Learning to fail in another language, croissant and all

By Abi Christy

Language immersion is often viewed as an ephemeral period of time which comes and goes, leaving you with a transformative trio of treasures: near-native fluency, a faintly detectable accent that’s deemed “charming”, and enough confidence to last a lifetime. But that would be far too straightforward: language immersion does not have a finite expiry, though one can dream. The process of learning a language stretches on and on, becoming richer over decades, much like the timeless legacy of Celine Dion. Yet, what cannot be compared to Dion’s elegancy, is the consistent trial-and-error of putting yourself out there linguistically, only to be corrected, or even worse: misunderstood. During my time in Pontoise, a small, beautiful town lying just outside Paris, I mentally prepared myself to dive right in, use the day-to-day phrases and fit in as much as possible. Within the French capital where hordes of Brits, Americans, and Europeans flow in and out of  the Charles de Gaulle Airport each day, I knew that English would be commonly spoken in order to accommodate for tourists, but outside of Paris itself, I wasn’t so sure. I braced myself for a baptism of fire: a full French immersion. However, what I didn’t expect, was the never-ending number of colloquial phrases that were being nonchalantly thrown around, leaving me sweating and socially obliged to offer some kind of reaction.

Each awkward interaction and puzzled smile exchanged, marks one step further into grounding ourselves us in a new culture

In a range of Inside-Out style emotions – displayed with perfect, accurate chaos in the popular Disney film – my brain was hosting a constant back-and-forth tennis match of thoughts in attempt to conjure any appropriate response. Should I smile? Were they telling a joke? Do I react surprised, or maybe excited? What if their question was rhetorical? And MOST importantly, how can I hide the stress-fest taking place in my subconscious? In the most British way possible, I laugh a little and smile, giving my best try at an ambiguous reaction. “C’est parti!”, people would say as they stood up, slapping both hands on their legs to indicate the termination of a social interaction. Let me confess: for weeks and weeks I racked my brain trying to figure out what this means. If you took GCSE French, you’ll confidently be able to tell me that “C’est” means “It is”,  and then maybe if you sat the higher-level paper, you’ll tell me that “partir” means “to leave” or “ to go”. So directly translated, this would be “It’s gone!” or “It’s left!”. But what on earth was the “it” that they could possibly be referring to? I am honestly embarrassed to say that it took me just upwards of 2 months to properly figure this one out on my own. As it turns out, this phrase means “here we go!”, or “we’re off!”, and its discovery was a moment of pure epiphany for me when everything finally made sense in retrospect. Better late than never, right?

Trying to understand spoken French in action is one thing, but trying to speak it, is something entirely different. Put simply: it’s like the difference between watching someone sky-dive versus actually skydiving. Let’s take a simple example, like ordering a coffee. When visiting a Paris café, you will notice that there are two levels of tolerance. One will be tailored to tourists, English-speakers, and/ or Starbucks-lovers. These will normally default to English Menus, offering the perfect balance of caffeine and milk, AKA: the “Latte” . The other type of café will be by the French, for the French. In these café’s the word “latte” is taken as nothing short of a sacrilegious insult to coffee culture. It will not feature on their menu, and they would certainly not take joy in accommodating for it. After weeks of experimenting, I was told that a successful compromise would be to order a “Café allongé avec du lait” which in translation is: “a long coffee with milk”. I began to order this regularly, but the milk I was given in the miniature milk jug seemed like an afterthought, and didn’t compete with the generous two-and-a-half inches of milk that normally comes in a U.K “Latte”. During a moment of spontaneous boldness in this type of café, I asked (in French) whether I could have my “café allonge” with a bigger jug of milk to accompany it. The waiter – who was already low on patience from the classical Parisian overcrowded café scene – told me that “avec du lait” means that milk is already included. I replied that I was aware of this, but that I was wondering if I could pay for a little bit more of it. After being caught off guard that I could speak French and then slightly offended at this bizarre request, he rolled his eyes and paced away, confirming that though it was in fact possible, it didn’t mean it was normal, or particularly “French”. 

It might cost you your linguistic dignity to put yourself in the spotlight by speaking, but it’s all about having the bravery to fail

Mistake-making in another language (as I’ve learnt the hard way) is absolutely customary, and completely unavoidable for long-term practice; it’s all part and parcel of the experience. It might cost you your linguistic dignity to put yourself in the spotlight by speaking, but it’s all about having the bravery to fail. Though language-learners may never reach a Céline Dion level of respect in the francophone world, we might get something even better: a collection of small, meaningful victories. Each awkward interaction and puzzled smile exchanged, marks one step further into grounding ourselves us in a new culture. So here’s to trying anyway … no matter how many times we fall short of parfait. 

Image Credit: Abi Christy