Language Lessons

I always thought that I was fairly good with languages. After all, I've been telling people for years that I'm bilingual because I can speak American and East Tennesseean. I had been the unofficial translator for my family and friends for years.

For example, I think it was after my senior year in high school, there was a national convention for youth for the Christian and Missionary Alliance, and several people from my church went. Being from East Tennessee, we were part of the Southern District. Now most of the people from my church had relatives up North, so most of them spoke fairly descent Yankee. But there were some others in the Southern District who didn't, and they figured out they could come to me for help.

The conference was at Southern Illinois University, and it was hot that week. The arena where we had meetings had no air conditioning, so the temperatures in there were absolutely stifling. There was one night when they had to take people out because they were dropping from the heat. There was a boy from Pennsylvania who was describing one such scene to one of the girls from Chattanooga, Tennessee. She wanted to know where this was happening inside the arena and asked the question, "Where did you sit?" Unfortunately for her, "sit" spoken in East Tennessee sounds like "see it." So he thought she was saying, "Where did you see it?"
His answer, "Last night, at the meeting."
Her response, "I know. But where did you see-it?"
It went on and on. Finally, she noticed I was close, and told the boy that I could explain. She asked me her question. I said, "She wants to know where you were sitting last night in the meeting."
The boy answered, "Oh. That's what she said? Really?"
"Yes. 'Where did you sit?' was the question."
"Sit?"
"Yes. Sit."
"I had no idea."
"I know. I understand."

I didn't particularly choose to be bilingual. It was my parents' fault. They are both from Nebraska, where I was born, too. We moved to East Tennessee when I was 12 years old and my two brothers were 10 years old and about 10 months old. The first thing my parents did was to send me to Girl Scout camp — a brilliant idea. At first, the other girls made fun of my strange accent, but one of the counselors suggested they make it a camp project to teach me how to speak like the rest of them. By the end of the week, when my parents came to get me, my parents couldn't understand a word I said. I had learned that words like "fire" and "science" were only one syllable, and words like "hill" and "cat" were two syllables. And though my parents weren't crazy about my new way of talking, it did come in useful, like when the lady cutting my mom's hair asked if we were going out to the fair they have every year, and my mom thought she said "fire".

But when my littlest brother was three, he same out to the kitchen one morning and said, "Mama, I have a turrible hay-dake." Mom pointed her finger at me and said, "This is all your fault." From then on, I was forbidden to speak "East Tennessee" in the house.

So I lived my life switching between East Tennesseean and Nebraskan, and when I went to college in South Carolina, even learned a little bit of Charlestonian and Columbian, both very different accents than my East Tennessean. I spent my summers playing the piano at the Old Faithful Inn, and the Yankees around me were so surprised when I could recognize where the tourists were from by their Southern accent. It wasn't difficult at all for me. Any Southern accent I heard when I was in Wyoming was like music to my ears.

Then it happened. I decided I needed something new and different. I decided that for graduate school I should move up north. So I did. I moved to Iowa City, Iowa and started working towards a Masters degree. I had been born in Nebraska and been to visit my grandparents often, so I was sure I could handle the weather. I was confident I could speak the language. My parents are from the Nebraska, so I thought there couldn't be cultural differences. I had spent my summers in Wyoming surrounded by people from all over the country. I thought I could handle anything.

I was wrong on all points. Iowa is cold. And I was watching the weather maps, eastern Iowa wasn't even as cold as Nebraska, but it was still much, much colder than East Tennessee. And East Tennessee was colder than the four winters I had spent in South Carolina. I was already homesick, but that first ice storm made it so much worse.

And I couldn't speak the language. Nobody knew where the "soda machine" was, because in Iowa, soft drinks are "pop". If I had asked in East Tennesseean, and asked where the "soda pop machine" was, they might have understood. But in South Carolina, they would laugh at me for calling it that. When I would give an answer in class, the professors didn't understand. I remember Dr. Robertson in particular, "What was that? Was that five or nine? Maybe you should just hold up some fingers." Some of the other students were from China, and I didn't understand what they were saying, but the professors did. The same professors that didn't understand me.

And I didn't understand the customs. How could things be so different between the South and Iowa? I was completely blown away. Dr. Robertson hated that I called him "sir", but it was difficult for me to stop. He was probably my dad's age, but he said I made him feel old. I called all my professors at Furman "sir" or "ma'am", and some of them were not old enough to be my parents, but they didn't complain. It would have been disrespectful to not say "sir."

