the expansion of my French lexicon with a quick adjustment of my “acorns.”
Guy howled. “He understands,” he whooped, whacking me on the back as if I had just scored the winning touchdown.
In that moment, I was initiated into the official locker-room clubhouse of the French Republic.
Later, I wondered if my female botany teacher considered the double meaning when she introduced me to the hooded oak fruit. Could her lesson have been a veiled flirtation? A harbinger of a secret midnight rendezvous? I doubt it (although one can always hope). All things considered, I think it’s safer to chalk up the experience as just one more vocabulary lesson and leave it at that.
There are so many French rules to follow, so many linguistic landmines that sometimes a new speaker will take extraordinary steps to simplify the language—including faking understanding.
The French have a wonderful one-word exclamation: Bof! It is used to express indifference, which is fantastic. It is so noncommittal that it becomes a perfect response for a multitude of questions.
“Do you like seafood?”
“Bof.”
“Would you like to go to the movies?”
“Bof.”
“So what do you think of the weather in this part of the world?”
“Bof.” Or to be a little more verbose (a chapter from the advanced course in French idioms), “Oh bof.”
On our first visit to France in 1971, when I could barely utter “bonjour,” I was so keen on the word that I was using it at every opportunity—even in response to questions I didn’t quite understand. So, it wasn’t long before my little ruse was uncovered.
One day, our neighborhood baker finally gathered up the courage to pose a personal question.
“Comment vous vous appelez?” What is your name? he asked.
And for some reason, I did not make out the question, so I said, “Bof!”
From that point on, I was known by one French baker as Monsieur Bof. I just didn’t have the courage to correct him.
Here’s a little French characteristic that tickles me to no end. The French—at least the French in the South of France—have a couple of variations in the way they say “yes” and “no.”
Let’s start with “oui,” the one-syllable word for “yes.” Although this is not practiced by all, there are many among the French who actually inhale when they say “oui.” It sounds like an audible but discreet gasping for air. It always struck me as funny. So whenever it was said (or, more precisely, “sucked in”), I would gleefully point out the linguistic aberration. The French never had anything to say about it. They would just smile, cock their shoulders, and look at me as if to ask, “Yeah, and this is important for what reason?” Of course, it wasn’t at all important—not in the grand scheme of things—but it was curious, and when it comes to the French, I’m curious about most everything.
Now, on to “non.” I’m fudging a bit by calling it an oddity on the word “non.” It is more of an expression of indifference that can be used in the place of bof. It’s not a word; it’s more of a sound. Here’s how you make it.
1. Tightly close your lips and roll them in as if you are imitating an old man with no teeth.
2. Create a small pocket of air at the front of your mouth, just behind your front teeth.
3. Now “spit” the air out. No spray please—just dry air.
If you did it correctly, you would have made a wonderful plosive sound—a tiny imitation of a wine bottle being uncorked. I call the sound “phutt.”
The French don’t know the roots of “phutt,” but I have a theory. I imagine that in medieval France the serfs would literally spit when they were disgruntled or in disagreement. Eventually, spitting was frowned upon. (In the 1970s, I remember seeing a sign in a French village post office that read, “No spitting allowed.”) So spitting evolved into “phutting.” Of course, I have no empirical evidence to support my claim—I wasn’t there at the time—but that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
History aside, I like to tease the French by suggesting that when they are conflicted, not knowing if they want to say “yes” or “no,” they sound like a deux chevaux Citroën struggling to start on a cold morning: gasp-phutt-gasp-phutt-gasp-phutt. The French don’t find my Victor Borge routine nearly as funny as I do, but hey, I’ve borne my share of playful rebuffs about my French pronunciation. What goes around comes around.
I remember a playful conversation with my French friend, Guy, early in our first year. At one point, the bantering swung around to my American accent
.
“I know, I know,” I said, “my accent is terrible.”
Frankly, I was expecting Guy to protest like a used car salesman pressing for a sale. Surely, he would give me a side-hug and tell me that my pronunciation was nearly impeccable.
“Oh, no, Allen,” he said. “You are too hard on yourself. Your French is not terrible; it is only abominable.” (By the way, the French use the same words for “terrible” and “abominable.” In fact, we adopted the words from them, so I had no problem in understanding the gibe.)
