Language

How are we all coping with life in French, you are probably wondering. The girls dropped in, like aliens from another planet, into a small rural school, the teachers giving instruction completely en francais. Dave, armed with his grade nine, D-minus French artillery, calling strangers about their used car advertised in the local paper. Rachel, with a solid grade 11 B, trying to explain to the cable tv guy, that yes, we do want to have French television to replace the current satellite tv from the UK and no, we cannot drill a hole in the window frame to run a new wire because the owner of the house would not approve. Coping, yes. Learning, a bit. Blundering and butchering the language? Definitely.

Two weeks ago, on Canadian Thanksgiving, we had the neighbours around for a drink. There are three generations of Fourtouls living next door. Jean-Marie and his wife, their son David, and his wife Nathalie, and David and Nathalie’s daughter Floriane. Often there is English to be found in France, and people are quick to demonstrate their English-language skills, but this performance was a strictly French-only event. Les Fourtouls all arrived promptly at 4pm and after doing the dance of double kisses amongst all the adults, we all went out to the summer kitchen for a glass of wine and some neighbourly chat.

Speaking a language that you only have a small grasp on is a bit like being underwater. You can hear, but everything is muffled and murky, and once in awhile you pop up out of the water and a word or a phrase rings clear in your ears. Then back under water you go. The amazing thing is, when you do speak a bit, people assume that you understand all that they are saying, when in fact, from personal experience, only about 50% might be making its way through. It really gives some perspective on all the people who speak English as a second language at home.

The Fourtouls were kind enough to indulge Dave in his discussion of early French explorers in Canada (in particular his favourite, Etienne Brule), all volleyed at them in the present tense. When at a loss for words, Dave employs the classic French technique of the raised eybrow, slight shrug, and a long exhale of air through pursed lips. It seemed to work at filling in the gaps.

M. Fourtoul told us that the house we are living in, along with theirs, and the land all around us, once belonged to Jean-Marie’s great-great grandfather. A true Provencal family. Jean-Marie and David are both masons, a fairly common trade in these parts, considering almost everything is made of stone. The Fourtouls imparted as much useful local information as could pass between us. We deciphered their disagreement over which is the prettiest local village we should visit, heard about the best homemade liqueur, made from a rare and protected wildflower picked on the sly, and how the local chestnuts, now ripe, are best paired with the coming Beaujolais Nouveau. It was a lovely afternoon, and after they left, 2 and a half hours later, we felt really pleased with ourselves that we had actually talked and laughed with our neighbours, all completely in a language other than our own.

About a week later, Dave informed me that we had been invited by David Fourtoul to come over for an aperitif. Pre-dinner hour, by French standards, rolled around and we set off through the gate and over to knock on the neighbours door. David and Nathalie looked a bit surprised to see us standing on the doorstep and when we announced we were there for a drink, they apologized that they would not be able to take us in because they were going out to some friends. All feeling slightly awkward, and with many désolés from both sides, we went into the kitchen for a chat, and to see the sinkful of wild mushroom David had collected earlier that day.
It was when he was returning from gathering that morning that David had run into Dave and told him about the mushrooms. While admiring the mushrooms, Nathalie told us how she preserves them in oil, and after curing for about three months they make a delicious aperitif. Ah yes, herein lay the communication error – David had likely told Dave Ryley the same thing, but like the dog in the Far Side cartoon, Monsieur Ryley only heard, blah, blah, blah, aperitif, blah blah blah. So much for our grip on French. Although maybe it wasn’t a language issue after all. I could swear sometimes Dave only hears the word cocktail, regardless of the tongue.