Friendship

It’s happening. Our time is Paris is about to expire. We will be here for another month, but people are starting to leave for summer trips. I can no longer pretend that we won’t have to say good-bye.

The person I will miss the most is my friend G. The other day, another friend, S., complimented my French, and I told her I have G. to thank. When I arrived here, my French was functional, grammatical, perfectly acceptable. But I was scared to open my mouth. I didn’t want to appear foolish by making mistakes.

Now I speak without fear. Even though G.’s English is impeccable, we speak French almost exclusively, even on the phone (which is the hardest), even with street noise in the background. She is patient and encouraging and puts me at ease.

Sure I made mistakes. G. gently corrected my dipthongs and gender mix-ups, taught me subtleties of slang, and explained cultural enigmas. Thanks to her, I now put my bread on the table instead of my plate and choose French chocolate (which has more cocoa versus butter) instead of Belgian. She’s explained the intricacies of French law, recommended French novels, baked me apple pies and introduced me to the joys of raclette, which is much better than fondue.

She has also made me realize that my inferiority complex is silly. So what if I have an American accent, as long as people can understand me? I’ve always considered French accents in English charming. So maybe my English accent isn’t as ugly as I thought.

I was surprised when G. told me that when she lived in America, she was concerned about making cultural gaffes, too. She even had a handbook for French expats on how to fit in in America. It hadn’t occurred to me that cultural understanding is a two-way street, that even French people can feel out of place and afraid of appearing foolish when they’re away from home and don’t understand the rules.

S. told me, “One thing you don’t mention in your blog is that being an American in France makes you exotic in a positive way. Different can also mean interesting.” She’s right, of course. We’re not still in middle school, yearning above all else to just blend in.

When I return to America, I will be a little bit braver. I’ll stop worrying about messing up. I’ll dare to stand out, even when I don’t need to.

Wish me bon courage. It’s a phrase that means both “good luck” but also “I hope you will have the courage to do what you need to.” Thanks to this year in France, thanks to my hugely warm and welcoming guide and friend, I think I will.

I’ve been in Paris half a year now. I should know everything. Then why is my French getting worse?

When I asked that question to my French conversation group, they said, “It’s not. ”

“Then why does my friend (whom I’ll call G) correct me ten times as much as she used to? She doesn’t correct my husband, and I thought my French was better than his.”

“It’s a sign of friendship,” they said. “Now she’s comfortable enough to point out your flaws.” I’d always heard that the French take a different view of friendship than Americans do. It takes a long time to become intimate, but once you’re in someone’s small inner circle, it’s very meaningful. In America, we tend to have a bigger circle, with more superficial friendships.

G is one of the warmest, friendliest, most generous people I’ve ever met, so I know she metes out her lessons from the goodness of her heart.

She corrects my daughter, too. Ella’s favorite snack to order at the bakery is a bread shaped like a mouse, which is called “une souris.” Ella asked for “un souris” and the woman behind the counter gave her a cookie (un cookie) instead. The woman seemed confused when Ella said it wasn’t what she ordered.

G straightened things out and explained to Ella and me after we’d left: “It’s very important to get the gender correct or people won’t understand you. She heard “un” and “ee” so she assumed you asked for a cookie. People listen to the beginning and the end but sometimes miss the middle.”

That explains a lot.

The next time G corrected Ella’s pronunciation of the vowels in “souris.” “Diphthongs are hard for Americans to say,” she said, and modeled the complex nasal gymnastics for Ella. “It’s important for her to get this right,” G said. “No offense, Sharon, but it’s too late for you.”

At lunch G told me to place my bread on the table to the left of my plate. “Everyone will know you’re American if they see you put the bread on the plate,” she said. I had never heard this before. So every time I’d sat down to a meal before I’d been doing it wrong.

But my funniest faux pas was revealed at pick-up the other day. I don’t know how many times I said the phrase “c’est bon” to the other parents as we waited for our children to be released. I was talking about books and films and museums. Elevated stuff. I’d been speaking this way at lunch earlier, with a French writer I really wanted to impress. I was on a roll. Until G stopped me. “Bon is only for food,” she said. “Everything else is bien.”

Apparently, when I thought I was expressing refined opinions about life and art, all I’d said was “how tasty.” Delicious. Yum.

But it gets worse. When I shared this anecdote with my French conversation group, they laughed and said. “There’s one other thing people will think you mean when you use the phrase “c’est bon.”

Oh good. Maybe I hadn’t made a complete fool of myself with that French writer at lunch.

“We also say that when we’re talking about sex.”

So I’d been saying all day (maybe all six months I’ve been in Paris) that everything is tasty and sexy.

Well, it is. Isn’t it?

Bon Courage

Tasty and Sexy: C’est Bon! (More Lost in Translation)