And all over town, I would try to make small talk with people just to be polite, like with the ladies working at the grocery store. Nope. No talking allowed it seemed.

After a few years there, I met and married an Iowan, and together we moved to Northern Virginia. He didn't like the crowds and the traffic, but I liked the people. There were people from all over the world living near DC, and plenty of Southerners who understood me. And the weather is warmer than in Iowa.

I love to travel, and spent some time when I was in high school as an exchange student in Germany. With my job in DC, I had a chance to travel quite a bit, and went to Tokyo and a couple of trips to Europe alone. My husband didn't want to go anywhere where English wasn't the official language. Then I was offered a free trip to London, and I convinced my husband that he and the kids should come along.

I had a terrible time in England understanding the accents. I kept asking Darin, "Was that English?" At one point on a tour of Dover Castle, the docent was handing out headsets for the tour and asked if anyone needed a language other than English. Darin asked her if she had American for his wife.

But it was a start. I next convinced Darin that he could come to Germany with me, and we included a side trip to Paris. We had a nice trip, and English isn't an official language in Germany or France.

But my husband's language skills were tested along the way. He took French in high school, and switched to Spanish in college because he thought it would be easier. While in a Metro station in Paris, he told the girls that "thank you" in French was "merci" and "please" was "por favor." Our oldest corrected him. "Dad, I don't think that was French."

Then it happened. Again. I decided I needed something new and different. After 13 years in Virginia, I see an advertisement for a job in Europe, and it seems like it was written just for me, and the requirement is that you need to be able to speak English. And what's really amazing is that my husband, who doesn't like foreign languages, is willing to move to Luxembourg. English is not an official language in Luxembourg, and it's the fourth language taught in the schools (after Luxembourgish, German, and French), so many people don't speak English.

But once again, I think that I can handle all the differences. Not with the confidence of moving to Iowa, but with a plan to learn about the language and the customs. French is a difficult language to learn, but I know a little bit of German, and many people can speak some English.

I first saw the job opening in September, and I started my French lessons in November. I bought a set of Pimsleur CDs for my husband and I to learn French. The idea is that they teach you conversational French that you will really need. So I thought it was a bit odd that among the early lessons in French I is how to say "no" to a really pushy guy who invites you for drinks or dinner. One of the funniest parts on the CD is that she corrects him, "Pas mademoiselle. Madame." (Not Miss. Mrs.) But it doesn't slow him down one bit.

But then it happened to me, after I had been in the country for less than a week. I was standing at the outside door to my apartment building, looking for my keys so I could unlock the door to the building. I hear a voice behind me. This is the conversation, which was in French unless otherwise indicated below:

The man (in his 50s, I would say): Excuse me, Madame, do you know where Louis Something-or-other lives?
me: No
him: He has a studio apartment.
me: No (My favorite word in French)
him: Do you understand?
me: yes, I understand, but I don't know ("I don't know" is my favorite French phrase).
him: You understand French?
me: a little bit, a very little bit
him: Do you know Louis Something-or-other?
me: I live here only six days.
him: Oh, where are you from?
me: USA.
him: New York?
me: No, Washington.
him: I have a brother who lives in New Jersey. He's lived there 12 years.
me: Oh.
him: (Something about going to visit or not going to visit his brother, or this brother not coming here. I didn't understand it, but it had to do with brother and going.)
me: Oh.
him: My name is Stephan. (He puts out his hand to shake my hand.)
me: Catherine
him: (a sentence with the word "boit" in it, "drink")
me: What?
him: (making the international sign language for drink) "Boit . . . (in English) drink" (then points to the corner, and switches back to French) Would you like something to drink, on the corner? (There is a pub there.)
me: No, thank you.
him: Later?
me: No, thank you. My husband waits for me. (A complete lie because my husband was still in the States, and I didn't even have a phone to call him.) Good-bye.
him: Good-bye.

It was almost like the CDs, except that he called me Madame from the start. It was so strange, like he had been studying the Pimsleur CDs for ways to pick up women. Which didn't work on the Pimsleur CDs either.

Later, Pastor Chris at the Anglican Church told Darin that he should start drinking wine if he's going to learn French. He says French is much easier to pronounce correctly if you are drunk. Darin said that was the first time a pastor had ever told him to get drunk. Welcome to Europe and the Anglican Church! (And German is easier if you're drinking beer, we were told.)

There was a time at the office when I avoided speaking French altogether. My coworkers where trying to help me improve my pronunciation, but there are some sounds I just can't say. I was talking to Darin about this at home one evening, and he just laughed. "There are words you don't say correctly in English. Why should it bother you if you can't say things correctly in French?" Good point. So I started speaking French in the office again.

