Someone Else is Living Your Parisian Dream

“Tu dois pas me laisse tout seule comme ca,” Max called from the balcony, where he was concentrating on eating his popsicle.   The words were a bit like white noise in my head as I read, and didn’t register. My husband laughed and asked whether I’d heard that.”You shouldn’t leave me alone out here like this,” he said.  My husband and I had retreated to the living room - the other side of the glass door and less than 5 feet away - leaving him on the chair, to finish his treat.  As his parents, everything that he says is amazing to us, not because his statements are so profound, but because of their timing and context. Because in addition to really speaking and forming his own sentences, he lifts exact sentences that he’s heard from us in the past, manipulates them a little and regurgitates them in context.  I’ve told him countless times, “(I need to bathe Léo and) I can’t leave you out here alone like this.”Listening to Max’s progress has been surreal, if that’s possible. He began speaking fairly early  first in english and, shortly after, added french to his repertoire when his grandfather began to spend time with him on a regular basis. From english words in a food context… MORE, APPLE, NANANA (or banana), his french influence emerged in the form of Frenglish words or maybe just one: Ap-pomme.  As his only constant English speaking source - it’s on the rare occasion that he hears any english since we don’t watch much TV - I was concerned that his English wouldn’t be up to par; that it would be broken, accented or that he would prefer to speak in French, with me included; the usual behavior when your exposure to a ‘minority’ language is scarce. That he speaks english 100% of the time with me (to date), lends some reassurance that we’ll maintain our ‘connection.’  That things won’t be left unsaid as he grows older, to the extent that he’s willing to communicate with me, when those times come.  That our primary languages will be on par; that we will have the means to communicate and express to one another.While there is a clear preference for French - he speaks to strangers, other children at the park, family and friends in French, even when he initiates - he knows to speak to me directly or indirectly in English.  While he’s speaking with my husband in French, when I ask what they’re talking about, he tells me in full sentences. In English. With Anglophones, I might tell him to speak to them in English, adding,  ”the way you speak with Mama.”  I’m not sure that he understands the true concept of speaking two languages, though it’s clear to us that he’s aware of speaking differently with me. The mechanics of bilingualism - or the non-mechanics as it seems to be in multilinguals that are born into it - is nothing short of fascinating and amazing. And I say non-mechanic because it comes naturally; it’s not a skill that’s honed consciously. My mom once wrote to me (in a not so nice way) that as soon as I began to speak, I was arguing, protesting and questioning.  Max is no different, as tells us what he wants and doesn’t want.   Je ne veux pas manger! Je ne veux pas dormir! Je’n suis pas fatiguer! Je veus jouet avec…. Je veux sortir! I don’t want to eat! I don’t want to sleep! I’m not tired! I want to play ball….balloon…bubbles….I want to go out! I want to ride my bicycle! I want cookies. I don’t like rice. Screeeech.Pull the needle off the record. Whoa. What? You don’t like rice?   My writing in French is horrible, but you all get my drift.  In any other context, to expect full bilingualism from a child may seem a bit monster-mom’ish.  In our context, it’s important, as we’re a multicultural family. To add a personal spin to this, one of my prominent fears is an inability to communicate effectively with my boys as they get older.As Max’s only input in English, we’re experiencing progress beyond our expectations, since bilingual infants are expected to speak later than ‘normal.’  As Léo will have a very influential French input in Max, I can’t help but to wonder how his linguistic path will differ.     

And I tried to explain it in my simple French, but I lost because my French is too simple. I don’t have the cultural or lingual tricks down to nicely say, “No thank you; I’ve already made up my mind after much research.”

I’ve done much research through product comparison, reading reviews, and intense stroller ogling on the streets. So intense that I’m certain parents everywhere were concerned that I was sizing up their well-dressed children’s Burberry coat and knicker ensembles, wondering whether it fit my own child one day. Don’t worry, people. I would never steal a Burberry off of your child’s back. Not when I’ve got 300 light blue onesies from Target sitting in 3 different suitcases. I’m looking to steal your MacLaren. /p> I eyeball strollers everywhere and have noted that consistent with my research, there are many MacLarens rolling the streets of Paris. I’m a bit bummed that I got something “better” according to my benefactors. Mine is more expensive than yours. And I’m upset.

