I was pretty good in French classes at school. I could write it well and understood most of the things that were put in front of me. When it came to speaking more than the stock answer that was expected of me however, it was torture. I was constantly looking for the perfect sentance rather than just getting the words out in the wrong order and risking falling flat on my face. Years later, my French assistant at the time still remembered trying to almost physically extract the words from me. Just how I was still talking to my French assistant (and still am) years later is a completely separate story that I may tell one day. The point here is that I was afraid of ridicule and was frustrated that I couldn’t express myself in the way I wanted.
After the end of my second year at university, I lived and worked in Paris for a couple of months. I remember going in on the first day and being shown the basics of what I was expected to do. After a couple of hours I was asked to pick up the phone. By then I was able to string together more than a few words, I could handle myself in a conversation, but speaking on the telephone in a foreign language is another level completely.
For two weeks I swam in a sea of words of which I only understood about 70%. I learnt technical vocabulary the hard way and lived by the seat of my pants using the words I did know to work out the ones I didn’t. I was ridiculed and complained at by the people I spoke to but I sure as hell wasn’t going to ask outright. I was taking this going native stuff seriously despite the problems it was causing me.
I lived in a chambermaid’s room on the fifth floor. The only washing facility was a wash basin on the room, so I often took a morning shower at the train station at Montparnasse. One morning I asked the rather imposing lady that officiated on the front desk if it was possible to have a “peignoir” (dressing gown) rather than a “peigne” (comb). The thunderous look she gave me had me convinced that I’d said something wrong so I didn’t persue the matter. It was only later when I was safely on the metro that I realised my error.
In another incident, a friend of mine had a cat with fleas (puces – beware if you’re scared by rude words here). She went to the chemist and asked for “quelque chose pour dépuceler ma chatte” ( I’d like something to “deflower” my fanny). I think the pharmacist kept a straight face and worked out what she wanted. Karen took it all in good humour although she may have been cringing internally.
Much more recently, I was on holiday in Spain in September and felt the same pangs of annoyance at having my extremely basic Spanish corrected. When I can’t think of a word I revert to French as though I’m thinking, “default foreign language = French”. My wife, on the other hand, hardly speaks a word of Spanish and really doesn’t care. She’d love to be able to speak it properly but certainly isn’t averse to pointing when required to get something she wants in a shop.
Ridicule is part of learning a language. I’ve got over it now mainly because I’m 30 years older and more mature, but I do know how excruciating it can be. Call it a rite of passage.
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