6. Speaking to humans in Bordeaux

Instead of my cat

Coucou y’all! It’s another beautiful day here in Lyon - even if it is raining a bit! This city is gorgeous. It’s untamed, with great hulking cliffs, Roman ruins, street art, graffiti, and the most incredible restaurants. Now that it’s warming up, I’ve really been exploring and enjoying the arts scene. In fact, if you watch the video above, you might hear some music and joyful shouting—that was a dance class taking place just beside me!

Anyway, thanks for reading another issue of idiomatic. My last story was the most popular yet. If you haven’t had a chance, give it a read here:

Tell that to Jane Austen

Ok, c’est parti!

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may, 2022
durango, colorado

At this point, I’ve been taking weekly lessons for nine months. I worry that I’m becoming a cliché. A 30-something single lady with a cat, improving herself with a new language. Now I regret telling Yann that I speak French to Roxy. He tentatively asks what sort of things I say to my cat.   

“Tu sais… les trucs habituels." You know, the usual things. Hey Roxy, do you think I need Botox?

Our lessons are becoming largely conversational, even when reviewing my homework. An aside will lead us down meandering tangents, talking about everything from the French presidential election to whether or not crocodiles are edible. We once spent a good twenty minutes discussing common French stereotypes, namely that Yann eats a lot of cheese and wears a beret.¹ He responded by pulling a hand-knit beanie over his bulbous headphones.

One day he tells me that my French is good enough to live in France, if only just to get by. I’m flattered, but I suspect that he’s the only French person I can understand.

“It’s only because you are used to the sound of my voice.”

I acknowledge this—especially since he has a wonderful voice—but I’m concerned that he is also the only French person capable of understanding me.

“Do you talk to anyone else, in French?” He asks.

“Just you.” I don’t remind him of Roxy.

Yann recommends I try a language exchange app to practice with French speakers who want to learn English. I sign up for Tandem, uploading a picture and filling out a set of profile questions. It reminds me of a dating app; one without filters. My messagerie lights up with incoming messages from men, almost all of whom write, “Hey, what’s up?”

I haven’t been asked what’s up since high school. The question always caused me a great deal of anxiety. Other kids seemed to know what to say—as if they’d agreed upon a mysterious social contract without me—and I was perpetually at a loss for an appropriate response. My dad suggested I should just look up at the sky; which is basically what I do now on Tandem. Eventually, there are too many messages to ignore. My watch buzzes every couple minutes with notifications. I turn the app off.

When I tell Yann this, he looks at me, concerned, and asks, “You didn’t respond to any of them?”

I shake my head. “Peut-être plus tard.” Maybe later. As I’m saying this, I know it’s not true. I have zero intention of rejoining Tandem. I’ve grown accustomed to speaking with Yann and now I’m afraid of being awkward and uncomfortable again. I don’t want to discover that all the progress I’ve made with French is really a sham.

Me and my language exchange partner.

decembre, 2022
bordeaux, france

I’m following a retired firefighter and his wife around the city. We meet at a small restaurant near the city center for lunch, where we share a bottle of, you guessed it, Bordeaux. Francis and Michelle are a couple of real locals who have offered to give me an authentic, and somewhat spontaneous, tour of their hometown.

After lunch, we ride a river taxi down one side of the Garonne and back up the other. Cormorants flap along the water, which surges from recent rains. We try standing on the deck, but a cold wind blows us into the cabin where we sit on cheerfully upholstered benches. The boat passes a wine museum that’s meant to resemble the soul of wine swishing around in a glass. Or possibly, a giant silver sippy cup.

Now Francis is standing beside the door of the Bordeaux Opera, which rests slightly ajar. You could just walk in, right there in the middle of the day, with everyone out doing their Christmas shopping. Francis waves at us to come along, before slipping inside.

Michelle and her little white dog follow him through the cracked door. Inside, a stairway unfolds in a cascade of cream-colored steps and statues. Above, the ceiling flies away. There’s a kaleidoscope of windows at the top. Somewhere off to our right is the sound of construction.  

I don’t need to speak French to understand that we’re probably not supposed to be here. I can tell by the way Francis is giddily tip-toeing up the stairway. Michelle and I hurry after him. On the next floor there’s a gilded ballroom that looks somehow expectant and sad. Another door reveals a rack of limp ballet costumes. I want to return for a performance and see their tulle ruffles brought to life.

Francis is telling me something about being a firefighter. I don’t think this is what he’s saying, but I imagine that he’s recounting the story of a raging inferno at the opera. It’s very Andrew Lloyd Weber.²

My oral language comprehension still needs some work. In a given situation, I understand roughly 50-60% of what’s being said, then my brain fills in the rest with wild assumptions. This has led to some misunderstandings. My last Airbnb host talked at me for twenty minutes about the root of today’s problems. I’m still uncertain if it was because of the Communists, or lack thereof.  

This is actually why I’m spending the day with Michelle and Francis—because of oral comprehension, not the Communists. We met a few months earlier, while I was still in Durango. I had just rejoined Tandem; this time deleting all the ‘s ups? and instead searching for benign-looking women whose profile photos contained bikes and mountains. Michelle’s was taken at Yosemite, so I figured we’d get along great.

It so happened that she and Francis were in America, taking a road trip across the Southwest and Durango was their next stop. We met for dinner—along with another Coloradan they had connected with on Tandem—at a brewpub downtown. Michelle and Francis had arrived in Los Angeles two weeks prior, where they rented a campervan, and were now visiting almost every National Park between California and southern Colorado. Practicing her English, Michelle told me about losing her purse in downtown LA and somehow miraculously getting it back. It was one of those magical can you believe it?! stories that could only happen when you’re traveling. I loved it.

It felt like I was traveling too. Dinner was conducted at a European pace, spanning three languorous hours. Our exasperated waiter eventually stopped bothering us, accepting that we were operating on some sort of dual timeline that existed parallel, but independent of American norms. When it was time to go, I actually had to search for him.

Back at the opera, we are eventually caught. An employee—who was probably meant to be watching the door—asks us what we’re doing up here, poking about the empty rooms.

Francis shrugs and—I think—tells him something like, “We didn’t know where to go.”

We’re escorted out. No one seems all that upset. Francis claps his hands, enjoying the joke of it, and we set off to see more of Bordeaux.

Photo Credit | Christophe Finot, Wikipedia

Final thoughts

Merci for reading! I’d love to hear your thoughts on this petite histoire in the comments. As always, if you enjoyed this newsletter, please consider sharing it with a friend.

If you’re new to idiomatic, you may have gathered that this is a linear story. You can catch up here.

Lastly, I recently had the opportunity of helping Yann with his newsletter for French language learners. We recorded a short dialogue in which I explore my alter ego as a mean boss. (Hopefully that’s an alter ego!) You can check it out here.

Lastly, lastly:

• If you’d like to see more pictures of my life abroad, you can find me on Instagram.

• Music was a big part of my “immersion from abroad” strategy, so much so that I made a Spotify playlist of my favorite French musicians. Listen along here.  

• Did you know that if you like and/or comment on this story, it’ll help more readers find and enjoy my work? It’ll also make my day :) Merci!

1. He does, in fact, eat a lot of cheese. Our cheese budget is roughly €20 per week.  

2. Did you know The Phantom of the Opera is based on a 1909-1910 French serial novel? Adding this to my reading list…