Some beautiful tulips I saw in Paris.

French Kissless In France

You would think if a foreigner lived in America for ten years that not only would their command of the English language be great but that their comprehension of English would also be excellent. I don’t know if Maurice is the model of a French person who has lived in the States, but, even though he is very fluent in English, his comprehension is less than perfect. It’s especially bad at a play or if we are in a group of people. He has to really focus or he can lose track of what is being talked about. I imagine that sometimes he is as clueless in a group of Americans as I am with a group of French people. Granted, he does have a much larger vocabulary than I do.
We have had to resign ourselves to a lifetime often not understanding what the other has said. Our most commonly used word is, “What?” Sometimes I get irritated at having to repeat myself and just stand there without saying anything because I have learned that when Maurice says, “What?” he has actually heard me. Usually if I don’t respond right away his brain processes what I have said and then he will answer or respond.
When I say, “What?” to him it is usually, when he is speaking English, and that -because of his accent- I don’t understand what he has said. He pronounces most words correctly but every once in a while he says a word and I have no idea what he is talking about. Sometimes I just have to think a moment and remember the context of the discussion and then I can figure out what he said. There are some words he says wrong each time. Check book is one. He always says book check. And he keeps calling his wallet a purse. I always say, “Maurice, you don’t want to call your wallet that in the States. You will get strange looks.” Every once in a while he will say “sweeter” instead of “sweater.” He will also say, “That was worst than before” but is starting to correct himself.
All of this leads me to the conclusion that no matter how much I study and learn French, I will never reach a high level of comprehension of what I hear. And there is no question that I will ever speak French very well. I can say just one word in French and the French know immediately that I am American. Just ordering Coca Light, as they call Diet Coke here, will usually get me an answer from the waiter in English. I was very proud of myself when I learned how to say that I wanted a glass of white wine. Imagine my surprise when, once after I had ordered it, that the waiter returned with a cup of hot green tea. I’m still not sure what he understood but I learned to slow way down when I order it or just to simply say, “Chablis.”
When I was in America with Maurice and he would say something in English to an American they would immediately look at me to repeat what he had said. I got used to that quickly. Now I have this experience in the exact opposite way, when a French person looks at Maurice for translation after I have attempted some French. I must say though that the French often seem pleased that I am at least attempting to speak French. Sometimes Maurice will be rattling along in French to someone while I am standing at his side. I can see them give me a glance wondering why I am so silent. Often Maurice will then explain to them that I am an American and don’t know any French. I now correct him and tell the listening person that I know a little French. At least I can understand that much.
I got a kick out of the many words that I was surprised that Maurice had never heard of before. He did not recognize French dressing in the States. What he would call a French dressing would be vinaigrette - closer to the bottled Italian dressing - not the creamy orange dressing that Americans think of as French. Once I said I was going to put my hair up in a French Twist. “What’s that?” he asked. Of course, that might have just been a male thing as not many men pay attention to hairstyles or what they are called.
Then there is the saying, “French kiss.” He had never heard of that either. When I explained it to him, of course he knew what the type of kiss was, but he didn’t have any idea, nor did I, why it is called a French kiss. I did look it up on the Internet and learned that the saying started being used in the 1920’s, probably by the English who also called syphilis the French disease. They considered the French then, and probably still do, to be over-sexed and too open about it. When I asked Maurice what a French kiss was called in France he came up with some slang word that has to do with rolling or unrolling the tongue. Maurice’s son, being of an earlier generation and knowing a lot of American slang, knows the phrase French kiss.
Almost any colloquialism that I use will get a “What?” from Maurice. I had never been aware of how many I used until I was around him. I always have to stop and explain what they mean. France has many similar ones. I, of course, never hear them, but Maurice has told me of some such as “walking along side your shoes” that means someone doesn’t know what they are doing. A lot of our sayings about cats are known in France except Maurice had never heard, “As nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs”. One day I used the expression, “Holy Cow,” then a week later I guess Maurice thought he would use it, but couldn’t remember the correct animal and said, “Holy Cat!” I’ve had to explain, “Whatever fries your chicken” and “Put the pedal to the metal” and “Flip a u-ie here.” The list goes on and on and I say something new to him at least once a day.
I still remember trying to tell some French people that I had had a fun time with them that evening. I asked Maurice, “How do you say fun?” and he replied, “Chouette” that, I came to find out, does mean fun but also is a word for owl. It sounds like “schweat” which rhymes with sweat and for some reason I love to say it. Plus, it just seems so strange to me to use a word that means owl to say fun. At least it is one word that I never forget. It turns out to be an old-fashioned word not used very much by younger people who say something is “cool” if it is fun.
Before we were married and still in Austin, Maurice called me at work. I was standing right next to the phone when a colleague answered it and I saw the look of incomprehension on her face. She finally understood that Maurice was asking to speak to me. He has trouble pronouncing my maiden name smoothly. I’ve heard other French people have the same problem. Of course, it was a year before I came close to pronouncing his last name. Part of the sound in his name is not a known sound in English. I can’t even form the proper shape with my mouth to say it. I was always saying to Maurice, “How do you say our last name again. I’m getting closer to getting it correct but I’m sure any French people will always hear my accent.
So, Maurice and I spend quite a bit of time not really understanding each other. When we were first together Maurice would give the impression that he understood what I was saying. I would go on to other things thinking that something was handled only to find out that he hadn’t had a clue as to what I was saying. I have learned, when he remains quiet when I am finished speaking, that he often hasn’t really understood me and that if I ask him he will admit so. I have to double check things a lot for my peace of mind. And, I know that if our conversations were being carried on in French I would be the one not knowing all that was being said. I was once complaining to a friend that Maurice never understood me because he was French and she said, in her thick Southern accent, “Hell, Honey, it’s not that he doesn’t understand because he’s French. He doesn’t understand because he’s a man!” I think she has a point there.