The apartment we're renting is in one of Paris' Chinatown neighborhoods. We chose it because it was much larger than any of the other apartments we were looking at. We're steps from the #7 Metro Line. We're a 10-minute walk from the #14 Express Metro Line. So time-wise, it's about the same to get into or return home from downtown, if you figure the walk in.
When we first arrived, we'd arranged for a ridiculously-expensive car to pick us up. Being the only one who speaks French, I handled translation duties. Our driver was Vietnamese and MAN that made the accent hard to understand.
Let's be clear--I studied French for 3 years in high school, four years in college (got my third major in it), toured here for several summers and spent a summer doing intensive language lessons (went to a school for foreigners learning French, lived with a family full-time, etc.). When I speak, people know I'm not French, but can't place my accent--which is nice. I don't dress identifiably American (no jeans, no names on shirts, no white athletic shoes), so I flummox them sometimes. It's fun.
The challenge in our non-native-French-speaking neighborhood is to be understood by other non-French residents. The property manager, Madame Dao, has an accent that's a real challenge to understand. It's clipped and cut, when I'm used to a flowing French. I find myself staring at her lips when she talks. I get 90%. It's the same for our maid (she comes once a week for an hour or so to do the floors and change sheets). I *think* she keeps telling me that I need to fold the sheets that she's draped over the various doors in the apartment, but I'm not entirely sure. I think she's Eastern European--I've no clue what country, though.
It's frustrating because I can't count on my linguistic skills here as I can with more typical Frenchy-French people. If we were living in a different area, it'd be easier. But this is also the reality of modern Paris. 1 in 3 are born here, so it's a great melting pot of people, neighborhoods and cultures. Our favorite two restaurants are Vietnamese!
Most entertaining is the funky framed miniature Asian building on the bookshelf in the living room. I don't know where it comes from, but the backwords swastikas look down on us ominously. I know that was long an innoucuous symbol before hitler (anyone that evil doesn't deserve a capital H) adopted it. But still, it creeps me out.
Definitely something lost in translation there.
No comments:
Post a Comment