Paris July 2015

For some reason the only country on my itinerary that I was a bit skeptical about coming to was France. There was some irony in this because it was also the country that I wanted to visit the most.

For as long as I could remember my mother gushed on and on about France. Even before she first stepped foot on French soil she was a Francophile. She read books about France, took French language courses and was a Juila Child fan who owned her own copy of the Joy of French Cooking. When we were kids my sisters and I thought our mother’s obsession was pretty hilarious and we would often tease and laugh at her. The thing was, my mother’s passionate about all things French was infectious. So, how could I have grown up in that household and not want to visit the country that placed my mother under its spell?

I clearly felt compelled to go to France so why was I experiencing so much anxiety? The reason–I was more than a little worried about my inability to speak French.  I have foreign language anxiety. 

Seriously, I am not making this up. I have studied Spanish, Kiswahili and Arabic and have recieved A’s in some classes, but I completely freeze when I have to carry on a conversation in another language. I was actually afraid that once I was in France someone would expect me to speak the few words I actually know in French.

I knew this was an irrational fear because my Sophia had been to France and had never once described having trouble in regards to the language barrier, I thought. But then again Sophia practiced her basic French for years and even if it wasn’t perfect she probably would not have noticed or cared because the Francophile that she was… 1) she probably would have convinced herself that the French loved her as dearly as Josephine Baker and 2) she already had French friends who actually helped her during her journey. I would be on my own.

It did occur to me that over the years technology had made the world a lot smaller. Perhaps, I could use technology to bridge the gap? I decided to consult with Melissa who was a colleague from work. Melissa has exceptional language skills (she is fluent in four different languages) she also has family based in Paris and visits them at least once a year.

“Do you think I will be okay in the taxi from the train station since I don’t speak French?” I asked her one day as I verbally sketched out my vacation plans. “Taxi drivers will know some English..right?”

“Uhm, no.”she replied. “Most do not. In fact, the last time I was there one of my friends had to called me from her taxi so that I could tell the driver where to go.” Oh boy! This is so not good, I thought as the excitement about my trip hit the floor.

Ten minutes later I called Melissa back to my office. I had a solution and I needed to run it by her.

“How do I get to the train station?” I spoke into my iPhone as Melissa watched.

“Comment arrive-je à la gare?” the female voice coming from my phone recited back.

“What app is that?” Melissa asked. I smiled. God did not gift me with an affinity for language, but when it came to technology…I was queen.

“It is called Speak & Translate,” I said. “And it will be my new best friend during my trip. Is she accurate?” Melissa told me that the app was and she sat in my office as I demonstrated my new bestie’s ability to translate Spanish, Arabic and Dutch.

I was ready!
Or so I thought.
My original plan was to see if I could purchase a 3G plan upon my arrival in Europe at Barcelona International Airport. When I started to calculate the projected cost of this trip, it had gone well beyond what I normally spent on my summer vacations. I needed to trim some of the fat, so to speak. If I did not really need it–I was determined not to buy it. This trip was about experiences, so no souvenirs, no clothes shopping trips and no 3G. Besides every hotel I booked had free internet and so did many cafès throughout Europe. Did I really need a 3G package? And how much would that cost is if it were for multiple countries? The 3G plan was out.

It wasn’t until I actually arrived in Europe that I realized that my earlier decision had compromised the usefulness of my electronic translator.
The night before leaving for Paris I repeated the phrase “Please take me to Hotel __. The address is…..” into the translator. The words in French appeared.  With great care I painstakingly wrote out the phrase onto a piece of paper (including every accent). The more I listened to and repeated the French phase the more nervous I became about speaking, so I decided that my note should be enough and went to bed.

When I arrived at the taxi stand outside of the Paris Gare Lyon I handed the driver my note without saying a word. Perhaps, he will think I was mute and not ask any questions , I thought. The driver studied my note for more than a few minutes. Oh No! Perhaps I wrote it down wrong, I thought.

“Do you understand?” I asked finally not being able to take his silence anymore.

“Yes, sure,” the driver responded in perfect English. “I just need to put it in my GPS.”

