Parlez-vous Franglais? Studying French in Paris, Part I

As part of my writing sabbatical from the hotel industry this year, shortly after the launch of my latest book I hopped on a plane to embark on a three-month sojourn in Paris. I had hoped my time here would be like a non-stop wine-and-cheese party, but upon arrival I knew no one, and the first couple of weeks were overshadowed by solitude. Now, six weeks later, I’m happily settled into an apartment near the Centre Pompidou and am writing by morning, studying by afternoon, and hanging out with my new friends by evening.

Part of my motivation in coming to Paris was to improve my French. Years ago, after four years of university French, in the great tradition of Canadian university students I was unable to conduct even the simplest yet most essential transactions, like asking for directions to the nearest bar. Last year I spent five glorious months in Montreal, but it's impossible to learn French there because most people speak English. I used to test how long I could get away with speaking French with a local before he or she switched to English, and often I got no further than “Bonjour”. Occasionally I conducted an entire conversation, and I would walk away feeling triumphant. In retrospect I suppose ordering a coffee at Starbucks wasn’t that big a deal.

Here in Paris I’m taking French classes every weekday afternoon for three hours. During my placement interview the counselor asked me why I had come to Paris. Desperately hoping not to be placed in the remedial class, I gave a reply that was less about my opinion than about the French words I could remember. “You like Parisians?” she exclaimed, pressing a hand to her chest. I blinked. In fact, Parisians had been cold bastards since I arrived, and none had seemed adequately appreciative of my efforts to speak their language. She went on to say that she is from the French countryside and even she finds Parisians to be rude; she could only imagine how difficult it is for Canadians, who are so pleasant and polite. I just nodded and smiled, like any good Canadian would, in part because I had no idea how to respond in French, and in part because inside I was quietly weeping in solidarity.