On the occasion of this lazy Sunday, I thought I would take advantage of one of my very rare moments of repose (as if I never pass an entire day in my pajamas ever) to catch you all up on the highlights of recent events in my irresistibly fascinating life in Toulon. To begin with, you should know that around these parts, the French have a familiar saying that they use to demarcate something they find especially foolish. The phrase is : n’importe quoi. Here’s how they might use it: Avec Segolene Royal, c’est vraiment n’importe quoi. Literally translated, that means, “with Segolene Royal, it is truly anything.” Figuratively, however, it means that the speaker thinks Segolene Royal is so crazy and stupid that she is totally unpredictable and will do anything no matter how ridiculous it seems (which is actually how most southerners of France feel about the leftist presidential candidate). Last night, a friend and I went out to a bar to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, a holiday that in fact few French people (if any) celebrate at all, but feeling staunchly true to our red American blood, we felt obliged to carry on the tradition even in hostile territory. Arriving at the bar dressed in ridiculous green garb, we immediately attracted attention as conspicuous Americans. After a short time, we fell in with a group of young people, some of whom we had met previously on another night. Even though we already knew some of these people, I felt like I was having a difficult time interacting with them in anything other than a very awkward way. We exchanged a few pleasantries amongst those of us packed tightly around one rectangular table, but after barely opening my mouth one young man felt obligated to tell me that his English was much better than my French, which had the double effect of both insulting me and convincing me to keep my mouth shut (he said this, of course, in barely intelligible English). I finally found what I thought to be a suitable “in” to a conversation going on next to me when a couple who had moments before been necking furiously joked that they were, in fact, brother and sister (oh, the sparkling French wit, always so charming and sophisticated!), to which I responded (I thought cleverly), that with the French it is truly “n’importe quoi.” Everyone laughed, which I took initially to mean that I had both effectively used a common phrase and made a good joke, but it didn’t take me long to realize that they were not laughing with me, but at me. For the rest of the evening, I was the simple American girl who said that “avec les français, c’est vraiment n’importe quoi.” The joke was repeated for everyone who passed by the table and even for distant friends who were eagerly lured over to hear what foolish thing the American girl said. And, after a while, it wasn’t so much what I said that seemed to matter, but that I had said anything. I was a novelty to them, and American who spoke not only French, but their own patois. I was no more interesting than a talking parrot, and there was really no convincing them otherwise since when I spoke they were so astonished by the words coming out of my mouth they couldn’t even pause to hear the content of what I was saying.
Incidents like these are particularly frustrating given the amount of time I spend at my job patiently trying to decipher pitiful attempts on the part of French young people to communicate to me in English, and overlooking the ridiculous things that they say. Just the other day, in fact, I had a real doozie. The topic of my lesson was what the students did during their most recent vacation. I had just asked if anyone in the class had a funny story about something that happened on vacation, when everyone pointed to one young man, we’ll call him Jean, saying that Jean had a funny story. Jean squirmed a little in his seat, reluctant to be in the spotlight, but finally he confessed that over the vacation he had eaten a bus. Yes, that’s right, he ate a bus. Here’s roughly the dialogue that ensued:
Me: I’m sorry, I didn’t understand you. You ate a bus?
Jean: Yes, yes. I ate a bus.
Me: But, you couldn’t possibly have eaten a bus. (I made the hand-to-mouth motion to indicate the meaning of “eaten.”)
Jean: Yes! I ate a bus! (He mirrors my miming motions.)
Me: Please explain.
Jean: I was on my cycle, and I ate a bus.
Me: Oh, you mean you HIT a bus. Or, rather, a bus hit you?
Jean: No, not HIT, ATE. I ate a bus. (I now think one of us is crazy. Jean continues.) It is… how do you say? A figure of speech. You say, ate a bus.
The discovery of this strange idiomatic phrase leaves me speechless. It is just too weird. I’m also not sure that Jean is a reliable source, although his classmates confirmed that it is a figure of speech that the French use to describe a collision. The reason I don’t trust Jean is that, first, Jean appeared to me to be unharmed. Had he hit a bus, I would expect to see at least a moderate amount of physical damage to his person. Second, it would seem more logical too me if it was the other way around, that the bus ATE him, not that he ATE the bus. But, then again, the French have all kinds of these ridiculous idioms. For example, to say that you’ve stood someone up, in French you say, literally, you left a rabbit. Or, if you have a hangover, you say you have a face made of wood. (There’s a great book on this, by the way, called “Ciel! Blake!”)
And, one more thing. There is a talking parrot in my neighborhood. He lives on the balcony of an apartment overlooking the main street, and most of the time he’s too preoccupied to say much of anything (it is a busy life, isn’t it, that of the talking parrot), but when he is feeling a bit loquacious, he says “merci” (thank you) and “ta gueule” (shut up) alternately and at random. Kind of has the effect of making the poor bird appear a bit unstable. And, have a bird shouting down at me from two stories above my head while I’m walking down the street has the effect of making me feel a bit unstable as well. So, I’m sticking to my guns on this one. With the French, it is truly “n’importe quoi.”
