Until today, I took for granted the ability to translate my thoughts into coherent verbal expressions. Then I arrived in Paris. Suddenly I am mute. Words catch in my mouth like overcooked oatmeal. Well-meaning, but perpetually exasperated French people cannot understand that I live at 4 rue Alfred Bruneau. What? Bruneau. What? Brew-know. Nevermind, Madame, I will just drag my suitcase through the 16th arrondissement some more. Maybe I will pass the Eiffel Tower again. After spending three weeks in the United States, where I can discuss the intricacies of politics, language and religion with the greatest of ease, my attempts to order a sandwich are foiled at every turn. I am frustrated, lonely and thinking far too much for my own good. On the upside, acquiring the melancholy/irritated look of the French woman on the street took no time at all.
Allow me to clarify: I have been studying the glorious French language for 11 years. Eleven. I have watched Muzzy, sang “Au Clair de la Lune”, and learned to love the boot. Due to some sort of mental block, I have studied the subjunctive more times than you could shake a baguette at. By this point in my career, I should not only be reading Sartre, but discussing his works in a critical, analytical and pretentious manner. Preferably while smoking Gauloises and drinking espresso. And yet, I am reduced to inane linguistic groping. “Please sir, a woman came for me, but I missed my flight and now she is not here. Can you call her?” The man at the airport eventually consented to page my host mother. However, my attempt to find her ultimately proved futile, and thus, I was driven to her apartment by a Spanish man who, after a brief interview, asked if I understood any French. Have I mentioned 11 years? I believe I have.
So how does this make me feel? Vraiment? Moronic, imbecilic, as though I deserve the sneering and pithy remarks that I am sure to elicit from Parisians in the weeks to come. I know what you are going to say. “You are overreacting; you just got there. You are tired from your seven-hour flight and the ravages of customs” (Yeah, you try taking off knee-high boots in the middle of an airport). “As soon as you are immersed in the language, it will begin to flow like the waters of the Seine.” I believe that, I really do. I already learned how to say, “I am not in a hurry” (Je ne suis pas press?). Quite exciting. However, this does little to alleviate the suffering of my forced silence.
After 20 pleasant years of vocalization, it is as if my entire speaking apparatus has been stolen by some sort of mischievous feline. Thoughts climb over each other to escape my brain, but before they dart to freedom they must pass the French gatekeeper, who bears a strange resemblance to a notorious French professor who once told me that I write like a seven-year-old. Three options present themselves: One, the thoughts possess no ability to make themselves clear to the unforgiving Frenchwoman. Two, they can muster a translation, but end up sounding like the aforementioned seven-year-old, which is clearly unacceptable. Or three, the vocabulary does exist to change my doughty English thoughts into chic French ones. As you can imagine, only the last two ever see the light of day. That means that two-thirds of my thoughts simply fester in the abyss of my mind. Now I don’t know if there has ever been any sort of scientific study of this, but I expect that it might actually lead to my brain imploding like a supernova. And how would that look for Georgetown?
“Have you heard anything from Tara?”
“Yeah, she went abroad and her brain imploded.”
A sticky situation all around.
Beyond the obvious problems inherent in not being able to speak (inability to communicate desires, ask for directions and insult the greasy, pseudo-bohemian trailing behind you making kissing noises), difficulties of a more personal nature present themselves. Embroiled in a foreign culture, an ocean and an eternity away from love, friendships, affection and comfort, no need presses more than the need to belong, to find my place on this strange stage, to create a life here. I sit at the cafe, searching for something to drink that costs less than five euros and glancing enviously at the groups of Parisiens deep in discussion around me. Practicing the age old skill of eavesdropping, I pick up strains of politics, literature and love. And the thoughts clanging around in my brain strain to join in. My chair edges discreetly over. My lips part expectantly, but the words refuse to come. A single tear drops, and I return to my four-euro espresso. Having resigned myself to a Steppenwolfian life of cheap wine and solitude, I pray that my words will eventually catch up with my mind.