This was the second conversation that I’d attempted to have with relatives who think that they may know better. The first conversation was a success. To my relief, I didn’t receive a travel system at my San Francisco baby shower - but I didn’t receive the MacLaren stroller that was on my list either. My family bought me nearly everything and then some that was small and packable, but it didn’t make sense to carry a stroller across the world. Prior to not receiving it though, I was questioned about my decision on this particular brand because it isn’t what ‘other people seem to have’….the mini-van driving population of the suburbs. People have bulky, heavy travel systems. Much like the one that I am to receive as a gift, here in Paris.

I carefully selected the MacLaren Techno XT because they are said to be to be easily maneuverable - with one hand (and I confirmed this with a test drive through the store). This is a useful function in Paris’ dense crowds and small streets. It will also be useful to navigate around dog poop. In addition, it’s a light stroller and there are many, many stairs in apartment buildings and the metro stations. I dread standing around, examining the face and body language of each hurried passerby for assistance in carrying the stroller and it’s bassinet up and down stairs. Aimee pointed out another issue, which is that a travel system won’t fit into the elevator of her building - or many others. Another great point - The MacLaren easy to open and close, reportedly. And last but not least, My Husband is tall. The handles of the MacLaren are ergonomic and comfortable for tall people.

Instead, I am receiving a brand new Peg Perego travel system - I can’t remember which one, but I do recall that it was expensive. And big. It is perfect…for a suburban mom. Large, heavy, comes with a bassinet which I can remove when the baby is sleeping or when we hang out at friend’s houses (rarely), comes with a car seat base (I’m rarely in a car, and we switch cars very regularly). But for the 95% of times when I’m running errands or on public transportation, how will I get around the city with this huge contraption?

Advice? Email it to me, but please keep in mind that I cannot hurt my benefactor’s feelings - they have been extremely generous and with only the very best intentions.

My Husband and I often have a very short conversation that goes like this, when I see large blocks of words in French.

“I can’t read it. You look at it and tell me.”

“You can read it.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

And then he ignores me, I don’t get my synopsis, and my brain immediately moves on to admire the plants out on the balcony. Tough love? ADD?

The truth is, I’ve been able to read a little bit for quite a while, but my brain struggles to relieve itself of the duty. Each time I send threatening waves that hint at, “We’re about to try to read French….” it rolls over and instead, occupies itself with the all the fun apartment cleaning that could be achieved in half the time that it takes to read one page.

As I’ve mentioned in old posts, I’ve read/comprehended well enough to understand basics for quite some time, including movie subtitles, particularly when they are foreign movies. When the verbal language of the movie is not French, English or Chinese, but a language altogether different than that which I recognize, I almost understand the entire written dialogue. The reason for this is that if I understand/recognize the spoken language, my ears take over. Korean movies, or the many parts of Babel that were not in English but Japanese or Arabic for example, I follow by reading.

I finally ‘fessed up to myself this evening as I looked for pictures of the hotel at which my belle-doche and her sister will stay. I looked for pictures because, initially, it didn’t occur to me that I should try reading the text. I clicked on the “Amenities” link, and found no pictures. In looking for buzz words that I may recognize, I found myself reading and understanding the majority of it, with the exception of a few words, which is normal.

I’m one of the annoying people who end your sentence in my mind as you speak, and begin forming my response before you’ve finished speaking. Likewise, I read quickly in English. In learning a new language that I am unable to feel, I lose the ability to think ahead and all forms of communication slow to a molasses drip. My inability to read quickly and skim pages agitates my impatience and I become distracted. Therefore, to simply say, “I can’t read it” is my escape from the inevitable laboring and internal struggle between an adult and a small child who is just learning to read.

