zher kom-pron

The first time I ever recall touching the french language was in Mr. Thompson's Introductory French class in sixth grade.  Firmly believing that I would never use it, I immediately dropped it at the first chance I got [after the final exam, C+, thank you very much], and never considered learning it again.

Unfortunately.

I've learned, over the course of the last two and a half-ish months I've been here, that a) one does not come to Paris to learn French, and b) the best place to learn any language is at the dinner table, in a debate, and in bed.  I have the unfortunate news to report, however, that regardless of the French phrasebook I bought in Buenos Aires, my repertoire of sentences I can [somewhat] confidently say can only get me tickets to the metro, food in a restaurant, and a finger wagging in the direction I want to go...

... usually a highly offended and confused look from the person to whom I'm speaking.

Which, in my case, was enough to get by for two and a half months.

Dedicated with wonderful gratitude to my hosts, dance partners, and complete strangers who spoke with me, I present a list of the most interesting things I've learned to say in French, and their translations.

And, of course, the responses I've received when speaking them.

 -||-

Je m'appelle Joshua.  Je suis enchanté !  or  Enchanté !
My name is Joshua.  I am enchanted!  or  Enchanted!

Interestingly, this is not the first sentence [or second, third, fourth, etc] that I use upon meeting someone.  Maybe after the second or third meeting is when I finally get to introduce my name.  The enchanted part is in response to said stranger introducing themself.  And until then?  I attempt to explain [in English] what it is I am doing in Paris.

-||-

Je suis un étudiant pour le danse.

I am a student of dance.

Not EXACTLY my reason for being in Paris, but at its basic, basic, basic core...  Vaguely close enough.

 -||-

J'habite à Puteaux avec un ami.
I live in Puteaux with a friend.  Not to be confused with I live in dirty whore water with a friend.

Also not absolutely necessary information people need to know, but I like to attempt to impress the Parisians with what I know how to say.  Unfortunately, the only ones who ARE impressed are female and older than thirty-five.

 -||-
 

Je suis désolé, je ne parle pas français.  Parlez-vous anglais ?
I am sorry, I do not speak French.  Do you speak english?

My default phrase when a flurry of French words are thrown in my direction.  Although the person to whom I am speaking normally responds in English [or even Spanish], it's at this point Host 2 will appear out of no where and whisper in my ear, 'You've already said too much.'

-||-

Voulez-vous danser avec moi?
Would you like to dance with me?
 
Voulez-vous guider ?
Would you like to lead?
 
Je voudrais guider.
I would like to lead.

 

À gauche, à droite.
To the left, to the right.

Maintenant.
Now.

Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

Pardon !
Sorry!

The dance basics.  For either partner or solo dancing, these have gotten me incredibly far in all the classes I've taken.

-||-

Combien coûte une tablette de chocolat ?
How much is that chocolate bar?

I buy a lot of chocolate here.  A lot.

-||-

Je voudrais ... un vin rouge, un vin blanc, une carte, une baguette, un croissant, peroxyde d'hydrogène, etc.
I would like... red wine, white wine, metro tickets, a baguette, a croissant, hydrogen peroxide, etc.

Je cherche...
I am looking for... 

Being the demanding American I am, I've also gotten considerably good at stating what I want.

-||-

Merci !  Merci beaucoup !

Thank you!  Thank you very much!

Bonjour, bonsoir, bonne soirée, Bonne nuit.

Hello/Good day, good evening, good evening, good night.

However, being the gentlemanly son my parents raised me to be, I've also learned greetings and farewells.  Interestingly, I might not normally speak to things that can respond.  As a mnemonic device, I greet and say farewell to nouns [sheep, macaroons, Paris, stars, plate, cheeses, etc.] as I learn their translations.  Bonjour, mouton!  Bonsoir, fromage!

 -||-

Où est ...?
Where is...?

The problem with learning how to ask something in another language is that you REALLY have to understand the answer.  Unfortunately, whenever I ask for the nearest public toilet, the museum, a particular road, or even a monument, I receive a barrage of French words and a series of hand gestures that I can only assume to be French sign language.  So I simply nod and walk in the direction of their last hand gesture.  This, of course, only gets me more lost and late than I originally intended, but hey, at least I got directions in French.

-||-

C'est beaux/belle.

It is beautiful.

I once wanted to comment on the atmosphere, the ambience, the aura of the dance room I was in, and I thought that this was what one should say in French.  However, as a friend explained to me, 'Yes, that is how you say it.  But no one in Paris would ever say that, because we complain about everything.'

-||-

Je ne regrette rien.
I regret nothing.

La vie en rose.
Life in pink.

