The H Factor

You Don’t Understand Me - The Raconteurs, Consolers of the Lonely

Ah, Le Francais.  Language of love, Eurovision and also French people.  And Canadians, in an odd hanging-on-to-our-colonial-past-because-it-makes-us-more-interesting kind of way.  I got an A in GCSE French, which clearly qualifies me to obtain directions to various high street establishments, purchase a kilo of peaches and a baguette filled with ham, or cheese or even (if I’m feeling really reckless) ham AND cheese, enquire as to whether my hotel room has a bath or shower, and procure a return to La Rochelle.  Incidentally, I have no idea how to order a single to La Rochelle, but can’t think of any circumstances under which I might want to go to La Rochelle without wanting to leave almost immediately, so that’s OK.

Those of you who have been keeping up will know that I am currently skiing in France, which clearly requires me to speak French at every possible opportunity.  As in actually speaking French, rather than, say, waving my arms extravagantly and talking English loudly with a French accent, `Allo `Allo style.  Never mind that most of the locals speak English better than I do – it is rude to assume that people are happy to speak our superior language, and anyway failing to attempt a bit of French speaking deprives the locals of the opportunity to laugh it up at my expense.

I cannot help, however, getting very flustered at the prospect of speaking a foreign language, and despite much `say it over several times in my head’ preparation, at the moment of speaking I have a tendency to get a bit flustered.  I am immediately transported back to my mock GCSE French oral, where I was asked if I had any brothers or sisters and replied in a panic that I had three sisters (I actually only have one) and that two of them were dead.  Try getting out of that one with your verbs intact.

Yesterday, however, I walked into an actual French shop and informed them with some confidence that I wished to purchase some postcards, then obtained directions to the post office whilst also establishing that it was currently closed for lunch.  Several hours later (three hours for lunch? Lazy bastards), I proffered my written postcards to the angry moustachioed woman behind the counter and asked how much it would cost to purchase some stamps for England.  This was all recalled word-for-word from my GCSE Tricolore textbook from 20 years ago, and whilst I can’t be entirely sure that my postcards aren’t currently winging their way to La Rochelle with no immediately plans to return, it pleased me very much.

I am currently lunching in the only bar in the resort with free Wi-Fi, and have so far successfully ordered a coffee with milk, a mineral water and a salad.  The salad caused some issues because it contained rocket, which makes me gag.  I spent some time working out how to request an alternative salad leaf, but panicked after “I would like the rocket salad, but I detest rocket”, which quite deservedly got me a “etes-vous fucking stupide?” look in return.

Incidentally, the waiter just asked me what I was writing – clearly trying to work out why some random rocket-detesting English woman with a sunburnt nose is bashing away at a laptop when she should be killing herself on the slopes instead.  I opted for “a letter to my grandmother”, this being the first thing that came to my mind that I can actually say in French.  Ma grand-mere has actually been dead for fifteen years, no doubt keeping my imaginary sisters company, but I shall dedicate this to her nonetheless.  She would have found all this foreign business terribly exotic, and then popped the kettle on.