MacGougan at Large

Notes on a Trip to Québec City - 4

Anglophone Anxiety

Prior to our trip to Québec, I thought that an anglophone was something British people used to make calls. It turns out, however, that an anglophone is me - or anyone else who, like me, speaks English and little or nothing else.

I took French in high school and for one year in college. This was more than a few years ago, and I’ve done little practicing since. So the prospect of visiting a French-speaking city made me a little nervous. How will I communicate with shopkeepers and waiters? Will they disdain me and my pathetic lack of fluency in French?

I had a daydream/nightmare of running into my old high school French teacher, who spoke to me in French and asked me something simple. Where am I going? How am I today? I wanted to respond in French, but instead froze up. At this point, he gave me a stern look. “Quel est le problème, Raoul?”

That’s right: Raoul. We got to choose our French names for French class. I was offered “Marc”. It’s a perfectly acceptable French name, but to me it seemed too close to my English-speaking identity. So in French class I was Raoul.

The teacher in my daydream assumed that I’d take advantage of the many years that have passed since I was his student to further my skill with the French language. Certainly by now I’d be ready for some serious post-graduate work at the Sorbonne. Instead - Quel dommage! - what little French I once had has gone to seed, and I can’t conjugate my way out of a wet paper bag.

As I recall, whatever facility I was able to reach with French mostly related to reading it. Deciphering spoken French is another matter altogether. Here’s a quick example of the problem. In French, there are approximately one thousand letter combinations at the end of a word (including, but not limited to, -ai, -ais, -ait, -aient, -er, -ez, -é, and -ée) that are all spoken as “AY”.

I did, however, manage to etch into the hard drive of my memory some lines of La Fontaine - which is to say children’s fables written in verse. Having learned them by ear listening to a tape, I can speak them with authority and what I imagine to be a passable accent.

So what would happen when I made my way to a fancy restaurant in Québec City? Here is the exchange I was anticipating - translated into English for the convenience of my anglophone colleagues.

MAÎTRE D’: Good evening sir and madam. Welcome to our restaurant fancy and expensive. Have you a reservation?

MARK: Mister Crow, on a tree perched, held in his beak a cheese.

MAÎTRE D’: One of my favorites. I will have it as a No Reservation. I believe we could for you both find a table. Is it possible for you to wait some minutes? Perhaps forty, fifty?

MARK: Mister Fox, by the smell attracted, spoke to the crow these words: Well Hello, Mister Crow! How attractive you are!

MAÎTRE D’: We are sorry to lose your patronage monetary and your accent impeccable. Now, if you will excuse me, it is needed that I find the pen of my aunt, which I may have mislaid on a piece of furniture.

As it happened, of course, everyone was very kind, helpful, and easy to communicate with. And I didn’t run into my old French teacher once.