English has been my language for quite some time. I tend to be in places where it, or some variant, is what everyone is using. The longest time I have spent outside of the USA was during my father’s Australian sabbatical when I was in eighth grade. My Midwestern/Southern ear failed on only a few occasions. It was several months before we realized that the little guy next door, who we and his family called Tiny, was actually christened “Tony.” Similarly, a trip to Ireland was made all that much easier because knowing how to translate in order to ask for the toilet or a beer was not a necessary prelude to using or abusing either one. For the most part, my travels have not been impinged upon by language differences.
The two-week China adoption trek (already five years ago!) was so tightly managed that I never even contemplated trying to acquire any Mandarin. In my role as support staff (aka "the Manny") I would only ever be on the receiving end of messages. It was clearly brazen when I traveled to Colombia with nary a sentence nor even a phrase book. We were confident our host and hostess would translate anytime it was necessary. The flaw in this plan revealed itself when our flight departing from Colombia was cancelled. Nothing like being frustrated and anxious AND mute. My upcoming trip to France promises to offer some linguistic challenges since Lyon is best known for its gastronomy and the associated displeasure with those who attempt to speak only in English.
Beyond plans to tote a French phrase book, I bought an introductory language CD that contains eight, thirty minute lessons. I had to re-listen to Lesson 1 four times before I could follow the introductory conversation. In general, I can mimic phrases with close to the right intonation. However, the stereotype of the nasally Frenchman struck me as far too comical for me to authentically copy. In Spanish while the r’s are rolled, in French there is a preponderance of throat-clearing. My goal was to produce sensible words in a French restaurant, not a sample of slime from far back in my mouth. So I was conflicted: how to sound French without making myself laugh at my own voice.Having mastered the exchange in Lesson 1, I girded myself for Lesson 2. It turned out to be basically a review and only introduced a couple extra word variations. This was a great distraction since at the time I was driving on an essentially deserted stretch of interstate. I was bored, it was blazing hot outside, and there was no shame in talking to my digitized tutor. In trying to speak loud enough to hear myself over the air conditioner fan, I began to find my voice. Simultaneously, I was realizing there was not a lot of French I was going to master over the next month. The combination of my loud voice and the recognition that I wasn’t on pace to become conversant turned into an increasingly pitiful call-and-response:
CD: Say: “I don’t understand.”As the volume grew, I was startled by the urgency in my voice. What might have been amusing in my pronunciation was overwhelmed by the earnestness. I believe you would have felt badly for me even if you could not understand my words. The meaning was clear and I felt it to my core. I imagined being at the train station ticket counter, money and schedule in hand, unable to make a purchase to get from Paris to Lyon. I continued repeating the phrase, beating my fist and becoming louder and more plaintive. I envisioned myself rising from my table at a nice bistro, first addressing the waiter and then appealing to the other patrons to take pity on me. Hungry, thirsty, tired, far from home: I don’t understand French!
Me: Je ne comprends pas. Je ne comprends pas!
CD: Say: “I don’t understand French.”
Me: Je ne comprends pas le français. Je ne comprends pas le français! Je ne comprends pas le français!
