The person with whom I feel most at home was born and raised in a different country. His brain thinks in a language from another mother. He and I both pursue the other's respective language, and connecting with words is a feat that does not come naturally to us (and girl, it normally comes naturally to me, let me just TELL you).
When I can make him laugh in French (it's a very different sounding laugh, more of a "héhé" than a "haha") it is as if I have successfully traversed a land mine. Actually no, it feels like a reverse land mine, one where I am running around like a dog who has just pooped, looking everywhere for the explosion... is THIS the mine? is THIS it? Where the hell is it?!
The explosion caused by successful, bilingual communication feels like magic to me - probably because of my adult-learner status. I can say words that seem like jibberish and thereby communicate. When I accomplish this I feel decidedly like a wizard. 'It's just a different language!' I can hear all the fluent bi, tri, octi-lingual people exclaim upon hearing my amazement. (Only they probably said it in Russian or Mandarin.) And it is. But those people are creepy, and I will never be like them. Get AWAY from me. I don't WANT to play. (I'm just jealous and I desperately want to play).
I think speaking French will always make me feel like a child discovering they can pour their own milk or touch their own genitals. Touch here, feel pleasure. Say something that sounds like, "blabity bloonkie wonkie ween, nanky, nanky funky klees", and people understand that I was raised in Texas and have four siblings. I'M A WIZARD.
I am currently living in Belgium with my husband Arnaud (he is French... with a name like that you never know) learning French. It became clear several years ago that for many reasons my sweet man would NOT in fact be moonlighting as my teacher. He is, how shall we say, a terrible French teacher. He also loves the shit out of me most days for exactly who (or really close) I am - a trait always disappointing to discover in your partner. However he is extremely good in bed and is so hot that I sometimes wonder if his Mom slept with sex angel or a cartoon character, so I let his lack of teaching ability slide...into my nether region.
My teachers have instead been Monsieur Internet and Madame Rosetta Stone, who have both helped me articulate many fine sentences in many important categories, including, 'jumping over fences', 'eating rice' (in all forms - a man eating rice, women having eaten their rice, even a boy NOT eating the rice, scandalous though it was) and falling off one's bicycle (followed by asking for and/or refusing a BandAid, of course).
Arnaud has been very patient with me, but a man can only eat rice, watch equestrian television, and let me role-play, "Fall off the bicycle" in bed for so long. The man has his limits. French limits. (so, like a normal limit but with tongue). He craves lobster and Game of Thrones and doggie style. "NON," I say firmly in French, to ensure he understands. "My vocabulary is not big enough for those wild shenanigans." This phrase is not actually said aloud, as I do not know the word for "shenanigans" in French, so instead I clink my chopsticks together and ask him curtly for a BandAid.
Only recently have my studies managed to catch up to my desire to say meaningful, adult, everyday things, including:
"OMG that thing or event or sound or person we are talking about right now is SO crazy/funny/annoying/awesome!"
General profanity
"Totally."
"I don't feel like talking right now."
"Wake up! This episode of Game of Thrones is not over yet."
"Do you think these chicken breasts are bad?"
"Daenerys' boobs are SO hot! Yeah, now you're awake."
....etc
Arnaud is thrilled my French vocabulary is expanding.
When I moved to Europe my intention was to learn French in France. This plan seemed good to me for obvious reasons, and also because I love cheese. After many months of paperwork, driving to San Francisco and showing Skype my tits many times, I finally acquired a visa for France. I then moved there and lived happily ever after.
"UP UP UP!", as Arnaud says ("Up up up!" means, "NOT so fast"), NOT so fast.
During the first three months of living in France the immigration office, called OFII, requires a final meeting in order to finalize a visa, finally... the finalé, if you will. This visit to an OFII office takes several hours and in my case required over 40 people with the same "appointment time" to go through five different offices before receiving the magical sticker (residence card) on our passports. The anxiety in the room was palpable: imagine a DMV office where you had to acquire 5 different stamps of approval, one with your shirt off, from 5 different pissed off DMV ladies in order to renew your license - and if you DID NOT renew your license, you had to leave your family and get whipped and spat at and called 'Boob.' Stressful. I added a few things in, but that's pretty much how it felt.
side note: Most official offices in France and Belgium open at 8:30 or 9am, similar to the USA. However what is NOT similar is that for many offices you will not be seen if you are not in line sometimes hours before the office's official opening time. For example, in Brussels Arnaud and I arrived at 7am for an opening time of 8:30, just to get a number. The couple behind us was the last couple to get a number for that day. True story. We then all had to wait about 5 hours to be helped. My American brain exploded.
The first room was where we watched a video showing the amazingness of France, showcased by numerous shots of the Eiffel tower, happy children, Hospitals (free), university (free) and soldiers (for protection... from WHAT you ask? Exactly). The national motto for France is, "Liberté, égalité, fraternité," and the film examined each of these for about 10 minutes. All in French, of course.
If I ever want to get Arnaud in a really good mood I just say, "Liberté, égalité, fraternité!" and he sits up straight, smiles and tries to kiss me. French people are like Texans in how much they love their country. I think the Texas version is something like, "Trucks, guns, barbecue sauce!" We go fuckin' crazy if you say that.
