Parlez en Francais

Are the French rude ?

There are such divergent views on French rudeness, and in particular Parisian rudeness.  Experiences are so different.  In preparation I decided to brush up my high school French with a CAE class, which was quite fun, but we all sat in terror as the teacher looked around the room, all of us hoping and praying she would pick someone else to speak.  I found that I could string quite comprehensible sentences together, but as soon as someone spoke to me in French I was lost.  Any deviation from the carefully scripted response I had made in my head left me floundering and speechless.  I tried to practice on French speaking Eline, but she found my pronunciation so poor that she could not understand what I was saying. 

So I arrived in Paris keen to give it a go, but with little vocab and almost no grammar.  The one thing that stuck in my head from listening to my language tapes on the train on the way to work each day was ecoutez et repetez.  So, if I ever have to tell anyone to listen and repeat then I am good. 

Food is the easiest entree for me to language, so our first morning found me off to the boulangerie to buy bread for breakfast.  Une bagette s'il vous plait.  Hey - this is easy.  And as long as you give them a big enough Euro note to cover the cost then it really doesn't matter that you find French numbering incomprehensible and have no idea what price was just reeled off to you in rapid fire French.  My favourites as the ones who let you babble on in French as you select items, but then politely show you the amount on the cash register, knowing that you will never understand if they tell you the price. 

I am pleased to report that we encountered no rudeness in Paris.  In fact most shopkeepers and waiters were very pleasant and patient with the faltering French.  Even most of the bored security staff at the various tourist sites were courteous.  And as we entered Monet's house at Giverny we were even treated to a performance at the ticket box by the attendant who ascertained our nationality from our guide and then spouted out in a perfect strine accent - good'ay mate.  Even I, who would normally recoil in horror from the stereotypical Australian reference, burst into uncontrolled laughter.

Monet's Garden at Giverny

And out here in remote Finestere, which literally means the end of the world, everyone has been kind.  From the Carrefour check out lady who laughed off my mistaking a 10 cent for a 20 cent coin and then attempting to argue with her, to the old lady who chatted to us and showed us the fresh fish as we sat on the ancient walls in Concarneau munching on meringues and strawberries dipped in strawberry liquer.