Funny, Guy. Real funny.
Despite Guy’s impish review, my pronunciation is getting better. It used to be that whenever I asked a French person a question, they would stare at me in complete puzzlement—their heads cocked like French poodles, their brows crinkled, their eyes turned to slits—an expression that said, “Oh, I’m so sorry, but I don’t speak Swahili.” How I hated that look.
I don’t blame the French. A slight difference in pronunciation—particularly in vowel sounds—can make the difference between a compliment and an insult. For example, “to do the queue [kø]” means “to stand in line,” but “to do the cul [ky]” can only be roughly translated as “humping.” To American ears, the difference of those two vowel sounds—[ø] and [y], sounds not found in English—is miniscule, even nonexistent. But to a francophone, the difference is as distinctive as the flavors of red and white wines.
I will never forget the day I asked a Frenchwoman in the Pérols post office if she wanted “to make a cul.” Her eyes flashed, and her nose flared. I thought she was going to roundhouse me. Three or four other Péroliens who had overheard my indiscreet proposal whipped around, staring in disbelief. There was a deathly silence, as a drop of sweat trickled down my spine. At that moment, I wondered how the food was in a French maximum-security lockup. And then, thank God, they laughed. Frankly, I think it was my blue jeans, tennis shoes, and baseball cap that saved me. “Et voilà. An American. What do you expect?”
In 1971, when Nita and I knew only a handful of French words, I was introduced to the infamous blank stare of incomprehension. We had just landed in Paris and had taken a bus to the train station. It was my task to buy train tickets to Grenoble. So I looked up the word for “tickets” in my English/French pocket dictionary. “Billets” my dictionary said. What I didn’t know was how to pronounce the word. I pronounced it “bill-its”—like any red-blooded American. That pronunciation, however, makes no sense to the French, who pronounce the word “bee-yea.”
So with my dictionary in hand, I marched up to the ticket master, flashed a smile, waved two fingers in front of his face, and said in a voice that was probably too loud, “Two bill-its, Grenoble!”
He said nothing, he did nothing. He just gave me that French poodle look, shrugging his shoulders for good measure, and then turned his attention to the customer standing behind me.
Despondent but not yet beaten, I walked back to Nita, who was doggedly guarding our four suitcases. “What’s the matter with that guy?” I whispered. “I said ‘bill-its.’ Don’t these people know their own language?”
We stared at each other for a moment, then at the dictionary—yep, the word was “bill-its” all right—and then at each other again.
“Try one more time,” Nita said in her you-can-do-it-Bunkie voice.
So I charged the ticket master again. This time I was definitely shouting. “BILL-ITS, BILL-ITS, BILL-ITS, okay?”
Nothing. Just more French poodle.
“Okay, look,” I said, slamming my finger into the word in my dictionary. “Here it is, right here in plain English … er, French. BILL-ITS. BILL-ITS. Grenoble. Get it?”
“Ah, BEE-YEA,” the ticket master said, along with some gibberish that sounded like, “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” And ten seconds later, I was the proud owner of two crisp train tickets to Grenoble.
One thing is certain about the French language. In comparison to American English, it is terribly diplomatic and ingratiatingly polite. They do not, for example, end their business letters with, say, “Sincerely yours.” They are more likely, by tradition, to use one of a number of diplomatic (I would call them stuffy) formulas. Veuillez agréer, Monsieur, l’expression de mes sentiments distingués (Would you accept, sir, my expression of distinguished sentiments). When I pointed out this deferential sentence to Jean-Marie, he just laughed and said, “When we get to that part of the letter, we stop reading.”
In general, if Americans want something, they get right to the point. The French are not that way. There are very precise rules of étiquette. (Wouldn’t you know that “etiquette” is a French word?)
I am far too direct when speaking to the French, and it continually gets me in trouble. In Montpellier I once went to the city hall and asked the receptionist, “Où se trouvent les toilettes?” Where does one find the bathroom? It seemed like a perfectly proper question to me.
But, to my amazement, the receptionist glared at me with a look reserved for drug dealers and child molesters. “Quoi?” she asked.
“Où se trouvent les toilettes?” I repeated, even slower than my usual ponderous pace.
Her head snapped back as she poked her finger in the air. “Over there,” she snarled.