Unbelievable! I thought as I leaned back into my seat feeling a bit more relaxed as some of my anxiety dissipated.

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I should say that my hotel wasn’t exactly what I expected. I believed that I had booked a single room in a quaint four star hotel. I marginally got that, but there were a few surprises.

Paris July 2015

When I arrived at the reception desk little sat behind it. He glance up from the paper he was reading when I entered. When he didn’t speak first I did.

“I have a reservation,” I said giving him my full name. The man began to fumble papers on the desk. He pulled out what appeared to be a notebook and began to search for my name. I repeated my name when it appeared he was having difficulty finding it.

“Oh, yes,”‘he said with a French accent. He handed me a key card. “You are in room number 15. That is on the first floor.” I took a quickly glance at the white keycard with with a number 15 sticker placed upon it. I waited, but the man said nothing else.

“Is that all?” I asked. The man nodded. I took one of the hotel information sheets from the desks.

“Oh yes take that too,” he said as an afterthought. This was just plain bizarre, I thought. I wasn’t asked to sign in. My credit card information wasn’t taken. He didn’t even ask for identification. I could not even begin to fathom what to expect once I got to the room.

I rolled my suitcase a few feet to the elevator and opened the door. It so tiny that there was barely enough room for me and my medium sized suitcase. If one other person stepped in that elevator would have been over capacity.

 When the elevator arrived on the first floor the first thing I noticed was–there were no lights.

 Ok, I thought they must be motion sensor activated. I took a few steps down the narrow hallway. Nope. Nothing. I fumbled in my bag and pulled out my iPhone and hit the icon for the flashlight. I found my room at the end of the hall.

There wasn’t a slot to slide my card. So I started to randomly tapping the card against the door until I heard a click and a green light shone. My room was tiny, with tacky ceiling to floor drapes, but it was clean.

  “Not planning to spend a lot of time here anyway,” I said aloud. I scanned the hotel information sheet. I read:

• 24 hour reception. Please leave your room key when you are out.

• Buffet Breakfast from 7:00 to 10:30 am 9€-(juice, coffee, tea, bread, cheese, meat, cereal, cornflakes)

• Wifi free registration

I wanted to go out to dinner, so I scanned down the page for the safe box information so I could lock up my passport, credit cards and extra cash before heading outside alone. I read on:

• Safe box – Dial 1234# to open and to close

That was it! I stopped reading, grabbed my purse and headed back downstairs with my passport, credit cards, and money in tow. No sense leaving them. They were safer in my money belt than in a safe with a publicly announced combination.

“Are there any good restaurants nearby,” I asked the little old man at reception.  He was speaking English, but he was mumbling and swallowing his words. All I was able to decipher was…”yes, go to the corner, and make a left.” He gave me the name of the resturant, but I could not understand.

Following his directions I came across two restaurants. The first appearing a bit more formal than the second. I decided that I would have better luck with the menu of the more formal one. Hopefully I could remember what some of the few French words I knew looked like and could at least point to what I wanted.

“Bonjour!” the waiter said as he greeted me at the door. There were four groups of people seated.

“Please a table for one,” I said holding up a finger and praying he understood.

“But of course,” he said as he led me to a small table. A few seconds later he handed me a menu. Now this will be the real challenge. Remembering my formerly ailing stomach I hoped I didn’t accidentally order anything too rich or exotic. I opened the menu. It was in English! Thank God! A few seconds later the waiter set the Specials of the Day Chalkboard on the end of my table. It was all in French. I laughed.

“You know I cannot read this,” I said. I looked around. Perhaps my nervous laughter was a little too loud. I abruptly stopped.

“Then may I recommend….” he said as he described an appetizer, main course and dessert.

What the hell! I thought. I am in Paris!

“I’ll have that!” I said indicating whatever he was suggesting. My stomach rumbled in anticipation of what was sure to be a delicious meal.

Paris, July 2015

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This delicious meal was prepared at:

La Maison du Jardin Restaurant  [http://www.tripadvisor.com/Restaurant_Review-g187147-d718693-Reviews-La_Maison_du_Jardin-Paris_Ile_de_France.html]