Lost without Translation

Last night we were elbow to elbow with the locals. I had been anticipating the ‘Marche de Noel,’ the Christmas Market, for a few weeks and the evening had finally come. Traditionally, the gathering of local vendors was an easy and efficient way for the community to prepare for the ‘Gros Souper,’ or Big Dinner, that fell on Christmas Eve. However, the market seemed to have evolved a bit. We saw a variety of items strewn across a few dozen stands, most seemingly unhelpful in making the Big Dinner prep any easier. But we enjoyed perusing, just the same. The hot, sweet scent of crepes mixed with the soft smoke of the chestnuts, roasting, literally, on an open fire. Once inside the large tent, we saw that Santon figures, another Provencal tradition, were carefully set in strict rows, a colorful little army of bakers and huntsmen and grazing animals. The Santons are little clay objects, painted gaily and precisely, and then set up as peripherals to a huge nativity scene. Basically, rather than just Mary, Joseph, Jesus and a few accompanying characters, the Santon scene is an entire village spilling over the landscape of lavender and red-roofed homes. Take the little snow-capped village homes with twinkling lights that are sold in the States, multiply the popularity and size of the set-up by ten and you’re getting closer to the picture. The rest of the vendors were a combination of ceramics, art, fabrics and food. The food, while useless for preparing the Gros Souper, was delightful for the perusing tourist. We dipped some bread at a stand with a rainbow of vinegars to try. We nibbled a bit of cookie, not recognizing the flavor, but enjoying it just the same. We filled our pockets with several flavors of ‘fougasse,’ which I can only describe as the French response to the German pretzel. After getting our fill we walked out into the crisp night, the crowds still pulsing in and out of the tent, flowing through the town’s artery for the holiday weekend. While wrapped in typical winter gear, we were warm, the night had dipped only to 50 degrees, and the slight sense of wind was diminished by the buildings of the city centre and the crowds that filled it. I felt a sense of relief as we walked out, the glitter of white lights strung from tree to tree over our heads. I realized that a carefree event had taken on an indistinct pressure, here. The presence of a crowd, speaking a language with which I was so barely familiar, totally at home in their surroundings, had become a tinge overwhelming in the few minutes in the tent. While I would love to say the last seven weeks in France has given me courage in my ability to communicate, honestly it has done the opposite. Rather than attempting my staggering, staccato attempts at speech, it seems I avoid lingering eye contact or a smiling clerk or an offered sample, simply to miss the possibility of an awkward encounter.

Last week we went to a nearby chateau, famed more for its vineyards and olive oil than its buildings, to tour and to taste. We poked our heads through the heavy drapes that protected the bistro from the mistrals, and were led to a wine barrel table. The interior was inviting. Christmas trees propped in every corner and huge chandeliers cast a romantic glow on the dark woods of the tables and floor. We pulled out the menu and pointed out our requests to the friendly waiter. After we had spent a few minutes nibbling on our Swiss fondue and sipping the establishment’s fine wine, a thin, smiling, youthful man approached our table. He began in French, but hearing our accents and our delayed response, he asked if we spoke English. A relief spilled through me and I eagerly said ‘yes.’ We answered his questions, complimenting the food and the place and telling him where we were from. Then I began explaining how my family was coming for Christmas and we would like to come back and when are you open and what do you serve and where can we taste wines and on and on. Later I smiled to myself, thinking how gracious the man was in response to my little life story. I had unknowingly craved interaction and yet with the barrier of language, my smiles, my ‘mercis,’ and my gestures of politeness were falling so very short. When I finally had an outlet, someone who was comfortable with my language, I exploded with conversation, like a kid describing their newest toy.

These two events made me realize how much I need contact with people. I need daily connections with those around me, even if it’s as simple as getting directions from a gas station attendant or gawking at the amount of snow with the barista at a coffee shop. Funny how those things seem like such annoyances at home, how transactional they become, how you can forget that the person on the other side of the counter, or in front of you in line, or next to you at a red light is, indeed, a person. While I look forward to many things in our return to America, that is the thing I anticipate the most. Being able to communicate pleasure with the food at a quaint café or wish someone a Merry Christmas on my way out of the grocery store, these are the things that I sadly missed in my busyness of life and now I miss them in a whole different way.