Everybody warned me: the French are snooty. They hate Americans.
I replied that when I was 15, my family took a week’s vacation in
Martinique. The French were perfectly charming, because I tried to
speak French to them. They would then laugh, and speak to me in
English.
Everybody warned me: the French are snooty. They hate Americans.
I replied that when I was 15, my family took a week’s vacation in Martinique. The French were perfectly charming, because I tried to speak French to them. They would then laugh, and speak to me in English.
To be sure, what works for a cute teen-aged girl might not work for a middle-aged woman. But it was worth a shot.
So I practiced speaking French. I made my husband read aloud a French children‚s book to me, “L’apprenti Loup,” phrase by phrase, while I copied him. He winced.
I relearned my basic French vocabulary: merci, s’il vous plait, bon jour, oui, and non. Thus armed, I boarded the Air France jet and ordered, “Cabernet, s’il vous plait.” The flight attendant looked startled and asked, “Pardon? Excuse me, madame?”
I read “Les Miserables” and dozed all the way to Paris. We checked into our hotel in the Quartier Latin and crammed our luggage into the teeny elevator to go up to our small but charming room. We unpacked, and I faced my first challenge.
My husband’s dress shirt had become terribly wrinkled in transit. I sallied forth, found a maid, and managed to convey, with a “Pardon, Madame, s’il vous plait …” and a lot of hand motions, our need for an iron. She brought one and taught me the word: repasser.
I went for a walk in the afternoon, and we went out to dinner with the business reps. The streets of Paris were thronged with pedestrians far into the night.
At 7:30 the next morning, the streets were deserted. Parisians sleep in on Sundays. Eventually, we found a farmers‚ market setting up, where a young woman made us crepes with a choice of fillings, including confiture, beurre, or fromage.
Munching hot crepes, we meandered to the Seine, crossed the Pont Neuf to the Isle de Cite, and found the Notre Dame. Mass was being celebrated, so we visitors tiptoed quietly around the edges of the cathedral, obedient to signs, while marveling silently at the soaring Gothic arches, stained glass, paintings, and sculptures.
At last I approached the information booth and asked quietly “Ou sont les tours?” The attendant’s face froze, and she pointed silently to the English section of the placard on her desk: “The Towers are outside and to your right.”
Outside and to our right we found a short line of people, with whom we climbed the 422 steps of spiral staircase to the Towers of Notre Dame, where we had a close look at gargoyles and a wide view of Paris.
We had lunch and went to the Louvre, which was overwhelming: a huge palace filled with the art of millennia, including the Mona Lisa and Venus de Milo.
Monday we visited the Eiffel Tower and took a boat ride on the Seine. That evening we took the Metro to the Place de Concorde where once the thirsty guillotine stood, and walked up the Champs Elysees to the Arc de Triomphe.
Tuesday we visited the Musee D’Orsay with its fabulous collection of Impressionist art, and walked around the Jardin du Luxembourg admiring its statues in the rain.
Wednesday and Thursday my husband had business meetings, so I visited Sainte Chapelle and attended mass at Notre Dame, of which I understood exactly four words: Jesu, Seigneur, alleluia, and amen.
Thursday I visited the Musee Rodin, the Place Bastille (though the infamous prison was torn down by enraged French during the Revolution), and Victor Hugo‚s maison. Friday we flew home.
I recommend Paris in January. The lines are short. Take a warm coat. We were lucky; it only rained on us once.
And my French worked like a charm. Not that anyone understood me. But everyone either switched to English or found a nearby interpreter. They were all quite charming and friendly, once they recovered from the shock of my pronunciation.
It is also good to be back home in Gilroy, where the streets are wide and uncrowded, where restaurants have abandoned the absurdity of theoretical non-smoking areas, and where when I say, “Hola, que tal?” my neighbor understands me perfectly.
