Excerpt from "Mommy, are we French Yet?"
La Bibliothèque
Shannon persuades me to join the French/English conversation class at the local library. She says all of the members have been asking about me since the Christmas party. I can only reason that they must really be frantic for English speakers. Rick refuses to attend, reasoning that his verb conjugation isn’t yet perfected. I usually speak in “first person,” hence, the cave man French I often refer to. “Me want two baguette.” What could be clearer?
During my first class, I sit next to a man with a lisp, or maybe he has food in his mouth. He’s my “conversation partner.” I don’t understand a word he says or the language he’s using. We don’t progress beyond introductions.
At the following class, I’m one of three English-speaking students in my group of eight adult peers. I turned in my paper entirely written in French on the subject of “Why clubs and societies are important to me”. What the Hell kind of topic is this for a first-time student? One of the French-speaking students corrects my paper. The marks on my paper confirm my dismal knowledge of the French language. My paper is filled with red pen slashes. To make matters worse, the entire class reviews my paper and makes suggestions. “Tu comprends?” (You understand?) You American fool, of course this isn’t what they said, but I’m sure they were thinking it. While writing my paper, I spelled words phonetically in order to pronounce the language correctly, assuming I’ll have to read my paper to the class. I didn’t know that another student would be reading my paper or I would have spelled words correctly. My downfall is complete when I discover two of my fellow students are teachers. In the end, “good effort” seems high praise indeed, maybe on the level of “not bad,” a common French complement.
When we finished correcting papers, we practiced oral French/English conversation. The French women next to me, happily discusses a new “cock” that moved to her neighborhood. What the heck? I’m definitely living in the wrong neighborhood, who knew the French were so risqué? I wonder if there’s some sort of undercover wife-swap thing going on in the outskirts of Grasse. This is especially surprising because the library group consists of men and women in their sixties. The cock-talk-woman extols about the beauty of the cock’s feathers and his lovely early morning crowing. I’m completely at loss about how to relay in the French language the significance of her use of a double entendre. Even Craig would have problems explaining her faux pas with his hand signals.
Conner and Leslie seem to have no problems with language faux pas when they play with the gang of neighborhood children who congregate on a regular basis in our large olive orchard.
Leslie won the trifecta in friends when the triplets (two girls and a boy) moved next door. At dinner, Leslie explains they (the triplets) are from England and attend the coveted Mougins School. She has no other information for me, thus giving me a perfect excuse to drop in next door (though not visible from our home) and introduce myself. Certainly, knowledge of your child’s whereabouts must be a common thing among French/English/American cultures, and of course it’s fortunate she speaks English.
The next day, Leslie and I hike across the olive orchard and climb over the stone wall to the house of the triplets. The house is extremely rustic but charming and it appears the owners are in the midst of a rather ambitious construction project. Perhaps this is the reason for our spotty water supply however I determine not to mention this on our first meeting.
The front door is nearly impossible to see due to the massive tree, which sits in front of the door. It’s been cut into three pieces as though it’s some sort of kindling for giants. “Hello? Hello? Is anyone home?” I said as I pushed the heavy door open. “Down here, in the basement,” said a chirpy voice. I continue to talk as we walk down the stairs and into a dormitory style room. “Hi, I’m Leslie’s mom from next door, just wanted to introduce myself.”
A perfectly coifed blond women walks towards me and extends her hand. Of course, she exclaims about the mess and the construction and then there’s the firewood in front of the door. Firewood? She must be joking, it would take someone months to cut up the so-called wood, and why wasn’t the wood delivered in pieces that could actually fit in a fireplace. However, this discussion never takes place because she then says she simply must get the sheets pressed before the beds can be made. “I just can’t put my children to bed in rumpled sheets,” she said and seeing my puzzled look, “Well, don’t you press sheets in America?” “Ahhh, no we don’t, at least I don’t,” I said. She shakes her head and continues with a slave-like devotion to iron the sheets.
Somehow, I feel as though we’ve gotten off to a bad start, with me being a non-sheet-presser and therefore a neglectful parent, I don’t see how I can redeem myself. I make my excuses while offering to take the triplets for the afternoon. Maybe kid-sitting would soften her up, it’s not like I have a lot of friends in the neighborhood. “That would be lovely, I’ll see you at half past then, shall I?” Feeling like an absolute hillbilly, I respond in kind and leave her to the sheet pressing as the children trail along behind me.
The following week, I have another opportunity to meet a neighbor, this time through Conner. Thank God for the kids or I’d have no friends—not that the coifed English women next door has become a bosom buddy of mine—yet.
