Yolinda goes to Paris - a French language misadventure

Recently I had a couple of months break from blogging and work and accompanied my father and stepmother to England and Wales for some rest and family tree research.  At the end of the trip I had a few play days to myself in London and thought that seeing as Paris was just a train ride away..........

Now any excuse to go to Paris is an acceptable one, but I justified my 24 hours there as language practice.  I've been "learning" French for about 6 years but hadn't got around to actually talking yet.  I mean really talking - a conversation - or anything more than "Je voudrais un café s'il vous plait" or "où sont les toilettes".  I had been doing a lot of practice and language immersion (meaning playing with language apps) for months beforehand and felt I was ready to tackle anything.

I hopped off the Eurostar, satchel slung over my shoulder (no overnight suitcase for me bien sûr, I wanted to look like a tired and cranky local returning home from a weekend in London, and yes I did wake up looking like this) and onto the metro.  So far so good.  Just one change at Marcadet Poissonniers (Maracadet Fishmongers?) and I'm at my beloved Montmartre.  I hopped off, through the exit to the next platform and .......

Wrong exit.

Merde!

I came out onto a street more grubby than Kings Cross on a Saturday night.  Now I didn't have to pretend to look cranky.  Trouble was, as much as I tried to fool myself, I knew I didn't resemble a slightly tousled and pouty Parisian.  I looked like what I was.  A very irritated Australian tourist who had got herself lost within 30 minutes of arriving in Paris.  Five more minutes there and I knew I was going to get mugged.  So back into the metro and through the correct tunnel to connect to Abbesses.

Right, now just up the elevator and..........

MERDE!!

The elevator was undergoing repairs.  I trudged up the 104 steps to the surface, my satchel weighing more and more like a medium sized marsupial, listening to the chorus of French accented grumbling behind me.  I staggered across the Place des Abbesses and into the hotel and gasped "L'ascenseur ne marche pas!" (the lift isn't working).  My first French dialogue this trip.  Ah well, at least it's an improvement on ordering a coffee or asking where the toilets are.

My room wasn't ready and I was invited to partake of refreshments while they finished preparing my chambre, but as I only had a day to play, I dumped the bag and went for a walk.  Everything is prettier when one is on holidays and especially in Paris.  The carousel near the metro station entrance - enchanting (click goes the phone camera), the 'I Love You' mural on the park wall - charming (click), the squelch of my shoe when I stepped in caca de chien..........................

One visit to a public tap later and I was back in business.  There were a couple of little boutiques I wanted to look at during our last holiday but didn't have time.  I was determined to buy a dress and practice more French.  I managed the standard questions, can I try this on, do you have my size, how much is it etc.  And each time la vendeuse would answer me in English.  I was determined.  "Avez-vous d'autres couleurs?" (do you have any other colours), I asked, even though I was very happy with the colour I had.  Again she answered me in English.  In desperation I was about to ask her where the toilets were, when she took pity on me, replied again in French and I was able to finish the transaction in badly accented français .  She told me how to care for the dress when washing it (cold hand wash or on gentle cycle in the machine, if you must know) all in slow French and I almost bought a second dress out of gratitude.

Back to the hotel to dump my purchase in my now ready room and I was back out on the street again, ready to begin my carefully mapped walk about Montmartre.

Up and down pretty streets I wandered.  Taking some photos but mainly drinking in the sights.  I missed seeing Van Gogh's house due to that section of the street being roped off for road works, but I did find a photo booth and had my first photo booth photo since 1983 taken.  Up lanes, down cobbled roads and past Sacre Coeur, I was in Paris heaven.   Around Place du Tertre, looking at all the artists displaying their wares, and feeling rather smug that I didn't look like all the other tourists in their shorts and t-shirts and long socks, backpacks, fanny packs, caps and huge cameras.  Not me!  Natty little ballet flats, skinny jeans, knitted top and small shoulder bag.  My phone was my camera and I made a point of not taking it out for obvious tourist photos.  Moi?  Non non non je suis un local!!

So why is everyone speaking to me in English?!!  If I just keep my mouth shut surely they would mistake me for a local?  Obviously not. 

I approached an artist to look closer at her paintings and after the obligatory bonjours, asked her how much one was.  "Combien ça coûte s'il vous plaît?"  
"Seventy five euros, but if it's too much we can do a deal".
Sigh.  I try again.
"Je voudrais quelque choses de plus petite pour ma valise"  (I would like something smaller for my suitcase).
"Oh well I have these smaller ones"
I thought that I would try once more and if she answered in English then I wasn't buying her damn painting!!
"Pardon, pourriez-vous me parler en Français s'il vous plaît.  Je voudrais pratique"  (Sorry, could you speak to me in French please.  I would like to practice).
She smiled and said that most people don't bother to try and it was nice to meet someone who really wanted to speak the local language.  She then proceeded to talk to me in rapid fire French.  I just stared blankly as verbs, tenses and conjugations bounced off my face and torso.  I grabbed the nearest picture,  meekly said "Celui-ci s'il vous plaît." (this one please), paid my money and ran.

After a few blocks I had recovered my breath and dignity and thought that I would explore the Montmartre museum.
"Bonjour", said the girl behind the desk.
"Bonjour", I replied.
"Would you like an audio guide in English?"
Sure, why not.  "Yes please", I sighed.

Ok - one more try.  On Rue Durantin there is a tall archway with a gate which leads to a beautiful courtyard.  It used to be inhabited by the local Jewish community until 1941 when the Nazis conducted mass arrests.  I heard that the current occupants are friendly and if you wait at the gate long enough someone will let you in.  I had practiced the question over and over (Je peux jeter un coup d'oeil? - Can I take a look?).  I hung about the gate pretending to look at something on my phone and after a few minutes a man came out.  "Excuse-moi monsieur, je peux jet....." .

"Ouai ouai", he said waving his arm and walked off.  Oh well, I got half the sentence out.  

The courtyard was stunning and peaceful.  And yet there was still a feeling of sadness there.  I wanted to take a photo of this piece of little known history, and just then an elderly lady came out of her apartment.  "Excuse-moi madame, puis-je prendre un photo?".  

"Pardon?"

I racked my brain, I was sure I said it right.  Maybe she was deaf or couldn't understand my accent.

I tried again in vain.  

I gave up.

"Parlez-vous anglais?"

"Non"

Merde!

I held up my phone.  "Click click?"

"Ahhh oui bien sur".  She smiled and went back inside.

Later that evening I took my painting, and two coats I also picked up and stopped at a little restaurant on the way back to the hotel.  It was quintessentially French with accordion music playing and red and white check tablecloths (actually it was an Italian restaurant, but hey when in Rome....).
"Bonsoir Madame", said the waiter.
"Bonsoir Monsieur", I said.  "Je voudrais un table pour une person s'il vous plaît"
"Ahhh kangaroo kangaroo!!" he exclaimed.
"Yes that's right, I'm Australian.  May I have a glass of red wine please.  A very big glass..."

Ahh well, at least this stunning creature was waiting for me outside my hotel room window.