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…Little Europe. Cities can have a Little Italy, Little India, or Little Saigon. So, my trip, I’ve decided can have its Little Europe (what to others is known as “Malaysia”).
Why “Little Europe” you ask? Well, have you ever been to Melaka? If not, let’s just say the city definitely still shows it’s Portugese/Dutch/British heritage. Most of the city’s draws are the Euro-influenced architecture from the city’s past. (One tourist spot that isn’t Euro, however, is the shop that sells shoes — now banned — used in Chinese foot binding. Horrifying…)
And well, back in KL, my ever-so-integrating host was, as previously mentioned, French. As was his roommate. As were her coworkers (well, she did work for the French embassy…). And all their friends I met, too. So it was tout francais tout les temps — or all French all the time for you non-French speakers. And they were all tres (very), tres French. Well, you know, except that they did shower every day and not one of them smelled! (Which we actually did discuss…)
On Friday night we went to a going-away party for one of the Frenchies. The whole time we were there I kept thinking of the movie “La Boum,” a really low-budget educational language film set at a party I saw in 7th grade French class. In said film, the party goers danced to imaginary music and had super-social French conversation like, “My name is Marie.” “My name is Thomas. Where do you live?” “I live in Paris.” Oddly enough, the conversation skills I learned from “La Boum” didn’t come in handy at my Little Europe party. But I did recall enough early-language skills to be able to reply “I don’t speak French” when someone struck up a convo.
And if you knew me in LA, you might remember my frustrations with not speaking the language. While cocktailing in Marina Del Rey, I’d tried to small talk a two-year-old French-speaking girl. All I could remember of my nine semesters of French was “Comment appelle tu?” After nearly five years of French lessons, how is it that all I can remember is “What is your name?” Well, OK, I actually do remember a few other things from French class…like how annoying my high school French teacher was when she reprimanded me in front of the entire class for not wearing pantyhose to prom (um, hello! pantyhose do not look good with certain open-toed shoes…and when your date is a third-generation pig farmer, I don’t think one’s lack of hosiery is going to gross him out). I also remember that my college French 1 teacher was Lebanese and had a hairlip…causing him to get this gross foam out of the side of his mouth while speaking French (but not while speaking English, interestingly). My French 2 teacher from the Ivory Coast had a gap in his front teeth. My French 3 teacher looked like an elf and always seemed to get rosier cheeks than usual when he would get annoyed at the sarcastic musings of me and my partner Jenny R. Hmmm…so I’m beginning to think if I’d spent less time finding faults with my teachers (what? me find faults in others?) and actually truly learning the language, I’d have known when the company I was keeping this past week was talking about me (and perhaps about how I smelled).
But when the Frenchies would fall back to their home language I just tried to improve on what little French I still have or used it as my excuse to zone out and daydream, which I do regardless of what language people are speaking around me.
This past week, my daydreams often left me wondering if I should later try living in a francophone country in Africa or Europe (something I’d been half-heartedly considering since I finished Teach For America and decided a job with the UN would be fablous), so I can actually re-learn the language. Hmm…good question. If I did, do you think I’d be able to find a “Little New York” or “Little L.A.” there?
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