My name is Arcadio
When you learn another language most courses follow a predictable and logical flow. Starting with basic vocabulary and grammar then gradually moving to more complex principles. This is accompanied with a similar stairway of conversational topics to practice. I have done a few French courses and these conversations always kick off with a lesson in how to introduce yourself.
If only life had the courtesy to be as predictable. No, my initiation into real-life French conversation started with explaining I am not a cigarette smuggler, no introductions! Where's the YouTube video for that? Perhaps if I had had a cigarette on me, or two dozen cartons of them, the customs agent might have wanted to know my name, we'll never know.
Life also likes to keep you on your toes by serving you an internet salesman at your front door on a Wednesday afternoon to sell you fibre internet. After living in France for three weeks, this wasn't the most straightforward conversation.
"Je suis là pour organiser le raccordement de votre maison à l'internet par fibre optique".
Fortunately I was aware the telecom company was circulating in the area so my expression probably wasn't as asinine as it could have been.
"Le propriétaire ... de la maison ... n'est pas ici" I told him in a slow French that signifies I am not from here.
"Pas de problème."
This is probably the kind of passion the company were hoping for when they hired this man. The house owner’s absence wasn't going to stop him sharing fibre internet with the world. Neither were minor legal procedures as I signed the contract to get lightning fast download speeds. His enthusiasm wasn't limited to just spreading the joy of gigabytes of data per second.
"les oies migratrices qui volent vers le sud", he said as some birds flew overhead.
I look at him like I used to look at my calculus teacher in school, why are you telling me this?
Our conversation that followed alternated between bird behaviour and scheduling an appointment for a network engineer. He left seemingly content, probably from sharing his knowledge of geese. As I closed the door, I was acutely aware that at no point did he ask my name.
Even at the boulangerie, where I spend a lot of time these days, we are not yet on first name basis. This is one of the places I feel comfortable conversing, practice makes perfect as they say. But occasionally life still likes to remind me not to be too complacent. Our local bakery sells several types of baguette; abroad I had only ever known the one french baguette. The first time I ordered simply ‘a baguette’ at the boulangerie, the oracle revealed the multiple paths I could take, baguette perigord, baguette ordinaire, baguette traditionale....
I have been taking a different path each visit.
“Que est-ce que vous-aimeriez?” I was asked last Friday.
“Un baguette ficelle, s'il vous plait” I pointed for extra clarity.
“C'est le pain de la veille?”
This question was new. The giant imaginary clock counting down to when my ignorance would be revealed started ticking in my head. My mind raced for previous references to 'pain de la veille' ... ... ... ‘old people bread?’ my pressured mind vomited back.
"C'est bon" I replied nonchalantly to hide my ignorance. The clock stopped ticking.
She handed me the bread and gave me a pensioner’s discount.
Nearly three weeks I have been here now and this mystical conversation where we exchange names and bat 'ca va's back and forth has yet to take place. I am still looking for the course with modules on smuggling, avian migratory behaviour, internet speeds and tips to save money at the boulangerie. Until then I cautiously await life's next surprise.
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