A Pittsburgher in Paris: Parlez-vous Francais?

As we prepared for our trip to Paris we heard all kinds of warnings about The French People.

The French have a reputation for being unfriendly and in some cases downright hostile, especially towards tiresome American tourists. Well, we couldn’t promise that we wouldn’t be tiresome tourists, but we certainly didn’t have to dress like tiresome tourists.  After reading up on the acceptable dress of the country, we headed to the airport armed with our dark clothing and colorful scarves, and left our Steeler shirts and flip-flops behind.  

As it turns out, when interaction was necessary the people of Paris were actually very friendly.  When it was not they left you alone. They don’t chat with strangers, share personal details of their lives or ask you questions about your life unless they’re a pickpocket or a tour guide.  I presume everyday Parisians don’t really care about strangers’ lives.  Unlike New Yorkers who walk down the street looking angry, Parisians walk down the street looking bored.   

This is just exactly the way I want people to act!  I don’t care about strangers’ lives either. It made me want to move to Paris, language barriers be damned, or at least send some of the people at the gym there for a field trip so they could learn how not to talk to strangers.

Rumor also had it that the French expect you to attempt to speak French when you are in their country. I know, the nerve of these people, right?  If you give it the old college try, they will then be happy to speak to you in English.

I don’t want to brag, but I studied French in school for 13 consecutive years without ever mastering the language or even figuring out verb tenses, and I had forgotten everything I had learned in the many years since graduation. I brushed up courtesy of Duolingo which was surprisingly no more helpful than those four semesters of college French classes in teaching me the language.

As it turns out, we managed to communicate well enough while we were there.   We mastered some key words and phrases. Bonjour (hello).  Au revoir (good-bye).  S’il vous plait (please).  Merci (thank you).  Ou est la toilette? (where is the bathroom?)  You know, the important stuff. 

Perhaps the most useful question was one posed by Mr. Rip to two policemen in Montmartre after we wandered down the streets from Sacre Coeur after a walking tour trying to find our way back to the Moulin Rouge where the tour began. “Ou sommes nous?”  (“Where are we?”), he asked.

The policemen look puzzled even though it was a simple enough question delivered in flawless French. Finally, they used their crackerjack detective skills to assess the situation and pointed down the street and said, simply, “Moulin Rouge.”  I guess that’s where all the Montmartre walking tours start.

Mr. Rip was more adventurous than I was in using the language.  One night at dinner, he asked the waiter a question in French about one of the menu items.  The waiter responded to his question in fluent French.   We don’t really understand fluent French spoken by a native.  After that, Mr. Rip added the French phrase for “I am going to ask you a question in French but I will not understand your response” to his repertoire.

As it turned out, not only did French people speak to us in English after we said “Bonjour!” in our glaringly American accents, sometimes they just greeted us in English before we had a chance to speak because somehow they knew at first glance we were Americans.  We probably didn’t look bored enough to be French.

On This Day My Child Was Born

It was February 13^th.  I was 8 ½ months pregnant and returning to work after my weekly gynecologist appointment.

My doctor said he thought I may come a little earlier than my February 28^th due date.  That was okay with me. I had had enough of the whole pregnancy thing- the tremendous weight gain, the sharp pain in my abdomen they called “heartburn,” the inability to sit, stand or sleep comfortably.  I really did Ache All Over. I was more than ready to have my baby.

Snow was beginning to fall as I headed back to work, but I wasn’t worried.  The roads weren’t bad yet, and my workplace was just four miles from my house.  Nonetheless, I was pretty happy when I arrived at work safely, just in time for lunch.

When I stood up after lunch, I felt an unfamiliar sensation.  I realized with a shock that my water was beginning to break.  I calmly called the doctor’s office, and they advised me to return to the hospital immediately.  I wasn’t able to reach my husband, who was making deliveries for his family’s business in a time before cell phones.  I left the message with his mother that I would go home and pack my bag and he could just meet me at the house.

I let my boss and my friend and co-worker Joan know what was going on and left.  I got in the car, turned the key and…the car wouldn’t start.  I had turned the headlights on when I was on my way back to work in the snowstorm and left them on.  My car battery was dead.

Okay, so now I was beginning to panic.
  

I found Paul, my co-worker with jumper cables.  Paul felt strongly that a woman in labor should not be driving herself anywhere, especially in the snow.  He refused to jump my car.  I explained that I just planned to drive the few miles to my house, and probably wasn’t even technically in labor.  Paul didn’t care.  He offered to drive me anywhere I needed to go.  I explained to him that this was my only car, and I could not leave it there, dead, especially if I actually had the baby.  Paul was adamant.  We argued for several minutes.  I was getting desperate.  I begged.  I cajoled.  I cannot swear that I didn’t at one point grab Paul by the lapels and yell “Jump the damn car, Paul!”   Finally, Joan,  a very persuasive person, intervened and Paul grudgingly agreed to jump my car.

I drove home and packed my suitcase but hadn’t heard from my husband.  I called the doctor’s office.  “WHAT??!!!,”  the nurse said, “You mean you haven’t even LEFT yet?”  The last professional I saw get this excited was the whitewater rafting guide after I fell into the Youghigheny River.  I thought better than to mention the dead car battery.  She asked how long it would take me to get to the hospital.  About 30 minutes when it wasn’t snowing, I told her.   “Oh honey,” she said, “You need to get here RIGHT NOW!”

I called my mother-in-law to tell her that I was leaving for the hospital and to tell my husband to meet me there.  She offered to come pick me up, but after my conversation with the nurse I didn’t think I should wait. 

My mother also offered to drive me, which was very sweet but not really feasible.  My mother was terrified of driving in the snow, and lived in Swissvale, which was just about an hour away from my home in Washington, PA.  It would have taken my Mom 2 hours or more to pick me up and take me to the hospital in the snow, and I was certain that Mom would not want to drive in the snow and deliver her grandchild herself, at least not on the same day.

It was snowing a lot harder now.  When I finally arrived at the hospital, I told the doctor that aside from my water breaking and driving 30 miles in the snow, I was feeling fine.  He examined me and informed me that I was indeed having contractions and I was “officially” in labor.  Perhaps I was in shock as I drove to the hospital in the snow, and therefore numb to the contractions, or perhaps I had unknowingly been employing those breathing exercises they taught us in Lamaze class.

Meanwhile my husband had arrived back at the shop.  He arrived in the birthing room about an hour after I got there, in plenty of time for the birth.

I will not share all the minute details of the labor and delivery, because I hate when women do that.  However, I will tell you that I had to have a Caesarian section because the baby was large, and my birth canal was small.  I only mention this because I want everyone to know that there is actually a body part of mine that is too small, ironically located inside my body where nobody can see it.

At 10:15 p.m. on February 13, 1985, my beautiful, brown-haired, brown-eyed baby boy was born, 8 pounds and 9 ounces despite coming 15 days early.  When they put him into my arms, I was smitten- crazy about the kid from the start.  Every bit of the pregnancy and that day had been worth it.

That baby turns 33 today, and is the father of a beautiful, happy, active 14-month-old brown-haired, brown-eyed son of his own.  Here’s wishing my son a wonderful birthday full of celebrations with his family, and better weather than the day he was born.