I have dedicated my meager mental energies to learning some French. I am planning on taking a month of classes. But I am getting so that I can mostly understand what people say to me in shops (or at least the main ideas) and can for the most part can ask for what I need (or don’t really need in the case of evil little pastries, but certainly want). I even went and got a hair cut a few days ago and could follow the elaborate story the somewhat flamboyant hairdresser told about his recent trip to Cuba.
I had a very nice dinner a few nights ago with a friend of a friend (Roxanne) and her friend (Elishéva). Two very nice women and a very nice evening. It is odd, over the first month here, I felt like my French was improving very fast and I was actually making progress, but in the past few days I think I am regressing. I think a good deal of my problem is my atrocious accent. I can be saying the correct word but no one has any idea what I am actually saying. With Roxanne, at one point I was describing something about the church of Ste Marie Madeleine and Roxanne had no idea what I was talking about. I apparently could not say the word "Madeleine" close enough to a French accent for her to understand. She also could not understand when I said "Marie Antoinette" (even though when she finally understood and said it in 'French', it didn't sound all that different to me - it was a bit surreal "Who?" "Marie Antoinette." "Who is that?" "Marie Antoinette, she was the queen." "The queen of what?" "Of France." "Who?" "Marie Antoinette. She was the wife of Louis XVI." "Oh, you mean Marie Antoinette!"). I must sound like the most awful and boorish American imaginable. Probably best to just keep my mouth shut most of the time, as I have little or no aptitude for foreign languages.
Another evening, I attended a dinner party with Roxanne at the apartment of one Delphine (mid twenties, student, from Reunion Island – who knew there were actually people from Reunion Island out there?). And it was indeed me and eight other francophone. Of the eight, four spoke ok English, two spoke rudimentary English, and two none at all. Rozanne made a point of telling every one that I was learning French and that everyone should speak French to give me practice. So speak French they did. There were about three different conversations going on at all time, fast and full of slang. I could follow what was being said about 50% of the time, sometimes more, but never enough to actually join in any of the conversations. Every so often, someone would stop to ask me if I was understanding, and then they jumped back into the conversational torrent. It was lots of fun.
It is much much easier speaking with non-native speakers, and it is partly that one does not worry about mistakes as much, but it is also that the non-native speakers speak much more slowly. That helps a lot.
I really do think that at some point confidence in one’s language abilities is more important that actual knowledge. If one is willing to just say “what the hell” and jump in there, not worrying about mistakes and willing to keep trying, that will yield better communication. As I have noticed when I am hesitant, even when I know the words I am saying are correct, I often times say them quietly or mumbled, so I am not really understood. I need to just say them, damn the consequences. I think this is an attitude that helps one get many of life’s rewards – too bad I cannot adopt it full time.
Oh, I forgot, I went for another hair cut. This time to a very traditional looking barber shop on the rue du Four. Cute looking place with an old guy inside. I was able to get through the whole cut without him realizing I didn’t speak much French. I faked it well I guess … he chatted away about the World Cup and I grunted at the appropriate places.
He actually did the whole hair cut with just a straight razor, sort of scary … and the end result is … well … not good. When I got home, I realized that he made the top really short and hide the fact by combing over longer hair from the side. Very weird. I might have to go get another cut to fix it, but that would entail a very short cut indeed. I guess the barber was a bit too old (or he was wondering why I was insisting, in really bad French, on this awful cut).
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