Somedays are good. Other days, you get your spirit crushed by a French person.
Good days are what? Finding $10 on the ground, being told that you're doing a great job at work, having a moment of self-discovery, a smile from a cute dood on the metro even. Yeah, I'd say all of those would fall within the limits of what a lot of people would consider a happy boost in their day. For me, what would really make an average day great is being given a compliment in my French level. Don't get me wrong, I'd love to be told I helped someone at work, or maybe to have more hours, or hm, perhaps even a work contract?! But in the meantime, I'll settle for a "your French isn't bad, you know."
Recently, I went to the movie theatre to see a film with friends and when it was my turn to approach the woman behind the counter, I asked (in French) for "one ticket to Source Code, please. And I'm less than 26 [so I get a discount]." The woman glances up at me and in taking my money, asks me whether I know that it's in original version, which is English, and only the subtitles are in French. My friends and I start laughing together, as one of them exclaims, "She's American! Of course it's not a problem!" And the woman gives me a smirk as I smugly take my change and ticket from her, feeling elated that I somehow managed to pull off a decent enough French accent to fool someone into thinking that I was French. Granted, I'm sure there was a lot of noise and maybe she couldn't hear me that well, but I couldn't help feeling smooth anyway. Instant day-maker.
But bad days? Mildly bad days can involve maybe slipping on the subway grate, or going into a bakery to get a delicious brioche only to realize you don't have enough money, or realizing your umbrella is broken as you step out the front door to pouring rain. Well, if there's one thing that French people seem to be really great at, it's piercing your spirit with a soul-crushing yet plainly stated piece of brutal honesty and that can ruin more than just your day.
For example, after exchanging emails with a friend of a friend (in French), I admitted to him over coffee that I tend to have mental roadblocks which keep me from speaking French at a level I would like. Instead, in order for me to really be able to carry on a long and, indeed, quite interesting conversation would be to find that limit between 3-6 drinks where I'm uninhibited enough to try out those new words I saw on Plus Belle, La Vie but not drunk enough where I forget how to say basic things like "I'm gonna set my alarm clock now" or "your friend just vomited under the table." In explaining this mental problem to him, he casually told me between sips of his drink "yeah, I notice you make particularly a lot of mistakes when it comes to tenses. And you often use a lot of expressions incorrectly. And it's true, when you're drunk you really can't speak French at all. It's actually hilarious." And I'm thinking... Wait. You're not supposed to whole-heartedly agree with me! I then found it even more difficult to speak with him -- it seemed that suddenly, he was speaking two times faster and my blood alcohol content had increased ten-fold, but without the fun side-effects. As if he had taken my ability to speak at all and crushed it under his thumb, the way you would a stray crumb on the table: absent-mindedly.
I experienced one other particularly soul-crushing situation, which left me feeling entirely helpless. After a long day at work, I was walking towards the metro when I was thinking about a few things I needed to pick up -- a light bulb to replace the one that broke, a new dishcloth, maybe some hooks to hang stuff. As I was pondering to myself, I noticed two people standing outside one of the many designer shops along this particular street. One was an older woman dressed sleekly in crisp off-white pants and matching slick blazer with light-brown high heels and bouncy blonde hair and she was standing next to a man who I can only assume was gay, dressed exactly as you would expect a French gay man to dress (that is, impeccably). As I walked towards them, I noticed they both give me the once-over -- admittedly, I was dressed quite plainly for such a chic street: a pencil skirt, flats, a cardigan: your basic plain-Jane getup. But as I passed them, I noticed their reflection in a window straight in front of me. I saw the man saying something to the woman, his eyes still on me, and after she turned to watch me walk away, they both put their heads back in loud ego-bruising laughter. Simultaneously my jaw and stomach hit the floor as I hurried behind the corner. Now feeling too self-conscious to get that new dishtowel, I rushed home to be sure that I didn't leave toilet paper treading out of my skirt or had traces of hangover on my face from the night before. Once home, I saw that there was nothing worthy of that mortifying laughter to be found and I still have no idea what made them laugh like that... But the fact that I lost the courage to even finish errands for the day is just pathetic... Isn't it?
A French stranger somehow harnesses the power to insult and injure my ego like no other random American has been able to do to me thus far in my life. And you know, sometimes I chicken out of doing even basic things, like going into a hair salon to ask about the prices or going into a pharmacy to get ibuprofen, simply because I get a nasty look from someone behind the register. Why must they make it so difficult?!
I think this is why, when I return to the US, I'm only too happy to talk to everyone and generally feel more at ease at home.
[Obligatory French-people-suck-sometimes-but-I'm-still-here-so-that-clearly-makes-me-some-sort-of-masochist comment]
xx
