Me talk pretty

May 1, 2011

As I travel, I tend to make the (usually wrong) assumption that all white people speak English.

That’s precisely how I found myself tangled in an awkward moment with a French woman on the bus. I blurted out a few questions, trying to engage her in conversation. She shrugged and smiled.

She only knew a few English words. I speak high school preschool French. We didn’t have much to say beyond hello. I dove deep into my brain for every possible French thing I could muster and emerged with “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?” and the les poissons song from “The Little Mermaid,” neither of which were appropriate.

There was no way to continue this conversation. Instead I attempted to bury my head in a Kindle, which is très difficile.

After we arrived in Bangkok and unloaded our luggage, the woman approached me.

GIGI (I am making up this name): Please. I do not speak English. Guesthouse?

ME: I no stay guesthouse.

GIGI: Merci. I stay with you.

And suddenly, we were crammed into a tuk-tuk together.

Normally I wouldn’t mind being accompanied by a fellow traveler, but I wasn’t heading to a hostel or guesthouse. I had a friend from home meeting me in Bangkok, and we reserved a nice hotel for a few nights. I knew this place was beyond the typical backpacker budget, but I had no clue how to express that to my new French friend.

Instead we had a patchwork of pleasantries, sewn together with scrappy bits of each language.

GIGI: Hmmm. Where do you from?

ME: America. How long do you travel?

GIGI: Vietnam. (Long pause.) My English is unhappy.

ME: My French is very sick.

And then because I couldn’t think of anything else to say, I busted out the only other phrase I know en Francais.

ME: I would like to buy some socks today.

She nodded.

GIGI: D’accord.

When we arrived at the hotel, Gigi nodded her approval. It was slick and fancy, with a modern lounge that frightens you into standing up and keeping your hands to yourself. The walls were brushed metal and spotless glass. The chairs were somehow lit from within. A bellboy handed me a blue cocktail.

The receptionist asked if I needed an additional bed in my room to accommodate Gigi, and the French lady looked at me expectantly. As much as I wanted to help her out, it wasn’t my place. I would hate for my friend to fly halfway around the world, walk into her hotel room and find a stranger there — especially since my friend booked the room.

I did my best to explain.

ME: Mi amiga — er, mon ami is coming ici.

GIGI: (French words, French words, French words).

ME: I’m sorry.

GIGI: Oui. No good. I go.

Before she left, I held out my blue cocktail. That gesture needed no translation. She downed it with a grin, then disappeared into the elevator.

 

 

You Might Also Like

No Comments

Leave a Reply