Quelqu'un m'a dit…
Someone told me... 

I once was asked by a Parisian to say everything I knew how to say in French, and these came out.  And with each one, he immediately knew to which song I was referring.  'Ah,' he would say, 'Like Edith Piaf,' or, 'Like Carla Bruni.'

-||-

Ah, l'été parisien, c'est romantique.

Ah, the Parisian summer is romantic.  

The same Parisian heard me say this, and responded accordingly:  'That eez, ah, like we say, ah, a cliché.'

-||-

Ah, c'est trop américain, ça.
Ah, it's too American.  

Host 2 noticed that I tend to shut my mouth and look in the other direction when in the presence of other loud Americans.  When I asked how to curse the Americans in French, this is what I got.

-||-

Ah, c'est une autre grosse américaine. 
Ah, it's another fat American.
I learned to say this only because I had crossed paths with a fairly petite American girl who complained LOUDLY at 5 in the afternoon: 'I AM SO HUNGRY I JUST WANT DINNER NOW.'  When I asked how to curse the Americans in response to her complaint, this was the translation I got.

-||-

Le fauteuil m'étend les bras.
The armchair reaches its arms out to me.
 

Possibly my favorite phrase, I wanted to learn how to say, 'I need to sit now,' but a dance partner said that this was the more Parisian thing to say.  Apparently.

-||-

Imagine me.  As she.

[le garçon]

Recap

The Boy achieved several accomplishments, acquired copious skills, and experienced many a happenstance since He had last written from the City of Lights.  Not that He had scheduled himself into a free-time-less existence; it was as if the Boy was hit with the sudden awareness that he had less

than two months.

His 'free time,' or the time spent outside of His project, had become a series of moments when He 

just

felt

liberated.

Out of guilt, the Boy would come down from the clouds - or the steps of a church, or from a particularly wobbly or lovelock-encrusted bridge, or a wine-included picnic - and realize that many family and friends around the world had no idea what He lived through.  Instead of attempting to write detailed pages upon pages of those adventures [later, in due time], He compiled a list of highlights recapping the past few weeks.

This was what He had done, in no particular order:

•  Navigate Paris.  Namely, above ground, and on a bike.  This involved learning to go in and out of roundabouts [particularly around the Arc du Triomphe], getting lost until 1:30 am and having to bike 25 kilometers/15.5 miles [after experiencing a brief ten minute panic attack], and being guaranteed at least 3 hours of rigorous exercise everyday.

 

Public bikes?  Genius program, Paris.

• Lived with two ballroom dancers from the Czech Republic.  These two were the youngest competitors at the same-sex dance competition, and they won third place in the advanced level for men's latin.  SUCH A PROUD ROOMMATE!

• Somewhat related, He also started to learn choreography taught by middle-aged men for the upcoming Pride Parade.  Yes, He would perform.  Excited maybe?
• Moved to Puteaux.  New host, new scene, and new lifestyle.  Interestingly, Host 2 cautioned how to pronounce the suburb, as the sounds making it may translate to "dirty water" or "dirty whore" in French.  Or, as Host 2 likes to translate, "dirty whore water."  Also located next to la Défense, the business district, or the place with a lot of glass buildings that reflect each other.

• Rid Himself of His only pair of jeans.  Sad.
• Continued Argentine tango classes.  Interestingly, one of His teachers from Buenos Aires would come next month...
• Further developed His culinary skills.  Between His two hosts, He learned to cook quiche lorraine, boeuf borguignon, rhubarb ice cream sauce, and crêpes.

 

• Roadtripped to Lille, where the macaroons and pastries were cheaper, the weather a bit colder, and everything much more country.

• Realized that Parisians aren't fantastic dressers [as is the popular belief], but are just incredibly comfortable and confident with what clothes they have.  It was all in the attitude in which they wore clothes, not the price tag that made the citizens so attractive.  Maybe.

• Got spat on by a Frenchman whilst driving through the suburbs of Paris.  He should have known something was wrong when the Frenchman opened the car door and started yelling, but He had only assumed it were typical mannerisms outside of the city.
• Wore shorts that rose above the knee.  Contrary to the style he had grown accustomed to in the 90s, the Boy's thighs had felt a new freedom never experienced before.
• Saw the rat trap shop from Ratatouille.

 

• Attended a house party in Bures-sur-Yvette, in which most of the attendees were either musicians or singers.  To compensate for His lack of either skill, the Boy whisked around a young 20-something singer in Argentine Tango.  Many older women sighed longingly.  'Twas also at this party where a wonderful french woman who bore a red-headed resemblance to Meryl Streep spoke to [and thus taught] Him only in French.
• Found places that reminded him of friends from long ago...

