French lessons
Oscar Humphries learns the hard way For some time I’ve wanted to learn French so that next time I get ripped off at the Paris flea market I’ll be able to go down with a fight. I’m realistic and know I’ll never read Colette in the original but I’d like to be able to say ‘with your bad price you are hurting me’ to Parisian dealers. I’d hoped that learning the language would allow me to take advantage of everything wonderful France has to offer — without getting taken advantage of by the French. At the moment I can string words together — just. ‘Water, large, please’ said very slowly in what I’ve been told is a Swiss accent is about the extent of my café chat. I can say ‘Toilet?’ Which prompts waiters to say to me what I think means ‘What about the toilet, English fool?’ I speak like a baby. Baby talk is cute from a child but slightly sinister from an adult.
I opted to learn German at school. A mistake that saw me sharing a candle-lit supper with a devout Catholic family in deepest darkest Austria on an ‘exchange’ trip. There never was an exchange as the family got stroppy when I didn’t convert. They refused to let young Hans stay with me. I’ve regretted not learning French ever since. My inability to do more than satisfy my greed — asking for cigarettes and food — is embarrassing. I can also ask someone where they live, which is more creepy than impressive. It is the most glaring and public affirmation of my almost total ignorance. No one knows I’m bad at maths but meet me in Provence and you’ll soon discover this gap in my education.
I resolved to get to pre cocious toddler level before the summer. Never again would I be lost for words. I used to like getting drunk in France. That uniquely Parisian look that says ‘I hate you’ has little meaning to an intoxicated person. If I’d spoken the language, my trips might have been different. When the hotel manageress knocked on my door to tell me that my ‘holiday was over’ I was dumbstruck. With a little French I could have done more than press euros into her hand while attempting to mime — half naked — that I was sorry and that I would clean the cheese off the wall just as soon as she left. ‘Cheese goodbye!!! Me wash!!’ is a cry I never want to repeat. How to learn was the question. Getting a French girlfriend was an option but one that was repellent to both my fiancée Sara and, I think, the entire female population of France. I was convinced that a book or CD wouldn’t work. I needed serious help and a CD would have ended up at the bottom of a drawer next to my Stop Smoking books. I wanted one-to-one tutoring. The big language schools offer these but they seemed very expensive. internet. ‘Craig’s List’ is a website where you can find everything from mattresses to escorts. It was on this website that I found Jacques. He sounded perfect. He’d studied Art History at the Sorbonne — a school I’d heard of. I thought he sounded posh and, as I didn’t want to end up talking like a French Cilla Black, I emailed him. He even lived in Pimlico.
DAv MoNTGoMERY Our first meeting was a disaster. I’d grossly exaggerated my proficiency and within minutes it became clear that teaching me French would be like trying to teach a monkey how to dance in the style of Nureyev. I soon got confused. In what appears to be typical of the political incorrectness so prevalent on the Continent, French words have sexes — news to me. Some of them are male, others female, and others appear to be — I’m fuzzy on this point — neuter. I had to trust him. I trusted that Jacques was teaching me how to say ‘That’s too expensive’ or ‘Was this animal stuffed before 1920?’ For all I know he might have been teaching me how to say, ‘I was a woman until 1920. Hurt me.’ He seemed nice enough and he was patient. His accent didn’t have that phlegmy rasp I’ve heard in the Métro. We met up a couple of times. Each time I left I would promise to do my homework and always fail. Leaving his flat, I would run into someone in the hall and explain that I’d been there for French lessons. His neighbours would nod politely. Jacques and I grew apart. The process was taking too long and we both realised — at the same time — that we both had better things to be doing with our time. My last email wasn’t returned. C’est la vie. There will be no witty banter in Parisian cafés for me. I will continue to get taken advantage of by taxi drivers and artdeco mirror salesmen without being able to offer a word of resistance or reproach except perhaps, ‘I know where is the place that you live. Me knows this.’
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