The film ended, and then began again. It was on repeat. The man who had pressed "play" had left the room. I looked around to see the response of my fellow shiny-sticker-pursuers. Not a single person moved. All 40 people sat watching the television, pretending that it had not just started over. No one wanted to make waves. So I decided to take one for the team, and because I really did not want to watch the video again, and got up and wandered around the hallways until I found a room full of administrative people drinking coffee.
"Excuse-moi, désolé, je pense le film se répète!"
I had practiced this phrase as I wandered through the hallways, knowing that I had to fake my French in order to get that magical sticker. The man who had originally pushed play turned to me with a twinkle in his eye and said... well, I don't know exactly what he said, but what I heard was, "film... très bien... voulez-vous... une fois de plus?" And from this, combined with the twinkle in his eye, I realized he was being funny and saying that since it is such a good film, I probably want to watch it again, yes?
I responded, "Oohhh non. Sil-vous plaît Monsieur, NON!"
I then acted like it would kill me to watch it again, and my dramatic show made him laugh, and also inspired him to stop the torture by patriotic film in the next room.
With the film room complete we were herded to a second and third room where papers were checked and passports were verified. The next room was the ominous x-ray for tuberculosis. In this room I was asked to remove my shirt and bra in a small private room with a door behind me and door in front of me. I was then whipped repeatedly. Just joking.
When the doctor in the room in front of me knocked on my door, that meant it was my turn to walk in and get my tits photographed. The doctor was very young, and asked me to press myself against the glass of the machine and to hold my breath. He then asked me if I was enceinte. I did not know what this meant, and my mind was racing through my lessons... rice, bicycles, falling, climbing trees... enceinte?? He finally translated for me, "Are you pregnant?" I was FURIOUS! I might be a little bloated because of all the cheese but JESUS, how rude was this guy?? Rude. I curtly said "Non," in French so he would understand, and then turned and pressed my tits harder against the glass, nose very high. "Are you sure?" he asked me in English. Rude rude rude. I did not look at him this time, and spoke in English, "No." He was quiet. I then had to correct myself because I had meant,"Yes", I was sure I was not pregnant. Being offended is extremely awkward while topless and pressed against glass.
I realized a few minutes later that he asks everyone that question, because it's an X-RAY.
After the x-ray I wandered back out into the main area and stood with all the other people who had just been topless with the rude young pregnancy obsessed doctor. We all stood around a GIANT printer (the prints were life size, about 20x30 inches), and waited for our x-ray to emerge. The only way to tell whose x-ray was whose was by reading a TINY typed name at the top corner of the print. A few began to emerge, each fully visible to everyone in the room, all of us standing, silent, terrified, hard-nippled immigrants. I laughed a little too loud when I saw mine. I am always shocked when I see my scoliosis in all of its glory, and this was one of its finest moments. The x-ray showed two lungs, two fantastic tits, two crooked hips and a spine that snaked violently, four sharp curves from my neck down to my tailbone. It was definitely me.
The next room was the first of the doctors. Her office was a private one and she began by having me remove my shirt in order to take my blood pressure. I was used to it by now. I was also nervous that she would hear my heart murmur and call in the guards to escort me to a Texas bound plane. But she didn't seem to care. She then examined the x-ray and listened without smiling to my joke about how it's a good thing she wasn't testing for crooked spines. EY??? YEAH???
Sometimes I have these clear moments where I realize that I am like a small dog that cannot stop barking.
She ended by asking me if I was pregnant, and I once again did not understand.
Have I mentioned I am an adult learner? Enceinte?? WHAT? "Are you pregnant?" Damn it.
Next room. Again a private office, again called in by a woman in a white lab coat. I entered and was told to sit. The woman then asked me to,
"Sil-vous plaît retirer votre manteau et sa chemise."
Or at least this is what I thought she said. I heard her ask me to, "Please remove your coat and shirt."
This made sense, because let's be honest, most of my goddamn morning and afternoon had been spent topless. So I obeyed.
I removed my coat and whipped off my shirt, and then saw that the woman was looking at me like I was LEGIT crazy.
Her face was priceless -- it was a perfect, frozen combination of confusion and amusement. "Non," she said, the tiniest smile on her tilted face. "Non, non, non."
What she had actually said was,
"S'il vous plaît retirer votre manteau et des chaussures," coat and SHOES, not coat and shirt.
She had just wanted to weight me and check my height.
When I realized that I had whipped off my shirt when asked to take off my shoes, I LOST it laughing. I apologized profusely, saying "OH mon dieu, j'ai trop nerveux pour entendre! Pardon moi!" ("OH my god, I am too nervous to hear! Sorry!") She had virtually no response, just the tiniest little smile and a twinkle in her eye.
"C'est pas grave... pas grave," she assured me.
This is one of my favorite French phrases, "pas grave" translates "its not grave"... "no big deal."
Arnaud and I now have an inside joke where I pretend to take off my shirt whenever I cannot understand something in French.
I went to one more office and had a few more tests, during which I did not remove my shirt, before receiving my shiny new residence card sticker in my passport. And then it was done.
I could work in France! I could live in France!
Liberté, égalité, fraternité!!
Was I enceinte? NO! I had learned a new word, AND I was not pregnant!
All was good in the world.
Well, all was good in France.
Because you see Arnaud had already accepted a job offer in Brussels, Belgium. We live in Belgium, remember? I now have to start the whole process over again in order to obtain a Belgian Visa.
I'll let you know how it goes.
Comments