The Ignorant Mute

The following post was originally handwritten in a French café on a Friday afternoon. Included are the original tangential observations, italicized here to ensure clarity.

I just ordered a café. It came with a long packet of sucre, extra fin. If I close my eyes, it almost tastes like hot chocolate with a not-so-subtle hint of metal and bitter aftertaste. I’m trying to be French. That means that I’m trying to cultivate an appreciation for—or at least a tolerance of—the little things so dear to every Francophone heart. Wine is a work in progress: I’d say that I’m at (I just witnessed an adorably indie couple kissing goodbye across the street. PDAs are a national pastime here.) the caveman stage. I’ve discovered fire and the wheel is pretty nifty, but I still gag after every artesian drop. Beer’s not much better; I’m a pioneer with an unsophisticated pellet-trading system.

I blame my American college career: I’ve been conditioned to view alcohol as a necessary means, an unpleasant bus ride to a tropical destination. (My café is cold now; even worse.) I don’t boast a refined pallet: I still get a hard-on when I hear a box of shells and cheese being opened. Maybe I just don’t have the tongue to distinguish between Nati and the top-of-the-shelf. Sue me.

But, boy, do I look the part. I rock the suffocating jeans, pristine V-necks with just-the-right-amount of chest hair joining the party, my polarizing Euro-‘stache. I got the look down. (A chocolate lab with a naked neck just gingerly strolled by me. There’s a lot of that here.) But to my unfortunate detriment, the French mime exists only in (“Borderline” is playing right now, and I’m sitting in a French café. I'm having a moment.) re-runs of Animaniacs. I have to talk. I have to speak French.

But that’s when it all becomes real. I can pretend that each thoroughly-coiffed bombshell that passes my table was raised on Nickelodeon and PB&Js. If I disregard the plucked eyebrows and baguette under arm, that man with the killer aviators could have lettered varsity and received his first kiss at the Homecoming game by a girl named Melissa. But when he talks—when his language provides a cage-like context—I know he’s never tasted peanut butter. He’s never heard of Kenan Thompson or Kel Mitchell, and Pierre was actually the one who popped his cherry.

“Useless Desires” is now playing. Another moment.

I can force down every glass of Merlot. I can hold a candy cigarette ‘tween my middle and pointer fingers. I can cross my legs till my boys are blue. But I can’t fake the language. Madame Rouchet scares the Yankee shit out of me, and I guess language acquisition is sort of why I’m here. The next time a homeless man with a concave face accosts me at my bus stop, I need to be able to clearly comprehend his hollow threats so that I can best ignore him and continue to stare at my dirty Vans.

I almost drank half of my coffee. Baby steps, you know.

--C.Z.

Other thoughtful analyses concerning my European excursion thus far:
1. Six-year-olds here have better styles than most American teenagers. I find this partially attributable to the utter absence of Hot Topic.
2. I’m continually shocked by the number of French I’ve witnessed eating McDonalds fast food. After all, eating a Big Mac is like biting into American capitalism.
3. Sixty-five-year-olds here have better styles than most American teenagers.