When I was
eleven-years-old and began junior high school, the class which excited me the
most was French. Language fascinated me because I love to communicate
with other people. The idea that I might speak a different language--not
just English--and be able to speak with all sorts of people in their native tongue was so
exciting to me. As luck would have it, my teacher did not particularly
like me. She was a single woman who lived in Manhattan, which seemed
incredibly chic to a girl living in suburban Long Island. Mademoiselle R. was
very thin, and very fashionable. The fact that she was not fond of me didn't change the fact that she was a very good teacher. Her detached manner only made her seem more alluring and fascinating. I studied French through my junior year in high school, and had other
instructors. Whenever Mademoiselle R. was our teacher, she would take us on
class outings. We came into Manhattan to see a Truffaut film on the Upper
East Side. We went to a cinema in Huntington which showed art and foreign
films exclusively, and viewed Les Diabolique. It
was while I was watching this magnificent film that I realized that I
understood what the actors were saying. I understood French!
When I was twenty-three,
I went on "The Grand Tour" of Western Europe. My friends and I
took Icelandic Air and, after a rather interesting weekend in Reykjavik, landed
on the Continent in Luxembourg. We dropped off our luggage at the hotel,
and proceeded to a restaurant, a restaurant in which only French was spoken.
I don't think it was jet lag which made me weak in the knees and woozy.
All of the patrons of the restaurant, all the servers, were speaking
French--fluently! I was intrigued and intimidated. Desperately in
need of a restroom, I approached a waiter and timidly asked, Où est la salle de bain?
He looked at me as though I
were feeble-minded, then replied,
Avez-vous besoin d'utiliser le toilete ?
I felt like “une idiot
femme,” blushed profusely and then ran to the toilet.
This poor start did
not prevent me from opening my mouth and speaking French for the rest of the
summer of 1986. Fortunately, I had
learned German in college, and had ample time to practice that in Germany and
Austria. When we spent weeks in Italy, I
realized I longed to understand what these animated people were talking about
as they sat in the caffe and drank espresso.
Most conversations seemed revolve around “una ragazza” or “un ragazzo,”
which I later learned meant “girlfriend” and “boyfriend.”
Our tour of the
Continent ended in France, and we spent a week in Paris. We spent quite a lot of time in the cinemas. We shopped.
We ate bad American fast food because we didn’t know that “pommes
frittes” were the mother of French fries. One of the most breathtaking sights I’ve
ever had was the view of Paris from the top of the Eiffel Tower observation
deck. I didn’t have the opportunity to
make any French friends. So many
Parisians seemed aloof. I did not
realize that the Parisians were living their lives and, being urban dwellers,
bored with the sight of a young woman tourist, if I even registered on their
radar. And, as with Mademoiselle R., I found the French even more fascinating.
A few years later, I moved into Manhattan. For several years I worked for a French-born literary agent and sold foreign rights for the agency's prestigious authors' books. I became more sophisticated. I found tourists annoying. I was an urban dweller, and I loved my city.
When I was
thirty-eight, 9/11 happened. What helped me heal was the documentary film 9/11,
directed by the French-born Jules and Gedeon Naudet. Jules was one of three people who recorded clear
footage of American Airlines Flight 11 hitting Tower 1 (the North Tower) of the
World Trade Center. After 9/11, I began speaking French with tourists, with
taxi drivers, with French New Yorkers, with French friends. I speak with a lot of people because my
childhood dream of communicating with everyone can be realized. I speak with a lot of people because I want to understand evil, and need to know that other people are horrified by evil. I need to know that there are good people. And there are, and they speak all different languages, and come from other countries, and have families, and jobs, and dogs, and hopes and dreams, and they want to live peaceful lives.
French, “la plus belle
langue,” the most beautiful language, opened so much of the world to me. Sometimes I find the language, the people,
impossible to comprehend. Then I go back
to the basics and realize that if I take my time, I can understand
French. And “the French” are people who
happen to live in France.
