A Dutchman in Paris
By JK Stenger
I was in Paris.
After a long and tiring train ride from Amsterdam, I arrived at the main train station in Paris, Gare du Nord. My excitement surged as I stepped onto the platform; the wonderful, happy French chatter welcomed me. It brought a smile to my face. After all, I have always considered French to be a beautiful language. It’s almost like music and if spoken well, it sounds like a heavenly symphony.
I speak French too. And, in all honesty, I was proud of my ability to communicate with the descendants of Jeanne d’Arc, Martin of Tours, and Louis Pasteur, to name a few.
So, after I left the station, I mingled with the locals hoping to find a restaurant to fill up the gaping hole in my stomach. Of course, I must admit, I was also trying to show off my unmatched skills as a linguist.
Not a good idea. Now I know.
There’s a verse in the Bible claiming that pride comes before a fall. A good verse it is, albeit not my favourite. But, after my recent visit to this great and bustling city of light and romance, I must admit that I can attest to the truth of this passage. My Dutch-accented French in Paris offended even the most tolerant people.
Leaning against the station wall, a young boy with a cheerful face was tapping his knees in time with a ‘chanson’ blasting through his oversized headphones. “Bonjour, Sir.,” I said. “Savez-vouz le restaurant?”
He looked at me with glassy eyes, removed his earphones and asked, “Pardon, qu’est-ce que vous voulez?”
I smiled as I understood. Of course I did. He wanted to know what I wanted. And so I repeated my question. “Une restaurant?”
He broke out into a smile and said in English. “Ah, you are foreigner. You funny accent. It’s hard to understand you.”
Me, a funny accent? Ridiculous. My French was just about perfect and so I continued in French and let him know I was a hungry Dutchman.
“You talk to me in Inglish” he insisted with a smile. “I believe, you are … hangry?”
Stupid French kid. Why did he assume I was angry? “No, no,“ I said, and in my excitement, I switched to English too. “I am not angry. I want to eat.”
“I don’t understand,” the boy said. “You are not hangry, so why you want eat?”
Frustration rose. I knew the Good Book said we should be kind, one to another, but this boy was obviously not a light in the dark. I raised my voice a little and tried it again. “Not angry! Hungry! I need cheese, French bread, Ratatouille… anything. I don’t like to be hungry.”
“Me too, not like being hangry,” he mumbled. He seemed confused and stared for a moment into his earphones as if to derive the wisdom of the ages from his plastic headset. At last, he looked up while his face carried a benevolent smile. “Ah,” he mumbled. “Me understood. You are irate, vexed, cross. But food no help when man is hangry.”
His hand slipped into the pocket of his coat, only to return with a small French New Testament. “This,” he said with a solemn, almost holy expression, “is cure for being hangry. Read little each day, and hangry flees away.” He touched my shoulder and pointed toward the Eiffel Tower visible in the far distance. “Bible shop there. You buy English book and eat words of Jésus. Good cure for being hangry.”
He looked at me with a pleased expression as, in his mind, he had performed his good deed for the day. So when he left, I was flabbergasted. What’s the word for that in French, again? Ah, yes … J’ai été sidéré. But to be frank, my balloon was popped, and I was relieved when the next day I was on my way back to Amsterdam, where everyone understood me properly.
No more Paris for me.
Even the clochards, those poor people who seek shelter from the cold under the bridges on the river Seine did not understand my beautiful French and mumbled back at me in their broken English. Even the clochards …?
Pride comes before a fall.
Dear Lord, when will I ever learn?