The language thing gets complicated. It seems, for one thing, that most people whose first language is neither English nor French prefer to speak in English (except for our gardienne, a Serbian woman who speaks great French and not a single word of English). You can’t just switch to English, though, just because someone’s French has some random accent to it, so it’s always a bit of a dance.
A few weeks ago, Jolie and I were running near the Eiffel Tower when a man changed course to ask directions. He was looking for the Branly Museum (although he couldn’t remember the name) in quite good French. I know my own accent, though, and after his lengthy description of the architect, the museum concept, and his approximate idea of the location, I replied with, “Yes, but might it not be easier to do this in English?”
Honestly, I think that I expected him to be relieved–I certainly was not prepared for him to look at me like I had just beaten him with a sack of euro coins. “Mais non!” he tried gamely, then gave a sad chuckle and began his speech over again in his obviously native English.
I wish now that I had thought to compliment his French. Hell, I wish that I had just responded in French. I like to think that sooner or later he will remember that I cut him off from repeating himself, and answered the question that he had already asked perfectly well, but moments like that are why Kristina and I stood chatting awkwardly about dogs for a full five minutes before she burst out with, “Look; are you an English-speaker?” She herself is Slovakian, but moved here last fall after five years in London. You know, I’m suddenly at the bottom of the heap, language-wise, and I don’t really like it.
Speaking of which: we’ve been saying “Bonjour” for months now to the Japanese couple living below us. And when the woman caught me trying to drag Jolie back into the building, she remarked in French that the puppy wanted to stay outside. Therefore, when we caught up with her on the stairs, I explained (“She loves stairs, though“) in French. Imagine my surprise, then, when Jolie took a break from cuddling with her to try to slip back into her apartment (she doesn’t always seem to understand that the two doors, identical and one floor apart, don’t go to the same place), and the woman burst out with “But you don’t live here, silly puppy!” So three languages at least for her, too. And what a waste of all those “Bonjour“‘s.
I’ve been curious for a while, now, though, about what the “American” accent sounds like to the French. I mean, we have all these stereotypes of European accents; is ours sexy? Funny? Sophisticated? Sloppy? What? I’ve never had an accent before; I’m from Connecticut. We speak the English that national newscasters and commercial announcers speak. Everyone agrees that, when it comes to accents, I simply have none.
“Are you–you don’t sound–wait, are you English?” our vet asked after Jolie’s last check-up. He teaches me quaint French expressions, and I try to help out with some of his odder questions about English…although I can’t bring myself to tell him that his vaccines provide Jolie with “antibodies,” not “anticorpses.” It’s just too cute. After I verified that I was, in fact, American, he did his imitation of a twangy Texan drawl to illustrate how I don’t speak. “I can’t tell you apart from the English,” he said. “Do you just not have an American accent?”
Damnit.