10/24/19: an idiot abroad, paris part deux

I’m on a steady diet of two croissants a day. I eat one “out,” and bring the other home to eat it there, like the gluttonous American I am.

My apartment is an old person’s apartment, and I say that with great respect and appreciation. I love it here, the fussy little armchairs and the weird art and the wall of bookcases, a big gilt-framed mirror in the dining room. Brandon walked in, took one look around, sighed, and said “Of course.” I had some Diana Krall on the hi-fi and he got all exasperated, trying to explain that “hi-fi” just means “high fidelity,” so a “hi-fi” isn’t a thing, it’s an adjective, and I should just say stereo, but non, monsieur, c’est un hi-fi!

One reason I like to travel is that it makes things hard. It makes my brain have to work wayyyyy overtime and turns the simplest endeavors (e.g. finding the bathroom) into massive challenges (despite what I may have learned in school, it is not appropriate to ask the bartender for le salle de bain because that’s like saying, “Hey, I gotta take a leak, where’s your shower?”). Not speaking the language turns me into an idiot and I kind of love it—I’m just a middle-aged lady walking around saying nouns and hoping someone else will fill in the rest: toilette? vin? café? My two-year-old niece is speaking in complete sentences and I’m out here pointing at things and holding out a handful of change so the waitress can take what I owe her, who the fuck knows what she said, just help yourself here, lady, I have no idea what’s going on.

Despite my unbridled passion for the English language, I’m a total disaster when it comes to foreign languages. I did copious amounts of research in high school to find a loophole in the requirements so I could drop French like it was chaud. (My parents had the last laugh when it turned out my college had a foreign languages requirement also, zut alors that damn liberal arts education!) In grad school, I was convinced I could learn Spanish (I could not), even taking out a subscription to People en Espanol, figuring that if I really wanted to know what was going on with Richard Gere being named the Sexiest Man Alive for the second time, I’d be willing to slog through the translation (it turns out I did not and I was not). I still have occasional bursts of conviction that I might finally be able to pick up Spanish after all, but the truth is: no. I will not.

So, I live on Potato Road, which is the only way I can remember Rue du Poteau. Brandon’s apartment was on Butt Road, though when I pointed that out he sent me a screenshot from Google translate claiming that “Rue de la Fontaine du But” means “the Fountain of Purpose.” Whatever, man. Butt Road. When I take the Metro I know to head in the direction of Eggplant Town (Aubervilliers), not toward Sissy Marie (Mairie d’Issy). The credit card machines are always telling me to “retire” my card, which I think is adorable, even if Brandon tried to tell me “retirez” just means “remove.” I’ve been interspersing my Bonjours with the occasional Hola, and while excusez-moi comes out without me having to think, lo siento does the same thing, and naturally I say si about as often as I say oui.

Yesterday I ran into a very nice, older man in the (tiny) lobby of my building. He was about to get in the (tiny) elevator, as I wanted to also, but for some reason he wanted to know what floor I was going to, first. I knew this because in the jumble of words he said I recognized “etage” and for whatever reason, one thing that has stuck with me from middle school French, lo those 30 years ago, is the phrase “premier etage,” I think because that phrase was drilled into us as if the important information we would need to navigate Paris was that the “first floor” is actually what Americans would call the second floor, which has, to be honest, screwed me up ever since. (This particular elevator has floors that go from 7 to -2, and the lobby is at 0. Of course.)

Anyway, I heard “etage,” so I understood the question, and yet, I did the following:

1. First, I tried to say the word “seven.” (My apartment is on the 6^th floor.)
2. Next, I panicked because I wasn’t sure if I was saying “seven” in French or in Spanish. (Or, let’s face it, if I was even saying “seven.”)
3. Then, rather than do something crude but effective such hold up any number of fingers, instead, like a child, I began counting up from one, hoping my muscle memory would dredge up the right word.
4. Naturally, I began by counting in Spanish, uno, dos, tres.
5. By tres I realized my mistake and started again in French this time, un, deux, trois, quatre, cinco, seis, siete.
6. Though I still did not live on the 7^th floor, I knew I had veered off course as the French word for “seven” is definitely “sept,” I just couldn’t think of how to pronounce it, so finally I just said “seven,” in English, several times.

The elderly gentleman at this point let me into the elevator, which he probably should not have done, but I think he was concerned I was having a medical event. Once we squeezed into together, he reached out and pushed the button for six, at which point I realized that was my floor, too, and got all excited and said “seis, oui, seis,” big smile on my face. As the elevator ascended, the man turned to me and asked what language I speak (parlez-vous was my tip-off, plus a word that sounded like “language”), and I managed to get out Anglais.

“Ah,” he said in beautifully accented but perfectly clear English, “my English is not very good.”

I laughed and blurted out, “Hey, you should try my French,” and Brandon pointed out several times that while it’s awesome and amazing that so many people can seamlessly transition from French to English when they realize I am a Big Dumb American, it would be more helpful to our communication if I didn’t speak entirely in idioms. He’s totes dead on, don’t you know, but it turns out it’s muy difficile for this old dog to learn a new trick. So the gentleman and I bid each other a fond farewell on the sixth floor, him with a cascade of lovely French and me with a stupid grin and a wave, my lips firmly clamped shut.

The last time I was in Paris was June of 2012 and it is soooooo much easier this time around, what with cell service and Google translate and Google maps and I guess just all of Google. But even Google can’t figure everything out, and boy howdy the controls on the oven in this apartment are a complete and total mystery. I tried to make a frozen pizza last night and, after two hours, I had a lukewarm pile of…mush. I ate it anyway, because I was quite hungry and it was too late to go anywhere, and I feel basically fine today so…semi-un-frozen pizza isn’t poisonous? Let’s hope not!

To be clear, I am certain travel is not this ridiculous for everyone (Brandon eventually figured out the oven), but if you know me you know my “street smarts” lag very far behind my book smarts, so this being out of context, out of familiar spaces, is really good for me. I feel so confused all the time, which is to say I feel so aware, so very thoughtful—there’s no autopilot in these situations. And on top of all that, Paris is of course an incredibly beautiful city, so it is a truly lovely place to be lost in.

In conclusion, how is it that every other country in the world understands how motorcycles should work except for the US? Scooters, mopeds, motorcycles, whatever: they are all allowed to lane split and to pull to the front at a red light and it just makes so much sense—small vehicles can move quickly and through small spaces, why stop them? Back home, the cops set up check points to make sure you’re wearing proper protective eyewear, like seriously if you have your visor cracked open without also wearing glasses or goggles that are approved by the American National Standard Institute (the WHAT?), the NYPD will take time out of their presumably very busy day and give you a ticket. The cops would prefer your vehicle overheat/you sweat to death in a traffic jam rather than allow you to use the perfectly motorcycle-sized lanes between cars to move through the stand-still traffic and away from the scene. It is bonkers and I would like for all the people who make those dumb rules to come over here with me. We’ll find a café on a corner and sit side-by-side the way the French like to do, everyone facing the street like it’s a theater, and we’ll watch the traffic perform and I will dare any of those rule-making jerks to go back to NYC without a deep and abiding appreciation for what it means to be a stranger in a strange land, for what it’s like to realize that none of the usual rules need apply. Have a café or a vin, traffic people, let’s sit here for a while and see what it’s like when things are different. 

(No joyful dog-walking allowed, though, please.)