French is hard, but I'm trying to come up with some creative ways to learn the language, besides, of course, turning down dates from strange men. In the evenings at home, I've been watching Pirates of the Caribbean over and over in French while I do needlework or work on the laptop. Darin just laughs at me. I really want to be able to say, "I'm disinclined to acquiesce to your request" in French. He says I should listen to my French lessons instead. Sometimes he is just no fun.

And our youngest child bought a travel-sized "Cluedo" in French at the church fair, and I try to make the girls play it using only French. It's quite interesting. Some of the things translate almost automatically, like Miss Scarlett is Mlle Rose. But some things are more difficult, like the word for "lead pipe" which is really the word for a billy club or nightstick. And in French, Mr. Green is Reverend Olive and Mrs. Peacock is Madame Pervenche (Periwinkle).

I know that sometimes Darin wants to avoid learning French altogether, but sometimes a little bit could come in handy. On the day of the Grand Duke's birthday party, there were some street closings due to the fireworks later. I think what the bus driver told us this morning was that he could take us to the station in the morning, but he couldn't pick us up there in the evening. What I didn't quite understand was where we could catch the bus in the evening, but I still managed to find my home way judging by where he was pointing when he talked about evening buses.

And numbers. I'm a math person, so numbers should be easy. I hate French numbers. Sometimes in the morning when I buy croissants for breakfast, the total comes to 95 cents. Seventy in French is "soixante-dix" meaning sixty-ten. Eighty is "quatre-vingts" meaning 4 twenties (like four score), only pronounced "cat-va." Ninety is eighty-ten, and Ninety-five is four-score-fifteen ("cat-va-caz"). It takes me a while to process all of that early in the morning. And sometimes the women use the Belgium way to count, so that seventy is "septante" instead of "soixante-dix". Oh my.

But not all French is difficult. In the afternoons, when I want something other than a chocolate croissant, I sometimes stop by the Quick for a vanilla shake, and the large size -- grand milkshake de vanille.

But I can be quite confusing also. I very often have teenagers come up to me and ask me for money. They are clean and well dressed, in nice jeans and nice shoes, and I really believe they are near the station to try to get drugs. They tell me they need money to get home. But if they live in Luxembourg, they can ride the bus for free if they are students. They ask for money, usually first in German. I say NO. Then they try English. Still NO. Sometimes they try again in French. NO, NO, NO. They are somehow sure that I haven't understood. But I do understand. I asked one young man, in English, "Does your mother know you are down here trying to buy drugs?" He seemed really shocked, and started to speak to me in Luxembourgish. So now, to avoid the hassle, I have a new plan. When someone asks for money, especially someone I'm sure doesn't really need my money, I say, "Ich kanne no sé." That's almost-German at the start for "I can", and then "I don't know" in Spanish. It works. Their little brains start spinning, trying to figure out what language to try next on me, and I just walk away.

And I have always thought it was strange that they teach you, in French, to ask someone if they speak English: "Parlez-vous l'anglais?" And then we are supposed to reply either: "Oui. Je parle l'anglais." or "Non. Je ne parle pas l'anglais."

One night on my way home from work, a man walked up beside me on the bridge and asked, "Parlez-vous l'anglais?" I, of course, gave the correct answer, the one they don't teach in the French lessons: "Yes. I do." He introduced himself. His name was Ali. He said he had seen me on the bridge before, and he thinks that we'll see each other again because we seem to be going in the same direction on the bridge at the same time, and Luxembourg is a very small city. I asked him if he could tell by looking at me that I spoke English. He said, no, he heard me talking to myself one day when I was taking pictures on the bridge. So that was a little bit embarrassing. But thank goodness he didn't ask me for a drink or to dinner. He just gave me his business card (so I would remember his name, he said) and went on along his way.

And maybe I can't really speak English, but my American passes as English for most Europeans on the continent, and my new boss is French. However, most of the English-speakers I meet here are from England, and one of their favorite jokes is to ask, "Has your boss figured out yet that you don't speak English?"

In a way, my language problems should give me a common bond with the Luxembourgish. Luxembourgish comes from a peasant German dialect, but it's not German. I think speaking Luxembourgish to a German is a bit like speaking East Tennesseean, with some Gullah or Cajun thrown in for good measure, to a Brit. But the Luxembourgish will never know how much we have in common, because we don't speak a common language.