Drift Reality

Entering the H&M in Paris, a shiver ran through my spine as I heard one voice rise above the din and obnoxiously utter, in the familiar intonation of a mid-western American accent, “Oh my God! Would you look at these prices Marie?”

I looked over to see a heavyset middle-aged woman, holding up a pair of jeans. “Marie” was a teenager with a nose-ring and dyed bright red hair. She was holding a sweatshirt in front of her torso while she gazed into a full-length mirror.

Momma had managed to attract the attention of a tall black man standing nearby. He offered her a benign smile as she shook her head and said, “Can you believe the prices here?”

He shrugged his shoulders, which she took to mean, “Yes, I’m fascinated by what you’re saying. Please continue.”

“Do you like it here,” she asked while pointing down to the ground, enunciating every word as if she were speaking with a child.

The man seemed unsure of what to make at this loud, round, gesticulating creature in front of him.

Not getting an immediate response, Momma decided that perhaps her hand signal had not been descriptive enough, so she rephrased her question: “Do you like it here? In Paris?”

A bemused look crossed his face as he answered, “Mmm…sure, but it is, you know, the same.”

“Yes, yes,” she responded while rubbing her chin. “It must be expensive living here, huh?”

Again, the man did not respond immediately, prompting Momma to repeat the word “expensive,” as she once again pointed to the ground.

It was at this point that Momma took notice of her daughter examining the sweatshirt. Her eyes darted to the price, listed above the sweatshirt rack.

“Oh for Pete’s sake Marie, you’re looking at a sweatshirt?” Momma said in a tone of voice that would make you believe Marie had just peed herself. “Can’t you just wait until we go home and get one from Target?”

Later in the day, Mary and I visited the Louvre.

The Louvre in Paris has a free coat check service for all its patrons. As closing time draws near, the line for the pick-ups, as one would expect, become disproportionately larger than the line for the drop-offs.

The woman working behind the counter was doing her best to alternate between the two lines, to the obvious irritation of a black woman waiting in line.

With only one hour to go before closing time, the drop-off line had essentially become one person waiting for her coat. The woman working behind the counter handed the coat over the counter and then turned to the pick-up line, where she retrieved the coat for the woman standing in front of the American woman.

At that point in time, a young couple dashed to the drop-off line, prompting the woman working behind the counter to go and collect their jackets for them.

This obviously enraged the American woman who was now waiting at the head of the pick-up line. The woman working behind the counter returned and collected her ticket.

She proceeded to retrieve the American woman’s jacked, and then returned to stand in front of her, at which point the American woman asked, “Why did you help them before me? I’ve been waiting here for twenty-five minutes.”

The woman behind the counter, obviously confused, answered, “They were waiting at the front.”

This answer only seemed to anger the American woman further. She ducked her head forward slightly, raising her eyes to glare at the woman behind the counter, and uttered, “No manners.”

“What?” the woman working behind the counter asked.

“No manners,” the American woman repeated, louder this time. “Come to America if you want to learn how to treat people with manners.”

Seeing that the woman behind the counter was absolutely at a loss for words, the American woman shook her head, and walked away.

A close friend of mine who has a keen interest in linguistics once told me, “There are three stages to learning a new language: First, you learn basic grammatical structures and vocabulary, what some people refer to as “survival” understanding of a language; Second, you achieve the ability to communicate your thoughts and ideas accurately and precisely, what some might call “proficiency;” Finally, you begin to identify the nuisances and subtleties of a language that involves cultural understanding of concepts like humor, this can be called fluency.”

It’s the point about humor that is of particular interest to me.

What I have realized from traveling throughout the world is that the bar for what can be considered humorous is lowered considerably when you don’t speak the language fluently.

Case in point: One evening, after visiting a few bars in the first arrondisement, Mary and I stopped to get a hot dog before returning to our hotel.

As we entered the lobby, the elderly man seated behind the reception desk looked up and saw Mary. Suddenly, a sparkle entered his eyes that were assuredly reserved for attractive younger woman.

He smiled and asked her, “You had good night?”

She smiled back at him and responded, “Yes, it was very nice.”

“It is early,” he responded, still looking at Mary while ignoring me completely. “Why are you back?”

“Oh you know,” I answered loudly, attempting to insert myself into the interaction. “Just sleepy I guess, jet lag and all that.”

Slowly, he turned his head towards me as the sparkle in his eyes dissipated.

His eyes turned towards the hot dog I had been munching on and asked brusquely, “What is that?”

“Oh, it’s a hot dog,” I answered lamely.

“Oh, you eat dog?” he shot back, as Mary giggled loudly, causing the sparkle to return to his eye. Turning back to her, he shot a comically quizzical look, as if wondering why she would want to spend her time with someone who did something so horrible as eat canines.

Then again, I am half-Korean.

I just stared at the man blankly and asked, “Do you want a bite?”
What I realized was that this was a guy who was clearly bordering between survival English and being proficient at English, was clearly attempting a linguistic function beyond his ability.

Mary’s reaction struck me as odd, because there was really nothing witty about what he had said.

He had simply heard the word “dog,” and made an awful joke based solely on his recognition of the word as having multiple functions.

