I’ve been to Paris twice. Which is an accomplishment in itself for an American, even if it is one of the most popular destinations for Americans. The first time I went, I was twelve and thought the moment I stepped off the plane I’d be granted magical powers that sparkle and have their own soundtrack. Obviously, this didn’t happen. I sadly held it against the city until I left and suddenly realized that the only emotion I felt when I was in the city was contempt, which I felt incredibly guilty over, since it wasn’t Paris’s fault it wasn’t Narnia. And so I spent a lot of my time once I returned thinking about why I thought it was so terrible. I concluded that it was mainly because I didn’t have anyone my age to enjoy it with - all I had was my mother and her boyfriend of six months. That sounded bad. Let me rephrase that. In reality, I consider my mother to be my best friend and that boyfriend ended up being a father figure that I still spend time with today even though they are no longer together.
I talked to my mother about my high school graduation present, even though I was still in middle school, and had decided that I wanted to go to Paris again when I was older, with my brother or a friend. It was one those loosely defined family vacations that you save up money so that you can go in the vague future. We already had decided on a family vacation before this, when we were living in Florida and the choice was between Australia and Kenya. I weighed in the deciding vote at the age of seven after having seen sugar gliders in a pet store, and Australia was written up as the destination of the next big loosely defined family vacation. So when I made my plea to my mother for Paris, I knew full well, that we would not go again until after Australia.
Time passed and my mom and I found ourselves in Singapore, deciding that since we were in the same time zone as Australia, we’d fly out my brother and take the loosely defined family vacation. I was fourteen at the time and started high school in the fall. I had begun to learn French when I was living in Singapore knowing that I’d eventually go back to Paris and I’d actually be able to converse with the people there. I took French every year in high school, with the last year being French history taught in French. I loved it but as my senior year came to a close, we began to think of other destinations. Because we loved it so much in Singapore, my mother had asked if we should go there, instead of Paris, but after 4 ½ years of French, I wanted to try speaking it in a real life situation.
While my brother’s first experience of a foreign country was Singapore, mine was Paris (years earlier than his, even though he is older). This was due to the fact that my brother was living with my father at the time. I’m pretty sure he held it against me, and when he got wind of the fact that I was going again for my graduation present, he jokingly said something along the lines, “You’re going again as a Graduation present? I mean I haven’t even been there once.”
To which I replied, “I don’t understand why you’re so upset. You’re going too.” He looked surprised, since he obviously hadn’t gotten wind of the entire plan.
This time when the plane arrived, I was overly confident in my ability to speak French. I was supposed to be the translator and my family expected me to translate every French word. I only understood some of what was said and what I did understand was so basic that I thought my mother would already know what it meant, since she had lived in France a few summers and picked up some French there, and so I didn’t bother. My brother and mother thought I was a failure as a translator, it also didn’t help that I’m shy and even shier when it comes to speaking another language to strangers who are native of that language. Honestly speaking, I do believe I would’ve been better with people speaking slower, or if I’d spent longer there so that my brain could adapt to the French being spoken.
A few instances of my French screw-ups are:
· When locked between the gate to the apartment and the door to the street, a woman was saying “gouche,” which means “left,” to tell my mom which button to press since she was blindly stabbing buttons near the door – I didn’t translate at first since I thought she knew.
· I kept mispronouncing “sucre” (sugar) which was pointed out with a laugh.
· I told the baker I wanted an “E-clair,” pronouncing it the English way, and was asked if I wanted an éclair (“eu-claire”).
The Parisians understand most Americans don’t know anything and I desperately wanted to apologize for every small mistake I made, but after a while, I gave up because it seemed like I did everything wrong. And although I enjoyed Paris a lot more this time around, even coming to the realization that I could live there, I felt embarrassed to speak French, almost vowing never to speak French again. I know that after a year of not having any French, I miss it, and I want to know it better, so screw-ups don’t happen and that I can translate every word that is spoken to me, as well as read French authors in their actual words rather than through translation. It’s been a nice break to an all-English education, but I need French. It’s become a part of me every since I stepped off the plane expecting Narnia and a complimentary soundtrack.
