What's French for Pickle?

Carolyn's adventures in language continue.

I was recently speaking French with a man from Zambia. After a few minutes he said (in French), “Your French is very good. You just use the wrong words.”

Hilarious. Merci? I said.

I know this may sound discouraging, but I took it as a nice example of people giving you big points for effort when you are speaking a foreign language. People want you to succeed. It is important to remember that no French person is thinking, “I really hope this woman f**ks up the subjunctive.”

I have always heard that you know you are becoming fluent in a language when you start to dream in it. I can’t say that I dream in French as much I dream about French. I have begun doing Duolingo while I sleep, trying to translate and spell words. It’s . . . not relaxing. I have also noticed that when doing Wordle or the Spelling Bee, I am thinking of French words that would also work.

My biggest sign of progress is this: when we arrived back in Montpellier in March I felt like people were suddenly speaking more slowly and using easier vocabulary. In reality, after nearly two years of daily language lessons, I had finally begun to understand people better. I still stand sort of dopey and open-mouthed as people rattle off information, but at the end of what seems like gibberish I think, “Oh! He just told me that he doesn’t sell rugs but a place in the mall does!“

In other language progress, I recently started playing pickleball. No, I am not a retiree in Florida. I am a tennis player who has let her game lapse, and pickleball is similar to tennis, but more social and fast paced. My mother, a tennis player for 60 years, is an ace on the pickleball court and she introduced me to the game (she would play every day if she could).

Me and mom after a victory.

I was very lucky to meet Kathleen Czop and her husband Paul Chambre in Montpellier. They are fellow Americans who have recently moved to France and, like us, they are trying to navigate their new life in this foreign land. During a dinner together I learned they played pickle and I was thrilled. I’d been looking for a place to play. Turns out there are regular games at the Port Camargue Racket Club, which is outside of town. I have no car so hitching rides with Kathleen and Paul has allowed me to play.

The courts are spitting distance from the sea.

I hadn’t really thought about the language thing until I arrived on my first day and realized I would need to say the score in French, not to mention “serve,” “in,” “out,” “nice point,” and, most importantly, curse words for when I make stupid mistakes.

When I walk around town, I am frequently thinking about what I want to say five minutes before I say it. On the pickleball court, with my mind and body focused on something else, I have to be spontaneous. Plus, I listen to the what the other players are saying to each other, which is a much looser and casual French than a salesperson would use with me.

This weekend I played several games with three older Frenchmen. Their names were Patrick, Michael, and mumble mumble. In my head I called them Willie Nelson, Mickey Rooney, and bald Harvey Keitel.

Willie, Mickey, and Harvey

Harvey was new to the game but insisted that he had once been the racquetball champion of France. I shall never know if this is true. I cannot Google “Bald Harvey Keitel Racketball.” He was quite frustrated that the pickle ball did not bounce the way he was accustomed to. When he missed a shot, his friend Mickey would taunt him with phrases like tu dois courir, eh (you have to run, you know).

Harvey said “Merde” quite a bit. When I was paired with him I told him Monsieur, s’il vous plait, quand vous jouez, ne dites pas “merde.” (Sir, please, when we play don’t say “merde.”) He looked mortified until I added, Je suis Americaine et je prefer que vous dites “shit.” (I’m American and I prefer that you say “shit .”) He gave me an excellent French guffaw.

Here is the vocabulary I’ve learned for the technical parts of the game:

Here are few other phrases I hear on the court:

Personally, I love yelling bravo when someone hits a great shot. It feels so over the top - like I’m throwing roses at their feet.

Kathleen playing with Willie, Mickey, and Harvey.

I also want to share these great new idioms I learned this week:

Tenir le crachoir literally means “Hold the spittoon.” You use it when someone is dominating the conversation. They are talking so much they are spraying spit everywhere.

Tu ne peux pas avoir le beurre et l’argent du beurre means “you can’t have the butter and the money for the butter,” equivalent to our “you can’t have your cake and eat it, too.” But it’s the French, so OF COURSE it is about butter.

Please share any of your own favorite expressions. I am a sucker for pithy language.

Jusqu’à la prochaine fois,

Carolyn & Roberto

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