LETTER FROM PARIS #32 - it could be worse

You know you have hit a wall when you can’t figure out how to say “corn starch” in French. I know “mais,” and there must be a word for starch. (There is but it's for the stuff to stiffen shirt collars.) I figured I’d search the supermarket shelves and find it. Utter failure. In the section where all the flour and sugar is kept I found “farine de mais” which would be great if I wanted to make cornbread, but useless for Shirley who has a pervasive itch that could perhaps be ameliorated by corn starch. My only hope was that someone in the place spoke enough English. I found one. She was a young Asian girl, probably Japanese. She was bright-eyed and willing but she had never heard of corn starch. I wonder what the French use as a thickener. I didn’t know the word for thickener. I was almost, but not quite, an utter failure.

Not only have I not honed my language skills, but my other goal: to meet and make friends with a local person – has gone nowhere. The older man – Guy – didn’t seem like a decent choice. My new “friend” the music promoter was a friend as long as I bought tickets. Our dinner date was cancelled because of “malade de dos” – he had a sore back. He may not have recovered because I have not heard. My most recent Email went unanswered. The frustration deepens.

My last and perhaps best chance was a meeting of neighbours, announced as a "soiree pour les voisins" which was held in the lobby of the apartment house. There was wine. There were snacks. There was conversation. Shirley and I even joined in, but the two women we cornered wanted only to practice their English. Besides, the foyer area is all tile and marble so voices echo and ricochet off walls making my already slightly impaired hearing incapable of discriminating sounds. And if I could have? They all, everyone I have spoken to, agrees that they speak too quickly but hasten to add that when they are in an English-speaking country they have the same problem.

Watching TV almost non-stop for a couple of hours every evening has been the most frustrating. Even simple stuff, like a game show, where the “ contestants” do not bring encyclopaedic skills, we are both baffled.

In the drug store, I could not even remember, in English yet (!) the reason I wanted to buy some adhesive tape. I know the word for tape. I know the word for adhesive. I know the word for skin. I even know the word for reinforce. Do you think it did a particle of good? By the time she finally divined that I simply wanted sticky tape, I had looked at a variety of “bandes” from the elastic kind you wrap around a sprained ankle, and to the kind you use to attach an appliance to your body. Some fun.

There was one slightly bright light. On my way back from the drug store I passed “La Divina.” The host was standing on the sidewalk, lying in wait I think, for potential customers. H spotted me and with overflowing jollity gave me a huge “Comment ca va?” I gave him as hearty a response as I could, given that I was in a hurry to get home to announce to Shirley that I couldn’t find a cure for the itch. (Another tough word.) But he introduced me to a couple dining on the sidewalk. They are from Hull! The guy at La Divina thinks I came all the way to Paris to meet other Canadians. A nice enough couple we bantered easily in French. I fled before they could realize I had almost exhausted my small talk vocabulary.

Sadly I find myself listening to conversations, especially from people who are poring over a street map or Metro guide. I seem to be hoping I can ask: "Can I help?” One time, it was gratifying, I opened the conversation in French, was told “I don’t speak French” so I could lapse into English. Turns out they were Germans.

You may have been expecting communiqués from Normandy this week as we revisit Rouen and take a side trip to Entretat where those rock formations are, and perhaps to the WW2 Normandy beaches. Thwarted again. Maybe next week. Meanwhile – au revoir and bonne chance. (whatever that means.)