Before coming to Paris, I was worried that my lack of conversational French skills would impede me from getting to know people and making friends. Sure, I could analyze a work of literature, but how could I let people know the “real me” by talking about symbolist poetry? Or am I really only what I know about Mallarmé? I had an existential crisis on my hands, but had no way of talking about that in French, either.
Luckily, I shouldn’t have worried; there are lots of ways to communicate your personality through conversation in France (hint: speak English). What’s more, I think my personality is changing and adapting to its new environment – most notably, my sense of humor has transformed.
A few days ago, as I was riding the metro toward La Défense, a group of three eleven-year-old-ish boys ran on the train at Concorde. They pushed passed the other passengers to grab prime territory: a group of four seats, miraculously all recently vacated by ex-passengers of the crowded train. A minute later, as the blaring discordant minor-second alarm signaled the closing of the doors, another boy joined them.
“Hey, where were you? We thought we were going to leave without you,” his friends teased.
“J’ai laissé les gens passer,” he smirked. “I was letting people get off.” The implied “unlike you, heathens” was evident in his delivery.
“Ha ha!” I thought. I liked this kid’s style. Making fun of one’s friends is my game. I began active eavesdropping on the boys’ conversation, which now revolved around looking at pictures on a digital camera.
“Is that your sister that you told us about?” one boy asked my favorite one, who looked out the window, too cool to be there.
“Non, c’est ma meuf,” he said, poker-faced. “That’s my woman.”
“Ha ha!” I thought, happy I recognized the slang. This kid should be discovered! He should have a stand-up act! He should host SNL! He should have a spot on The Tonight Show! I ran out of things people do when they are famous comedians, so I returned to eavesdropping. Unfortunately, the boys were getting ready to depart.
“Charles de Gaulle – Étoile.” The recorded female voice routinely announced the upcoming stop in her perfect, mannered French.
“Charles de Gaulle – Étoile,” the comic genius repeated, imitating the same lilts and pauses that made the recorded voice sound so stilted.
“Ha ha!” I thought. I did that all the time, to practice my French (who knows when someone might want to know your favorite métro stop?). Now I couldn’t help but say it in the same way that I had heard so many times. How witty of this little kid to pick up on that!
Then I realized: calling your sister your wife? Not exactly Sedaris. These things weren’t funny. In French, I just have the sense of humor of a ten-year-old.
My boyfriend first pointed out that perhaps my differential perception of the two languages, English and French, is reflected in my reactions to them. For some reason, I find the sales pitches of the homeless on the subway at home tiresome, yet in Paris they are beautiful, lyrical, and with a sense of meter that rivals Shakespeare. It’s hard not to give a few centimes for a piece of poetry like that. Isaac, however, was skeptical.
“Are you sure you don’t just like it because, you know, you can understand it? And you’re excited about your ability to understand the language?”
I still believe that, whether it be the natural cadences of the language or the innate poetic talent of the Parisians SDF (sans domicile fixe), these propositions are different somehow. But as far as jokes are concerned, his theory holds up. Humor that I can understand becomes hilarious. These things are usually infantile. At family brunch, my host mother brought out her specialty: le gâteau nantais, or rum cake. Martine’s son-in-law grinned, “Ah, mon ami, le gâteau nantais.”
“Ha ha!” I said. His friend, the cake! Get it? Because he likes it so much! It's like a friend! His wife glared at me. My outpouring of mirth was too much for such a stupid comment. I now think she believes that I was trying to seduce him, sexy exchange student that I am. Au contraire. I just love a good joke.
You’d think, given these facts, that I would find comfort in the nadir of childish humor: bathroom stall graffiti. Awkward sexual jokes, scrawled phone numbers – things my French self would find a laugh riot. And yet, in the comfort of the co-ed sixth-floor bathroom of Paris-III, my university, I was rudely awakened. Beneath a drawing of a sad, emo stick-figure was written the following dialogue, between various temporary inhabitants of the second-to-last stall:
“Pk’il est triste?” (Why is he sad?)
“Pk’il aime mais il n’ose pas lui dire.” (Because he loves but doesn’t dare tell her.)
Another response: “Pk’il est vivant.” (Because he is alive.)
Oh god, this was getting heavy. I moved on.
“J’ai rompu avec qqn qui j’aime.” (I broke up with someone I love.)
“T’as raison, s’il ne reconnaît pas ton valeur.” (You were right, if he doesn’t realize your worth.)
“Synonyme : connard” (Synonym: bastard)
This was all too metaphysical for the bathroom wall. The innate sorrow of being? Acknowledging man’s intrinsic worth?
“Ha ha!” I thought. “They wrote, ‘bastard.’”
