By Tracey Spicer
In Shakespeare's Henry V, a French Princess tries to learn English. But 'foot' – as pronounced by her maid – sounds too much like 'foutre': the 'f' word. She eventually decides English is too obscene.
This is the first recorded instance of 'Franglais', a portmanteau which is poisoning each language.
For native Englishspeakers, the rules are simple: insert as many French words as you know into a sentence, Spakfilla with Anglais, and voila!
One of the colourful stores in So-Pi, an emerging arrondissement beneath Montmartre.Credit: Tracey Spicer
I am a serial offender, assaulting the ears of many in Morocco, Mauritius, and Tahiti.
On my first visit to France 30 years ago, I asked for "Deux, ah, tickets to, erm, Orly". The stationmaster called over his colleagues, insisting that I, "repetez". Doubled over with laughter, they said I'd asked for two tickets to a pillow: oreiller.
Despite countless catastrophes – including asking for ice cream to numb my daughter's foot after an ant bite – I forge forward, like Napoleon at Waterloo.
Living like a local means enjoying the occasional glass of Chablis.
Following two years of lessons at Alliance Francaise, I am back in Paris sans dictionnaire.
The scene of this year's crimes against language (for which Professor Rene Etiemble from the Sorbonne suggests we should be shot) is un appartement in a beautiful Beaux Arts building in the 8th arrondissement, booked through Airbnb.
My host, Dan, arrives with a croissant and pain au chocolat. "Merci. C'est chaud!" I exclaim, as the pastries warm my hands.
The world's most famous bookstore has a reading room upstairs, where you can stay all day.Credit: Tracey Spicer
"Mais, er, outside, c'est froid. Ah, I mean, il fait froid," I stutter. (This is seared into the cerebral cortex by my nineyearold: "Mum, when you're talking about the weather, it's 'il fait'. Don't you know anything?")
"Oui. Le parapluie est labas," Dan says, pointing to an umbrella. This is my favourite French word: a parasol to guard against the rain.
If I only have to talk about the weather, food and money, I'll be OK: I doubt there'll be discussions about the philosophy of Voltaire.
While there are automated ticket machines at the train stations, talking to the attendant is infinitely more entertaining.
At the nearby Madeleine, I'm rewarded for my fumbling French with a free topup on my 35 day ticket. "Avec plaisir," he smiles.
Parisians seem to be harried, living in a city with 12 million people. But one day, as I stare at spaghetti lines on a map of the Metro, a young man taps me on the shoulder. "May I help you?" he asks, in heavily accented English. "It's easy to get lost."
A few minutes of Franglais and I'm safely on my way.
Ordering food is easy, given the global Gallicisation of menus, but formalities remain difficile.
"C'est fini," I tell the waiter at Les Philosophes in Le Marais, after eating the filet de boeuf. "No," my friend Tanya insists. Born in Melbourne, she's been based in Switzerland for more than a decade. "You say, 'J'ai termine'. Much more polite."
After a few days, I feel like a local. In the 10th arrondissement – the Brooklyn of Paris – I chat to a café owner about the nearby terror attacks: "C'est la guerre", she says, sadly.
In the stylish 11th, a bespoke bootmaker says each item is crafted from the hides of French cows. (I am careful to repeat the word vache rather than viande, which means meat...)
On the final night, I dine at Auberge Nicolas Flamel in the oldest house in the city. The waiter ask whether I want to speak French or English: "Francaise, s'il vous plait," I say, nervously. My language appears to improve with each glass of wine. (Except for the moment I inexplicably slip into Italian, requesting a red wine, "avec gusto!" He understands, bringing un verre de vin de Bordeaux.)
My adventure in etymology peaks in an unexpected place: the back of an UberX. The drivers don't speak English. But they're all keen to practise. You're forced to use French to bridge the gap.
"Votre francaise est bonne," Omar says, at the airport. I'm certain he's exagérant.
But at least I'm a step up from the guy who thought pas de deux was a father of twins.
A word of warning: Be careful when talking about temperature. Je suis chaude doesn't mean, "I feel warm"; it means, "I feel horny".
And you really don't want to foutre that up.
Tracey Spicer travelled to Paris courtesy of Airbnb.
TRIP NOTES
MORE INFORMATION
The official Paris tourism website is www.en.parisinfo.com
Also check out www.smartraveller.gov.au for safety information.
GETTING THERE
Cathay Pacific flies to Paris via Hong Kong. See www.cathaypacific.com/au or phone 131747.
STAYING THERE
Airbnb.com.au has thousands of Parisian apartments on its website. The best arrondissements are Le
Marais, the 10th and 11th, and SoPi south of Pigalle.
DINING THERE
Auberge Nicolas Flamel, 51 Rue de Montmorency, 75003. See www.aubergenicolasflamel.fr
Monsieur Bleu, 20 Avenue de New York, 75116. See www.monsieurbleu.com
Aux Pres, 27 Rue du Dragon, 75006. See www.restaurantauxpres.com
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