So now that I’ve acknowledged my real problem (laziness) publicly, I resolve to spend my third trimester by getting in the habit of reading, in French, more efficiently.

The moral of this story: Find someone who doesn’t ignore me when I want to be read to.

I received a call at the apartment on the day following my return to Paris. Normally, I let the phone go to voicemail, but I absentmindedly picked it up this time with a short, habitual, American “Hullo?” as if I was still back in SF and expecting calls from friends. My brain, still exclusively in English speaking mode, registered only a few words of what she said and I missed several sentences. After a few, “comment?” and “ummm…..je n’entend pas…” I heard her ask whether I was in the street. I promptly identified my way out of a long and painful telephone conversation where I wouldn’t be able to hold up my end, responding, “Ummm….Oui” as I half laid across the couch at home. “Je vous rappelez a plus tard, d’accord?” French, phone-frustrated and jetlagged, I didn’t reach very far back into my brain to spit out a direct and not-so-correct translation from the English answer of “Yes. I’ll call you back later, k?” I’m certain that my mother-in-law was horrified by my rudeness on the opposite end of the connection. In the same way that almost everyone around us will be forbidden to speak English to our child (accent), I am imposing upon myself a ban on speaking French to him for fear of tainting his speech with my own unending list of issues with the French language.

* * * * * *

I’ve lived in France for 1 year and 7 days now. I’ve written that when I moved here, I knew 20 words of French. That’s no exaggeration. In the first few weeks (or even months?) after I arrived, when I was asked, “Comment ca va?” by anyone, I wasn’t sure how to answer on a dime. A simple “Oui” was standard. Thus, my conversations began and ended very abruptly like this, if translated in English:

Someone Else: “How is it going?”
Me: (emphatically) “Yes!!!!”

Non-French speakers probably knew better than I did as I simply paid no attention to French or European anythings. Ever. In. My. Entire. Life. I did, however, think that the whole Freedom Fries thing was d-u-m-b.

Truthfully, I’d taken an after-work course at Alliance Francaise in San Francisco prior to the move, but learned little as the sessions began with conversation. Conversations that I didn’t know how to have in a fully French speaking environment. With no prior exposure to European languages, I was in a daze. I did learn my numbers pretty well up to 10 though, and pretty painfully up to 20. Those basically made up the twenty words I knew. Also, I brought with me, “Je cherche un pantalons avec payettes.” I’m looking for pants with sparkles. I taught myself that phrase one day in class when we were fooling around.

In those ‘early’ days when I first arrived, I watched silently like an angered beast with her tongue cut off as a woman try to cut me in line at Truffaut. I stood, trying to figure out whether to call her out in English, or let it happen. Luckily, the man in front of me told her to get to the back of the line behind another 5 people; that I was next after him. She acted like she had no idea that a line was forming. Later at a different time, I was yelled at by an old woman with a rat’s nest piled on top of her head while conversing with another American at the immigration office. Because we were speaking, and she couldn’t concentrate as she rifled through her filing cabinet for our cartes de sejour. I was sneered at by the woman at the bank (but my French husband was also) later still, and basically, my frame of mind was that I was being pushed around in general. It feels like that when people are generally not friendly, and you have no idea what’s going on around you. There’s little sense of friendliness without a purpose in Paris; little sentiments of ‘passing it (random acts of kindness) forward’.

It brings you to toy with the thought of going home and resuming your perfectly wonderful former adult life, with your own set of people, within your own profession and world, and most importantly within your own culture and language. The last two are ties that usually bind all of the other aspects of a day to day life.

This morning, a little more than one year later, I found myself sitting across the table from a gentleman and telling him (in English), “If you have an extra copy of that, I’ll just take it in French. I read pretty decently.” and I followed our discussion like that, translating slowly word for word in my head as I read the short document. The French words he did speak, I understood. One year ago, this would’ve all been Chinese Arabic. It also helped that he was a fluent English speaker, with a barely detectable accent and filled in the holes for me.

