Teaching an Old Dog New French

Earlier this year, I decided to learn some travel-related French. Or, as we Francophiles like to say, “Arrgghh.”

As a youngster, I took Introductory French 6 times. I was an Air Force brat and every time we’d move to a new school, they would be teaching an introductory language class that year, and somehow all the schools where I landed were teaching French the year I showed up. So, I got really good at asking where the post office is in French.

But now, all these years later, I decided to brush up on the language a little. Or, frankly, remember how to ask where the post office is, because it’s been a minute.

After almost 4 months of practicing with the language app DuoLingo, I discovered that I’m… dumber than a rock. (Hang on while I look up the word for “rock”: aha! Le rocher.)

Gone are the happy days of youth when my brain was flexible and capable of new growth, and I could pick up the fundamentals of languages in no time.

Now, with every passing week of diligent Frech lessons, I lose ground.

To practice, I found a six-episode series on Netflix that looked interesting. And it was in French. Usually, Netflix dubs foreign shows into English, but in this case, all of the dialogue was still in French, but with English subtitles. Cool, I thought. I can listen and see if I recognize anything.

Out of the six episodes, I picked out 12 words.

Seriously? Everyone whines that English is the hardest language to learn.

I beg to differ.

I’m pretty darn sure (certaine?) French is harder. Between randomly gendered nouns (why is a bus masculine but a car is feminine?), reflexive verbs, and the fact that by French law, only 10% of the letters in any given word may be pronounced out loud (and I’m being generous), I was at a loss.

As far as I could tell, the main character in the French show (Vortex, for those of you following along at home) would mumble, and I quote:

“Meh.”

The English subtitle at the bottom of the screen would say:

“Never fear, I will change space and time to save your life because you are the mother of my daughter and I still love you despite the fact that you died and I remarried and had a son and I love them, too, and don’t want to lose them.”

Then the dead wife would say:

“Muhm meh.”

Which was so clear I almost didn’t need the English subtitle, which of course said: “My dearest lost love, kindly teach me how to shoot your service pistol.”

And then our intrepid hero would look at her with soulful eyes.

The soulful eyes were about the only thing I understood. Sort of. Unless he was just mildly irritated. Hard to say, seeing as how the French can make anything—even irritation—look sultry.

So… yeah. If I suddenly find myself waking up in Paris and wandering into the nearest café to order a croissant and a cup of decaf, I’m fairly sure I’m going to end up with a red tricycle, a cast-iron skillet, and an arrest warrant citing my intention to cohabitate with a small elephant in an RV.

Please send bail money. Or, as we say in Paris, “Meh.”

[Photo by Sab Qadeer on Unsplash]