I followed the vague line of her finger. “Where?”
Now she was poking the air like an impatient executive jabbing at an elevator button. “Over there, over there!” she squawked.
That evening I related the incident to Monique. Even before finishing my story, Monique asked, “Did you say, ‘S’il vous plaît’?”
She had me. “Ah, no,” I admitted, “I just smiled.”
“Quand même, that is not sufficient,” Monique said. “One must always say ‘please.’”
Monique is a good teacher. She also taught me (as had our Belgian friends in the States) to drop the habit of saying “Je veux quelque chose (I want something),” and say, instead, “Je voudrais quelque chose (I would like something).” That makes sense. “I want something” is even a little harsh in English. But in French, it turns porcelain faces into dried prunes.
Learning the formulas for greetings and departures can be tricky. For instance, I noted quickly that the French often end a transaction with “Bonne journée,” in the same way we might say, “Have a nice day.” But I was never quite certain of the proper response. The English translation is “The same to you.” But do the French say “À vous le même” or “À vous de même”?
To find out for sure, I went to my favorite bakery and bought a royal (a chocolate mousse pastry with a delicious wafer crust, one of my favorites). As the store clerk handed me my treat, I quickly said, “Bonne journée,” and squinted my eyes to better hear her response. Would it be “À vous le même,” or “À vous de même”? Le or de—what’s it going to be?
One click of the clock later, the clerk smiled and said, “Également” (the sneaky devil).
I found out later that the correct response is “À vous de même” or, more often, “Vous de même” or, shorter yet, “De même.” But don’t be surprised to hear someone squeeze in an “également” (equally) or even a “pareillement” (same to you).
I have learned that greetings with shop clerks should be polite without being intimate. When I go to the village bakery, for example, I always begin with “Bonjour, madame.” Not just “bonjour,” mind you, for that would be too abrupt. Although today’s generation is more relaxed on that propriety, for most French there is something about a naked “bonjour” that makes their teeth itch.
Monique—always my teacher—taught me a variation on this pattern. She says the moment she enters a shop and sees more than one person present, her greeting is “Bonjour à tous,” meaning “Good day to everyone.” I like the efficiency of that. All the politesse covered in one sweeping salutation.
However, you must not follow bonjour with “Comment allez-vous?” because asking how someone is would be too intimate. Remember, the French are very private and would n
ever share the state of their personal wellbeing with a stranger—and a foreign stranger at that. Even to be asked is a curiosity to them. I know what I’m talking about. Before I understood this faux pas, I was routinely seared with censorious eyes when I gaily asked a store owner, “So how the hell are you anyway?”
What you can talk about after an exchange of “bonjour madame, bonjour monsieur” is the weather. This is acceptable small talk. In fact the French phrase for “small talk” is parler de la pluie et du beau temps (to talk about the rain and the beautiful weather). Monique explained all this to me one day as we were walking to the bank in Pérols. So, as soon as we stepped into the bank, I said to the bank clerk, “Bonjour. Il fait beau.” (Good day. The weather is beautiful.) The clerk smiled nervously—not quite knowing what to make of me. Even I knew that my transition to small talk was too sudden, but sometimes I just have to poke fun at the French. (Not to worry. They get their licks in too.)
Sometimes it’s fun to hear the French speak English. If they are fluent, I am always impressed. If they struggle, I struggle along with them, for I know the feeling. And, sometimes, they say things that are worth a chuckle—not unlike some of my lingual blunders.
One day, I went into a bicycle shop to buy an inner tube (chambre à air). The clerk recognized my accent after two words and said in halting English, “Ah, you are wanting a rubber.”
There are a few precious moments in everyone’s life when a straight line is just too beguiling to resist. This was one of those moments. “Are you thinking I might get lucky this evening?” I asked in French, which didn’t translate well at all.
“Huh?”
I took pity on him and explained that “a rubber” was what you used for protection when you’re having a good time. I wanted something for my bicycle tire.
He laughed nervously—either out of embarrassment or lack of understanding—I’m not sure which.
Learning a second language is never easy, but the road is made less torturous when you learn from the people you love. Why? Because your loved ones are forgiving; they are willing to stick with you through all the malapropisms and faux pas.
Pardon My French Page 4