One year ago, I couldn’t tell if a day time call was a telemarketer because I couldn’t understand them. Now, I tell them that I’m not home and ask them whether 1. They speak English, and if no, then, “Ah. Je suis desolee. Je ne comprend pas Francaise bien. Bon Journeeeee.” Click. or 2. Can call for me on the weekend or after 9pm when I am home?

One year ago, I couldn’t make my own doctors appointments in French and today, I muddle through it ok.

One year ago, I didn’t know how much I needed to pay out at the grocers (always over 10 euro, so that was trouble…), and basically always paid with a big bill waiting for whatever change they gave me. Now I know how to count my change. My wallet was always loaded down in those days.

One year ago, I was a deer in headlights, not understanding when someone was deliberately trying to 1. Cut me in line 2. Push past me to get on the metro. I couldn’t respond to these tactics either physically or verbally because I couldn’t decide whether they were rude, or just rude to me. Today, I realize that it’s merely everyone for themselves. Rude or not, it’s cultural. Recently though, I pointed out to a guy that he was in the other line before he jumped to the counter in my line to cut me off (I was at McDonald’s). When he responded that he only initially moved because the lines had split when another counter opened (and he moved to what seemed to be the shorter line), I responded with a French shrug of the shoulders and roll of the eyes and stepped before him, leaving him standing with his wallet out. The point is…I get it now.

Just today, as I tried to get off the Metro at Madeleine - big belly and everything - the crowd surged into me, left, right and center. I red-rovered my way through two old women, who in their 107 years never learned to let a pregnant woman - or anyone - off the train first before boarding themselves. They were older, but not frail by any means so I didn’t even turn when I heard an astonished mumble. This seems to be a common reaction each time when I break past people who don’t make room to let others pass first where it makes sense, whether on the street or on the metro. Granted, when explaining these metro habits to a friend in San Francisco, as we boarded the metro there, he divulged that it happens there as well.
The looks that I shoot back these days, now that I have a better idea of what’s going on, could get me shot in the rough streets of Paris during the day. But I still try to smile and will always return a smile. That’s the Californian in me.

One year later, I can have a conversation with my father in law who speaks no English. But there are many whom I can’t understand for the life of me. I’ll work on them next year.

For now though, this year, we’re here:

The last couple of weeks were a nice getaway at the northern coastlines of Crete, but really, it would’ve been nice to get away anywhere else with The Husband. It’s not a return destination for me/us, but it was nice to see a different part of the world finally; I’ve spent my last 5 years of overseas travel all over Southeast Asia and a bit in France.

We traversed the roads in our rented car for the first 1/2 of the trip, pulling onto the sideroads of northern Crete as we encroached road signs that described certain landmarks as: ‘ancient’, ‘archaeological’, monastery, ‘best’ beach, ’sunny’ beach, and ‘famous’ beach. The primary pipeline of the New National Road, lead us east to west and back east again to different quaint villages and towns where we changed hotels every few days, that were situated sea side, or at ports.

During the second week, we stayed put at a simply decorated, charming, quiet-in-September hotel built atop the cliffs over the crystal clear, impossibly blue sea. The balcony of our room provided a scenic view out to nowhere as well, where I could spy scuba divers padding in the water, one of them being My Husband who decided on a whim to get his PADI certification in 3 days of full courses, and an ear infection as a bonus. I wandered to the ‘beach’ only once as it was comprised of pebbles and cigarette butts. The small slice of rubble was packed, the median age of fellow vacationers anywhere on the island was 60 years with an average weight class 80 kilo. or 180 lbs. I’d like to take this opportunity to share that there may be many obese Americans in the US, but overweight-edness, and fanny packs are not a chronic disease that discriminate amongst world citizens, so all you Europeans looking down on fat Americans should just tuck that arrogance back under your bermudas and into those sandals worn with cartoon-character-embroidered socks. On this vacation, everyone looked ‘American’, though there were very, very few actual Americans, and very, very, very many Europeans. I knew them because their eyes bore holes through my forehead nearly time I smiled at them. Stupid me. To be fair, there were a few nice couples - about 4 to be exact.

