I got my minor in French.  Can’t read it, speak it or write it.  However, if two people are rambling away en français, I can usually understand them.  God forbid they turn the discussion to me though.  I’m hapless when it comes to making le conversation.  

About a year ago I watched the Oscar-winning movie “My Vie En Rose”.  It was the story of acclaimed French songstress Edith Piaf.  I was watching the movie with English subtitles and quickly found they were distracting, so I promptly turned them off.  My brain seemed to flip a light switch and before I could say, “Bonjour”, I was translating the dialogue in my head.  (Well, it helped the actors were brilliant too.)

During high school I took a senior trip to France.  I was determined to dazzle every Frenchman with my intensive study of the language.  Merci French I, II, III and IV.  I failed miserably.  Or as they say in France, “Je suck.”  Two things happened.  1) The French do indeed hate the Americans.  Thus, even if I did pronounce something correctly they would look at me with disdain or like I had three heads.  And 2) 90% of the time I would massacre their language.  Helen Keller would have had an easier time trying to get her message across than I did.  I’m surprised no Frenchman hauled off and gave me “le bitchslap”.

My most memorable faux-pas (see, I can use their stupid language correctly) happened at a café.  If I remember correctly, I was asking for some jam to go with my scone.  I simply asked for a “preservatif” … which is the French equivalent for jelly.  Or so I thought.  The waiter had me repeat it four times.   Turns out the word is “preservative”, with a hard “V” sound as opposed to an “F”.  Seems I was repeatedly demanding the waiter bring me a condom with my scone.  What the F?  Stupid semantics.

I went out for Indian food today.  I’ve been hanging out with my friend Mithra long enough to know a few Indian words to pepper in from time to time.  The Indian way to say, “Thanks” is “Shukriya”.  (Shoe-Kree-Uh.)  Easy enough, huh?  Apparently not.  I appear to be the whitest white boy in the history of white people.  Why?  Because when I tried to say thanks, Mithra laughed so hard that her drink came out her nose.  What did I say?

Shakira.

My lips don’t lie.