 

Tong!

 

Coco?

• Picnicked many times, either alone or with friends.  During the summer, the picnic culture skyrockets and everyone saves money from going out to restaurants by buying food from markets and eating them along rivers, canals, in parks, or just on benches.  Ah, romantique.
• Met with friends from a long time ago, from another lifetime.
• Had a Groucho Marx sighting in Notre Dame.

 [Terribly Late]

In Translation

A very special edition of wewillgotogether, in which I translate French using English, Spanish, and relatively poor etymology skills!

Seductive service?  Going down?

The most legendary road I've walked, "The Epic Road"

The Rich...  Richard?

Products of Terror Souvenirs!

Well bend me over, it's The Montmarte Butt Gallery!

The Grevin Museum, a fantastic cabinet and Palace of Mirages!

Moon Road.  And for those who can't read, a fun little picture of an alien and a ball to go with it.

Sweetie, could you pick up some venom, arsenic, and cyanide on the way back from work?

The Coffee Mix, where single Java, Mocha, and Espresso come to mingle.

Oh hey, Evan Bouche! 

The Crotch of Small Champions.

Cat in Hat Road!

Lingere Passage, or the Way of Underwears, or the Path of Unmentionables.

March of the Rogue Babies?!?!

Museum of Poop!

Can't travel without Voyage Biscuits...

The Epic Market of Terror?

[Webster]

Milonga

Beatriz - Betty, the host - reminisced while reciting names of milongas from memory.  "When I was your age, we would go out dancing until 6 in the morning, then eat a breakfast in the café, then go back home to shower and pack a picnic, and spend all day in the parque before going out again at night."  ||  "... park..."

"No dormiste?" I asked, shuddering at the thought of pulling an all-nighter [this was negatively associated with writing papers and studying for tests all night, a reinforcement of which I wanted to rid myself]. ||  "You didn't sleep?"

"No, no, no.  Not during the weekends.  We are people of the night."

At La Viruta, students of all ages learn/practice/play with tango, milonga, and even swing dance for six plus hours.  Few of the teachers speak English; the best way I've coped is to listen for key words ["vuelta!  uno, dos, re-gre-so" || "turn! one, two, I return"] and watch everything the teacher does.  Occasionally I'll meet an English/Spanish speaker, and she'll translate for me.

The first class started at eight pm; my legs had given out by two the following morning.  Unfortunately, I completely ignored the fact that all clubs in Argentina only begin at two am.  By the time I had left, many of the students were gone and all of the experienced dancers were only beginning to warm up.

Unlike many other dance halls I've seen [in the U.S.], the dance floor tiles are not bordered; there is no separation between the place where people dance, where people eat and drink, and where people talk.  Una milonga is one large dance floor upon which some tables for resting and eating happen to be placed.

In a world submerged in red, orange, green, and purple lights, you can't help but lose track of time.  And if you're dancing with other new students [from Sweden, from San Diego, from Michigan/Argentina], especially with those who are willing to attempt to do some of the fancier moves performed by the dancers more experienced than yourselves...  You could easily be there until dawn.  Monday morning.

I'm going to have to try do that soon.

[Soon To Be Person of the Night?]

Again

Almost as if his first few nights in India were replaying themselves, but in Spanish, the Boy found himself flustered, exhausted, and frustrated with the local language.  Finally arriving in Buenos Aires, he sat in the arrival terminal and waited to take a taxi to a [temporary?] host's home.

"Personaquedia...no,noyolastenia...hayunavieja...porqueotrotrabajo...nadiedelos...yoaveces...nosecuandoparahacer...muchisimoporgeneralpersonaje...entoncesnadatenemos...loquepasa...tantoparacasarme...bienvenitodemifamilia...acasolteranotequeras...yoteniaunafascinacioncon..."

Words so very familiar to him five years ago suddenly resurfaced in his memory and blurred together; as to what were their actual definitions...  That was going to take some time.

He wondered when his [temporary?] host would be home.  Not that it mattered - his watch still read Adelaide time.

"Lo siento..." he stammered, the flavor of six years of Spanish classes tasting stale, "sabes qué hora es?"  He watched as the woman sitting next to him picked her head up out of her hands.  She too looked physically exhausted, but she smiled.  ||  "I'm sorry... do you know what time it is?"

"Son las doce y media," she said, first glancing at her watch then looking over to The Boy's.  His fingers fumbled over the tiny buttons, first moving the hours ahead, then behind.  ||  "It is 12:30."

"No, no las dos, las doce." she emphasized.  The Boy half-laughed, and fixed the time accordingly.  ||  "No, it's not 2:00, it's 12:00."

