I landed for a stopover in Paris, abuzz with energy and ready for fresh air after the stifling atmosphere of the airplane. Here I was...in Paris. I'd never been to Paris. My only reference for the city came from the movies. Leslie Caron and Maurice Chevalier. Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant. Marlon Brando and Maria Schneider...co-starring a darling stick of butter.
I bought a train ticket to get from the airport to the city center. I stood on the Metro platform beaming like a village idiot, turning this way and that. A wave of confidence rushed up from my toes and any doubts about taking the trip melted.
Apparently, my happy glow read as "friendly and local," because — not once, but twice — French-speakers approached me for directions.
They think I'm French...as hot as a fresh croissant. French.
I grinned and quickly spun my brain-dial to open a vault of ancient high-school French.
Ma Français est pas mal, I apologized with a perky forgive-me-I'm-new-in-town smile.
My inquisitor's twinge of disappointment dissolved into an expression of having stepped into something truly unpleasant, and I was sorry not to have been able to help. My accent must have been off.
Another opportunity arrived when a college-type girl approached me for information. Again I piped, Ma Français est pas mal.
Same reaction, only more so. She rolled her eyes, walked away and searched for help elsewhere. Damn, I tried. Give me a point or two for that.
I shuffled, looked up and down the track — and froze after translating what I'd said.
Merde.
Intention: My French is very bad.
Translation: My French is not bad.
Delivered with a cute shrug of my not-so-French shoulders. Not a great start.
Ducking into the train car, with a quick glance to make sure my questioners weren't in the vicinity, I took solace in the fact that I was anonymous and a dread American.
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