(Northern) Crete is primarily crawling with tourists from all over Europe and I was one of about 6 Asians spied on the north coast. I wasn’t oblivious of the stares, nor did I miss the two times that the same group of 4 walked past us as we sat reading at our table on the edge of the beach after lunch. The first time they walked by, I heard a distinct and exaggeratedly nasally, “Ni hao” as they walked by, never really addressing me directly. This means “How are you” and is the most common/only mandarin phrase that most non-Chinese around the world know. When others have tried this on me in the past, I’ve had time to respond in my limited Mandarin, and turn it around on them with a “How do you say this in your language?” to demonstrate that us Asians, we speak English too and many of us are multilingual. And we’re everywhere. I let it go as the group was already behind me. I heard it a second time as they past again an hour later, still not looking my way. Their backs were to me when I called out, “Excuse me.” They didn’t hear me. Louder this time. “Excuse me.” They turned from about 10 steps away, perhaps surprised that this ‘Chinese’ girl spoke out. “Did you say something to me?” I asked in English from where I sat. The perpetrator looked to his friend as if he had no idea what I was talking about and they huddled heads. His girlfriend turned and said, “No.He didn’t.” I dismissed her with my index finger and that charming European lifeless stare that I don’t engage often. “I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to your friend.” I didn’t use the adjective, “fat” even though he was. I repeated my question again. “Did you just say something to me?” I stayed calmly in my seat, though I was exponentially more agitated that he had the nerve to instigate a racial situation while lacking the dignity to deal with the confrontation by the offended person, whom just moments ago, was assumed to be so small a speciman that he could repeat the same act twice. He piped up finally still standing behind his girlfriend, with a denial at having said anything. I was satisfied that I’d clearly shocked and possibly put him on the spot enough with other lunching patrons looking on. Maybe even instilled an ounce of awareness that all Asians are not Chinese, we’re not all from China, and we’re not afraid to confront others when wronged. Perhaps next time, the Asian girl will not be pregnant. Maybe she’ll be Kung Fu master, as all Chinese are descendants of Bruce Lee and whoop his Greek (…) ass before returning to her seat to finish the tiny chocolate that came with her espresso. My husband, who hadn’t heard the guy, stared on as the exchange took place wondering why his little pregnant wife was picking fights in English with other tourists.

Away from my life in the little cocoon that the greater bay area of San Francisco and Southern California are, I’d almost forgotten how condescending people can be to those of different races, faces and features. I don’t mind educating others who stand still long enough for it, for example an Algerian in my French classes who would “Ni hao” me daily until I caught on and beat him to it every morning with the Algerian version and teaching him to say it in American English. I had the opportunity to explain my background to him - in grade school French - that aside from a few more family immigrations, my situation wasn’t so different from his. I explained that ‘ni hao‘ is mandarin, and that I am not a mandarin speaker, but that I do speak other languages, including perfect English. I find myself emphasizing this often, again, because common stereotypes all over the world seem to subscribe to the belief that The United States are are black and white; excluding Asians from the west.

I don’t mind poking fun at lingual stereotypes and accents; I parrot the French all the time in My Husband’s presence, pretending to clear the phlegm from my throat each time an “R” is required. And I’ve expressed my experiences with not understanding other Asians, regardless of whether they’re Chinese, Vietnamese or Khmer. The Husband’s less fluent English speaking friends poke fun at American English, exaggerating nasal pronunciations with a pinch of the nose (ironically), obviously unaware that the French own nasal tones. I do, however, mind underhandedness and passive aggressive attacks of any form. Having been privileged to be raised behind the curtains of a diverse community, I’d forgotten that beyond the fun and ‘my’ world back home, true ignorance exists beyond it’s own flimsy cloak of sophistication.