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2023

Abstract

she wanted to express how inadequate she thought <i>I</i> was? Hmmm (tapping chin, and looking at the ceiling).</p><p id="8ea3">I swept out of her office without a goodbye, which she deserved. I passed a tall, thin young black woman cheerfully conversing with the bank teller. “Go on in,” said the bank teller, gesturing towards the sorry Karen with the stank attitude.</p><p id="e955">The tall young black woman happily bounded over to Karen’s lair. I wanted to say to her, “Be careful, there’s a hungry Karen over there,” but I didn’t and I went on my way.</p><p id="8d12">After meeting up with my friend in the warm enough New England afternoon, rubbing our hands over the flame heaters outside the cafe, I decided to stop by the independent computer repair shop. The bell clanged against the door, alerting my presence, and the man I recognized from before Christmas when I had brought my computer stood at his station.</p><p id="1395">But why, in good God’s name, did it smell like poop in that place? It hadn’t ever smelt like that before. I looked around. Was there a bathroom somewhere? I peered around. No. Just a smaller office and a supply closet. I mean, I was wearing a mask, so the smell must have been BAD. Had a disgruntled customer recently come in and taken a revenge dump on the carpet and marched out? I wanted to make some odor-related remark, but I didn’t really know what to say. In fact, I pictured someone else coming in behind me, thinking, “Did this lady blow up the indie computer repair store?”</p><p id="2696">I was wrongly implicated in this way in graduate school. I went into a single stall bathroom and the toilet bowl was flooded with diarrhea leftovers. Sorry, I don’t know how else to say it. I couldn’t stomach using the sight, so I turned heel and edged my way past the person waiting to come in. The door closed behind her, and one second later, it opened and she ran out with a disgusted look on her face. I wanted to rush up to her and say, “It wasn’t me, I swear!” “Tell her it wa

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sn’t you!” My friends urged me, but I felt too foolish.</p><p id="0a64">I‘m sure the computer guy knew the source of the stench, or at least, knew it wasn’t me, so I pleasantly explained my computer problem to Chris or Bob or Dan or somesuch. My stomach begged me to get out of there as fast as possible. ChrisBobDan was one of those guys whose statements continually failed to indicate the end of a conversation, like, “Ok……. so I’ll order the part and email you……” He didn’t look up and kept typing away. “So, we’re done?” I breathed anxiously. “Yeahhhh….” he drawled in an insecure, noncommittal tone, still jabbing at the keyboard. I dashed out of there into the fresh afternoon air.</p><p id="bea3">Thanks for reading,</p><p id="d01a">~MJ</p><div id="a264" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/karen-i-prefer-boa-constrictor-1eee10b46222"> <div> <div> <h2>Karen? I Prefer Boa Constrictor</h2> <div><h3>This insidious kind of Karen kills you with fake niceness.</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*6N8Y_d01iS-4s4NJb3F-Xg.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="9698" class="link-block"> <a href="https://mjadia.medium.com/i-cheered-when-they-came-for-amy-coopers-dog-38ee2da484"> <div> <div> <h2>I Cheered When They Came for Amy Cooper’s Dog</h2> <div><h3>She deserved it. But maybe call-ins are better than canceling and call-outs</h3></div> <div><p>mjadia.medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*ECc8nVelcIbK72LNtf_OeQ.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

LIVING IN FRANCE

French Village Life Can Be Quaint & Charming, But Learning the Language of Moliere Can Make Your Brain Hurt

Some Days, All You Want Is a Bit of English Conversation

Nice fruit and veg, but he wasn’t impressed by my efforts to speak the language of Moliere. (Photo owned by author)

Once the excitement of moving to a new country begins to wear off . . . and it eventually does, the reality of living abroad sets in.

First off, the language.

Back in the States, I’d found it difficult to explain to garage mechanics what was wrong with my car — this proved to be a mere warmup exercise for explaining, in French, to a mechanic who spoke no English, that after my car was towed from a ditch — I’d backed up too far — it started making this funny little noise and maybe it’s . . .

I swear I heard him snigger as I walked away. A sound that needed no translation.

Next stop, the pharmacy where I struggled to understand what I was being told about using the prescribed eye drops, then more confusion at the post office and on to Intermarche where I smiled inanely (my default behaviour when I don’t understand) at a chatty woman in line who seemed to expect an answer to whatever it was she’d just said, then another smile for the check out girl.

And so it goes. Just a typical day, but exhausting and demoralizing.

Days like that hurt my brain. It balks, refuses to dwell any longer on whether a word is masculine or feminine. It no longer cares.

Neither does it want to consider why vagina is a masculine noun. And penis? Please, just stop.

What my brain needs after a trying day with the language of Moliere, what I need, what I’m desperate for, is a conversation in English. I need reassurance that I really am articulate and intelligent (most of the time) and able to string more than three sentences together.

I want to understand and be understood. To feel the joy of correctly pronouncing a word with more than two syllables.

I need to hang out with the ex-pat crowd. To laugh and joke with fellow Brits and Americans. To slip into the warm, soothing bath of familiar words.

Photo by CRYSTALWEED cannabis on Unsplash

But while the ongoing struggle with French is exhausting, it’s also part of the reason I came to France — not the struggle, I naively imagined I’d be parler français in no time flat. And as much as I enjoy drinking wine with my friend Sandra from Scotland and moaning about the indignities of old age and whether alcohol shrinks your pre-frontal cortex (please don’t tell me it does,) I’m aware that this wasn’t exactly the sort of French experience I’d imagined back in the States.

What I had imagined then was French village life as I experience it now with French friends and neighbours, invitations to family gatherings and a sense of being part of a community. Fortunately for me, much of this came about because I happened to meet Hélène, a dynamic and gregarious force of nature who, to do her justice, needs an entire post . . . which I will write one day.

I’d been reading notices on the village bulletin board and we started talking — her in halting English and me . . . well, doing my Moliere thing. She’d noticed my shoes, she told me later, and guessed that I liked to walk. She did too.

That was four years and many walks and conversations ago. Through Hélène I’ve met other French people in the village and when my daughter and her husband visited last month they got a first-hand look at French village life and, I hope, now know exactly why I’m so happy living here.

Hélène grew up in the village, likes to walk and knows a lot of people — Marie-France, Marie-Paul, Marie-Claire, Marie-Victoire and Marie-Baguette. Just joking about the last one. She also knows a few people whose names don’t start with Marie. (Photo owned by author)

With Hélène and friends at the village vide grenier — the French version of a swapmeet. (Photo owned by author)

So to anyone contemplating a move to France, or any foreign country — if you don’t speak the language, keep trying. And trying, even when your brain rebels. While ex-pat communities are familiar and comfortable and a good way to make friends, don’t pass up the opportunity to fully embrace your new country — or you might shortchange your experience.

Below, the second story I wrote after joining Medium — I’d met Hélène for one of our walks around the village.

LIVING IN FRANCE: I needed motivation to write. Could I just capture the small moments in my day?

I tried, but it wasn’t easy

janicemacdonald.medium.com

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