Je Parles Solomente un Peu Francais

Here is how I came to visit Paris. I was telling a friend that I wanted to take a couple of weeks off in August or September, but I didn’t quite know where to go or what to do. She said, “Why don’t you go stay in my mom’s apartment in Paris?”

There were several intermediate questions to ask — “What, you’re mom has an apartment in Paris?” And, “What, you’re suggesting I go live with your mom?” — before I could repeat the original question — “Why not go live in an apartment in Paris for a couple of weeks?” The questioned answered itself, of course. There is, as we know, absolutely no reason not to go live in a Paris apartment for a couple of weeks. I apologize for the confusing negative construction of the critical question and answer, but that’s how it happened. This is non-fiction writing. We can’t just go changing essential facts. In any case, three questions and one six-and-a-half-hour flight later, here I am, in Paris.

More specifically, I am sitting in a wonderful Paris flat, just the right size, on the second floor of a three-story building in the 14th Arrondissement, with the window open and the noises of the one-lane street below wafting through the living room’s open French windows. My friend’s mother is a painter, and has decorated the walls with Mediterranean coastal scenes done in a beautiful Impressionist style. The water is turquoise and there are broken Roman pillars along the shore, some of which are topped with crumbled cornices. When I get dressed, I will walk down to the patisserie and order a demi-baguette from the friendly woman behind the counter, who is sure to recognize me from the day before.

Here are some Paris travel tips. I have learned them the hard way — well, OK, I’ve learned them the easy way — so take note.

When flying from the United States to Paris, do not fly United. Always fly Air France. I realized I had made this mistake as soon as the flight attendants made their first announcement and it became painfully clear that none of them were actually French. Yes, the Air France flight is generally $100 more, but you want your Parisienne adventure to begin with actual French flight attendants sashaying down the aisle, serving you croissants and speaking to you in their sublime French accents. Not only is this pleasing on a superficial level, but it gives you the opportunity to practice what little of the French language you’ve managed to learn. Sadly, there is really no point in speaking French to a fellow American on a United Airlines flight. Even if you are both going to Paris, there’s a certain false ridiculousness to it.

This brings me to my second travel tip. Do not try to learn French, or any language probably, through the Rosetta Stone language CDs — those yellow, stella-like boxes you’ve seen in airport kiosks and the Apple store. Admittedly, I am only halfway through the first lesson — which seems to be dragging on forever, by the way — but I am a skeptic. The French constructions you absolutely need to learn are, “I would like a pain au chocolate and a coffee,” and, “Madamoiselle, your eyes are like lapis luzali and my place is just up the block.” Rossetta Stone teaches you to say, “The boy is eating,” and “The girls read.” Completely useless as far as I can tell. Just imagine the scene. You are sitting in seat 32J. It has been a non-eventful flight. Suddenly, there she is, the Air France flight attendant, and she’s coming down the aisle. And she’s holding a steaming metal pot of coffee. It’s the moment you’ve been waiting for. You catch her eye. She leans over to you, raising the pot a little as her eyes meet yours, her way of asking a simple question. Your fateful moment has arrived. The world is balanced on a single point. Say the right thing and its yours. And so you say, “Excuse moi, madammoiselle, mais le garcon mange.” When she gives you a confused look, slightly pulling the coffee pot back in her direction, you rejoin with, “Oui madam. Et las filles lit.”

Who knows, maybe in the middle of lesson five you suddenly are able to master the language. Did I mention that each CD is $200? Anyway, the best resource I found was a slender book called “Fast French.” Actually, the best resource was my friend who is loaning me the apartment. She sat across from my desk, writing French phrases on note paper and quizzing me on them. Say, “I would like a croissant.” Say, “Pardon me, madam, where is the Louvre?” Say, “Excuse me, at what time does the Metro close?”

I will end this entry with a happy lesson I’ve learned: The French people are wonderful! Here is all you have to do to have a series of delightful encounters on your trip to Paris. First, slow down. Say “bon jour” or “bon soir.” When asked how you are doing — “Comment ca va?” — give a hearty answer. Be animated! Even though you don’t really speak French, pretend that you do. The pretending, I think, is key. Assume the mantle of a certain French confidence in all affairs. “Je suis bien, missouir.”

After this you’re home free. The waiters and shopkeepers in Paris seem perfectly happy to hear me mangle their beautiful language. They go along speaking in French until the conversations stalls, at which point they happily switch to English. When we’re back to safer ground, they switch back to French. I’ve had a series of fun exchanges, a few of which were hilarious. When the station attendant who sold me a five-day Metro ticket asked if I was, in fact, staying in Paris for 5 days, and I said “oui,” pronouncing it like “we,” he paused, looked at me in mock concern, raised his eyebrows, and said, “we?” “Uh, weh,” I said. “Weh,” he said, slowly this time, so I could follow his pronounciation. Then he smiled, winked, handed me the ticket, and sent me on my way.

This has been one of my favorite things about Paris. If you are considerate to people, and show them that you’ve taken a little time to learn their language, suddenly you’re in cahoots. It’s like being let behind the velvet rope at a fancy club where, it turns out, everyone is friendly and pleasantly down to earth. Waiters lean in, give me a sly grin, and happily correct my pronunciation or teach me a new word. Strangers thank me for holding the metro exit door open for them and I tell them it’s no problem. Small things, but they give a little kick to the day.

Here is a photograph, from a cafe down the street from where I am staying. For three days I’ve been convinced this was the cafe in the scene in which “Amelie” enjoys a creme brulee. Last night I found an on-line site that lists the Paris locations used in the film. It turns out the actual cafe is in Montmarte, not the Latin Quarter. And I was so sure!