2. What I meant to say
2. What I meant to say
About those poison mushrooms and closed chicken
Coucou y’all!
Thanks for making it to the second edition of idiomatic with me. If this is your first time here, you can absolutely continue reading… but because this story is linear, I suggest you catch up with the first issue for context. Ok, c’est parti!
october, 2021
durango, colorado
It’s been a couple of months since I started taking French lessons, and I’ve since left my parents’ place in Texas where I’d been staying after a bad breakup. It feels good to be home in Colorado, and not solely because of the weather. I’ve reconnected with old friends, joined a local writing group, and established new habits and routines.
Yann and I begin to meet on Wednesday mornings before I log into work. These first lessons consist of more games, as well as exercises, through which he patiently watches me struggle. Via the self-view window, I can see my forehead scrunching into a confused jumble of lines, my eyes staring back at me like a startled rabbit. It’s better to focus on Yann, who’s face is pleasantly equanimous. If he finds my “trying hard” expressions funny, he never shows it.
As we speak, Yann shares a Word doc on his screen and types both sides of our conversation. It helps to see the words as he’s talking and I realize that I can read French better than I can hear it.
One day he stops typing and I feel like I’ve been cast to sea. I recognize the words, but they don’t mean anything to me as a sentence. It’s like I haven’t learned anything. Yann tells me I need to work on absorbing more French outside of our lessons.
I start by bingeing on podcasts, listening to them over and over again, each time understanding a few more words. Some of the podcasts have transcripts that I can reference, while others I must stop every few minutes to look something up. There’s also music. I discover new musicians and build playlists with Florent Marchet, Julien Doré, and Juniore. Eventually I find myself singing—or at least humming—along.
They say the best way to learn a language is through immersion. From rural Colorado, the closest I can get to France is Netflix. With a newish production hub in Paris, there are now countless TV émissions and films available to stream.
There’s a scripted dramedy about standup comedians, a thriller set in 19th century Paris, and of course, the popular series about the entertainment industry, Call My Agent. As I convert my audio and visual inputs from English to French, I start to daydream again about living in France. It feels like finding an old box of memories in the attic, dusting off the lid, and jiggling the lock open.
A few weeks later, Yann begins the lesson as usual by asking me questions: How was your weekend? What are you doing at work? I’m tired of talking about myself and our conversations are beginning to feel lopsided. I know next to nothing about him, so I make a point of asking what he did over the weekend.
Qu’est-ce que tu as fait le week-end dernier? I try not to read along as he types, listening to him speak instead. He’s saying that he spent the weekend working in his mother’s garden with the boy next door. Le petit voisin.
I imagine a pastoral scene in which Yann and a cute little boy in a striped shirt are filling baskets with ripe tomatoes. Nearby, there’s a table set with a garden-fresh lunch, glasses of wine. Accordion music floats on the wind. Then Yann says he cut down a tree and dropped it on the child, after which he ate some wild mushrooms that made him sick. At least I think that’s what he said.
novembre, 2023
lyon, france
I have yet to find an apartment, but I did join a gym. I’ve discovered the best boulangeries near my Airbnb. I’ve become a member at not one, but two organic grocery stores. And despite Lyon’s maze of winding passages through sun-tanned orange and yellow buildings, I’ve established preferred routes through my quartier, or neighborhood. The initial newness of everything hasn’t worn off yet, but I am starting to feel at home.
Once I’m back at work, my days quickly fill and I begin to bounce between online meetings with coworkers in the United States. I continue taking French lessons, but real-life conversations have been reduced to formulaic exchanges—there are only so many ways you can order a baguette. There are days in which I feel so comfortable in my new surroundings that I realize I’ve hardly spoken French at all.
I decide to do something about it. There’s a produce market that will require me to speak in French while picking out various fruits and vegetables. Yann asks, in English, if I’d like for him to come with me, and I confidently reply, “Nope, I got this.” I stuff some reusable bags into my purse, wrap a scarf around my neck, and step into the wet winter air. The market is about ten minutes away, at the top of a steep hill. I set off.
Saturday is typically the busiest day. The market stretches down both sides of a long boulevard, intersected by a small park and narrow side streets. A classical guitarist busks next to an ATM, or distributeur, and the more enthusiastic produce vendors shout out their inventory to passersby.
I start easy and step in line at a vegetable stand. When it’s my turn, the woman in a friendly yellow hat asks what I’d like. I successfully order a melange of oignons, pommes de terre, épinards, and carottes. Next is the fruit. Again, I come away from the exchange with a bag full of citrus and apples.
As I’m about to leave, I remember that Yann wanted a couple of chicken breasts. I don’t normally cook meat, so I’m at a loss for vocabulary words. Never mind, I’m feeling confident after my first two interactions. There’s a butcher’s stand with a line circling around the block. That seems like a good place to start. As I wait, I review words on my phone for the different cuts of chicken.
I reach the front of the line and point to the escalopes—or skinless filets. “Je vais prendre deux escalopes de poulet, s’il vous plaît."
"Fermé ou non-fermé?” I think the teenager behind the display case asks.
“C’est a dire?” Meaning what?
She explains the difference in a complete garble of ces and ques and quis. It feels like I’ve regressed to a beginner level of French. I have no clue what she says. The long line behind me is tensing with impatience. I can’t possibly ask her to repeat herself.
“Je sais pas. Vous choisissez.” I don’t know, you choose.
She shrugs and slaps a couple slabs of meat into a bag.
When I get back, Yann asks me how it went.
“Good, for the most part, but I couldn’t understand the chicken lady at all. What’s the difference between closed and non-closed chicken?”
“Quoi?” What?
“Yeah, she asked if I wanted fermé or non-fermé.”
He starts to laugh. “Non, Margaret.”
“Is that like some fancy French way of cutting the chicken?”
“Non, Margaret.”
“Yes, Yann.”
“She asked if you wanted fermier or non-fermier.” He emphasizes the ie in the word. “Farmed or non-farmed. It’s kind of like free-range or not.”
“Oh.”
“So, what did you take?”
“No idea.”
I resolve to eat more vegetable protein. So long as I get to pick out the mushrooms.
Do you have a “lost in translation” moment from your travels? If so, share it in the comments so that other people can laugh at you. With you. So that other people can laugh with you.
What happens next?
Keep reading with issue #3.
Closing remarks
Thanks for reading until the bitter end. You must have enjoyed the experience. If so, why not share idiomatic with a friend?
Interested in French music that isn’t Édith Piaf? I made a Spotify playlist featuring some of my favorite musicians. Check it out here!
I tend to post photos of daily life in Lyon as well as my travels on Instagram. Follow along. (Hint: much like Emily in Paris, I’ll be headed to Italy soon.)
Thanks again for reading. Hope you see you next time! Bisous 😘
Bonjour, Margaret. So glad to have found you. I'm moving to Marseille this summer, so it helps to read about your experiences! And I love your writing - the 2 timelines are wonderful. Following your instagram, too - Lyon looks lovely! Will need to check out your Spotify list, too. Right now French music is my only form of studying.
I can so relate to this! I’ve let my Italian lapse over the years but worked diligently for over a year re-learning all I could before a recent trip to Italy. I was a decent tourist but conversations eluded me and I felt so defeated. I haven’t tried to learn more since then, but your post makes me want to give it a go!