What’s even worse is that Mary laughed at the joke, which gave the guy positive reinforcement, which would inevitably result in him making the joke again in the future.

What I then realized was that non-native speakers tend to get more leeway when attempting to step beyond their current linguistic level and be deliberately humorous in a language they haven’t mastered, and it’s not right.

I use the word “deliberately” because I do think it is important to distinguish between intended and non-intended humor.

When I was in Korea, and would attempt to order food in Korean and subsequently elicit a laughing fit from whoever was waiting on me, due to the feebleness of my attempt - this would be an example of non-intended humor.

This is acceptable.

On the other hand, if I had tried to make a stupid joke based on word recognition, it would have been intended humor, and this is unacceptable.

Intended humor from someone who has not mastered a language should result in swift and direct response.
The moment the Frenchman had asked me if I “eat dog,” I should have just punched him in the face and told him never to make that joke again.

Then I should have punched him again for being French and tried to flirt with my girlfriend.

First of all, let me just say that the Eiffel Tower is big.

It’s 984 feet tall to be exact.

This makes it 429 feet taller than our Washington Monument, which is only 555 feet tall.

Perhaps this could explain some of the animosity towards the French that you get in this country. Their tower is longer than ours.

That being said, I don’t have any animosity towards the French personally. I’m half-Asian so I’m used to my tower being smaller than others.

That being said, I was just joking.

My tower isn’t any smaller than anyone else’s.

That much.

After walking all the way from the first arrondissement to the seventh arrondissement, we decided that we might as well go up to the top of the Eiffel Tower.

We got into line and soon found ourselves surrounded by hordes of American and British tourists. Anyone who has traveled abroad realizes that American and British tourists are about as inconspicuous as a zit on your nose the size of an apple.

In general, British tourists tend to be loud, drunken, and somewhat amusing; while American tourists tend to be loud, condescending, and very unamusing.

The Eiffel Tower process is definitely akin to the Disney World process, in that you essentially agree to be treated like livestock on a farm factory in exchange for a quick glance at something somewhat interesting.

That being said, I was definitely taken aback by the view from the top of the Eiffel Tower. My enjoyment was somewhat cut short by the fact that two American kids were sticking their heads through the protective screens, and yelling at the top of their lungs to the people below.

What blew my mind even more was that at the very top, Gustave Eiffel (the designer of the Eiffel Tower) built a little office for himself where he received guests, including our very own Thomas Edison.

Personally, I couldn’t help but wonder if he ever pulled the line, “Do you want to come back to my place? It’s got a wonderful view of the city.”

Entry 2

We spent the first afternoon in Paris taking a boat tour down the Seine. This gave us the privilege of being able to say that we saw all of the major tourist sites in Paris without having to actually see them.

For someone who loves traveling as much as I do, I have a very keen distaste for tourist sites. This manifests in a number of various ways - all tremendously annoying.

At most museums I’ve visited, I more or less head directly to the knights exhibit, spend about ten minutes looking at swords, get bored, and then become afflicted with a mysterious stomach ailment that miraculously disappears the moment I exit the museum.

In some emergency situations, such as when I’m with an individual not sympathetic to my mystery stomach ailments, I’ve resorted to making incredibly asinine statements about classical pieces of art loud enough for everyone around us to hear such as “Boy, that guy sure likes painting naked little boys,” or “I wonder why everyone in the 18th century had such small units.”

Eventually, whomever I’m with grabs me by the hand like a child, and yanks me out of the museum. This is why things like boat tours are good for me. It leaves more time for doing important things like wandering around aimlessly.

The boat tour had culminated with a tremendous view of La Tour Eiffel, which we ended up visiting later that evening.

After our boat tour returned to Le Chatelet, we did what everyone should do during their first day in Paris - we ate baguettes and then took a long nap.

In the evening, we walked across town to the 7th arrondissement, were we found a family style restaurant and had dinner.

After reviewing the menu for several minutes, we ordered dishes that affirmed our status as American tourists - Pizza and a Cheeseburger.

We arrived in Paris at about 10:30 PM and after a bit of initial confusion over how to buy tickets for the subway, and how to interpret the transportation map, we eventually managed to find our hotel, Le Duc De L’Orange, located in Le Chatelet - in the first arrondissement.

Before I ever arrived in Paris, I envisioned a country filled with well-dressed people smoking cigarettes, eating baguettes, and talking on their mobile phones. What I found when I arrived, was that for the first time in my life, my preconceived notions were 100% correct - Paris is full of well-dressed people smoking cigarettes, eating baguettes, and talking on their mobile phones.

Roaming the streets near our hotel, we settled on a two-floor bar with a live jazz band on the second floor. The waiter seated us at the front of the room and we sat down and looked at the menu.

There were wo prices for each of the drinks on the menu which I can only classify as “frightening” and “blood curdling.” We later found out that the distinction between the two prices, was based on location in the bar (upstairs or downstairs) and we promptly departed, concluding that the band probably wasn’t worth watching anyway. What do the French know about jazz?

We settled on a nearby bar that had prices in the “slightly vexing” range, which was far more acceptable to me after my surprise expense at Waterloo.

After a few drinks, we decided to head back fairly early.