"Lo siento..." he always was apologizing, "hace cinco años que practicaba el español."  ||  "I'm sorry...  It's been five years since I've practiced Spanish."

"Ah," she nodded, and placed a hand over The Boy's, "es bueno. ¿asdlkfqjwpeoincsdkjahsdlfajsfdh?"  ||  "Ah, that's okay. [something unintelligible in Spanish]?"

The sudden barrage of Spanish language hit him full force, and he frantically waved his hands in front of him.

"Perdóname, por favor,"  Now he wasn't sure if he was speaking Spanish or Italian, or the bastard child of both, "¿Puedes hablar más lentamente? Tengo problemas con... el... escuchar y comprender..."  He slapped himself on his forehead, embarrassed at how much he couldn't say.  ||  "Forgive me, please.  Can you speak more slowly?  I have problems with...  the... to listen and to understand."

The woman nodded, laughed.

If one were to walk past the benches in front of the McDonald's that afternoon from 12:30 to 2:30, they might have overheard the laughter from a woman and a seen boy speaking in broken Spanish, waggling his hands, and wringing his fingers through his hair.  Upon careful inspection, one might have noticed that plenty of things were being said and understood between the two.

"Tu español es bastante bueno.  Pero mi inglés, ¡ay!" she shook her head.  ||  "Your spanish is good enough. But my English, ay!"

"¿No hablas inglés?" The Boy asked.  He wondered why he hadn't asked this before.  ||  "You don't speak English?"

"Nada."  ||  "None at all."

He sighed.

"¿Qué esperas?" she asked.  ||  "What are you waiting for?"

"Espero... el tiempo correcto cuando mi... ¿host?  La mujer con quien voy a vivir llega a su casa."  ||  "I'm waiting for... the correct time when my... host?  The woman with whom I am going to live arrives at her house."

"Ah.  ¿No sabes si está en casa ahora?"  ||  "Ah.  You don't know if she is in her house now?"

"No... recibí un..." his fingers tapped the air in front of him.  ||  "No...  I received a..."

"¡Ah!  Un correo electrónico."  ||  "Ah!  An email."

"¡Si!" He exclaimed.  He didn't realize how much Spanish he had forgotten, or how much he would recognize.  "Recibí un correo electrónico de ella, y dice que no va en casa hasta las tres o cuatro de la tarde."  ||  "Yes!  I received an email from her, and it said that she's not going to be in her house until three or four in the afternoon."

"¿Porqué no la llamas ahora?"  ||  "Why don't you call her now?"

"No tengo un teléfono cellular."  ||  "I don't have a cell phone."

"Vamos.  La llamamos."  She said, pulling out her coin purse.  ||  "Let's go.  Let's call her."

"Oh.  Lo siento.  Me llamo Joshua." The Boy offered his hand and he put his backpack onto the trolley.  ||  "Oh.  Sorry.  My name is Joshua."

"Me llamo Rocio."  ||  "My name is Rocio."

She placed some coins into the coin slot, pushed the button to release them into the machine, and dialed the number in The Boy's notebook.  He watched as she held the phone to her ear, and as her eyes lit up when a voice came on the other line.  A countdown timer read 1:00 on the payphone.

"¿Hola?  ¿Betty?  Me llamo Rocio, estoy aquí con un estudiante... asldfkjqwpeoifajsdlfkahsdkfjqncasdaldkfajefuiandfaksfhkalshfasfkbdkadjfhalalksdjhfasldkfjhqweiounacsxkf."  More words were said that he couldn't follow.  "¡Ah!  Pues, debes hablar con Joshua..."  Rocio shoved the phone into The Boy's face as the timer read 0:05.  ||  "Hello?  Betty?  My name is Rocio, I am here with a student...  [something unintelligible in Spanish].  Ah!  Well, you should speak with Joshua..."

"¿Hola?  ¿Betty?  Me llamo Joshua.  ¡Adios!"  The call ended, and Rocio laughed.  ||  "Hello?  Betty?  My name is Joshua.  Bye!"

"Puedes ir a su casa ahora."  ||  "You can go to her house now."

Rocio and The Boy exchanged email addresses, and planned on finding each other on Facebook.

"Eres muy interesante." She said, narrowing her eyes and looking him up and down, just before leaving to catch her flight to Peru.  As he began to say his goodbye to this utterly random woman who had helped him contact his host, Rocio pulled him into an embrace and kissed both cheeks.  He turned away, and went to catch a taxi into Buenos Aires.  ||  "You're very interesting."

This was going to be fun.


[interesante]