James Landreth

The French Lesson or How a little French cannot go a long way, or getting to the TGV from CDG on a hot summer’s day, otherwise known as “Misadventures on the Metro” and the associated story, “How I almost adopted an African child in Paris”.

The overnight flight from Chicago to Paris arrived at Charles de Gaulle airport around eight in the morning. The wife and I were on our way to the south of France, to the Dordogne, to see some of the remnants of the Hundred Years War and some very, very old remnants of earliest human European habitation, the caves at Lascaux. First we had to get to Bordeaux. We met our travelling companions, Pat and Barbara, at the CDG airport Marriot. They were our old friends from post-college days and our travelling companions on many occasion. They felt as haggard as we looked but a coffee and croissant perked us up considerably.

One can take a connecting flight or rent a car to get to Bordeaux but given the French high speed trains, called the TGV, it’s about as quick or quicker and without the hassles of driving or flying. Since this story is about a French Lesson, let us begin with the French pronunciation: ‘Tay-Jay-Vay”. There is a TGV station there at the airport. It’s only a few steps from the arrival gates to the train concourse of the station. There, the milling crowds of passengers move from kiosk to queue to quay (see, you’re understanding French already) with their assorted roller-bags, back-packs, suitcases and doggie crates (avec ou sans chien). In the voluminous lobby, overhead is a huge train board listing the arrivals of trains and their destinations. This posts the next twenty arriving trains with the most chronologically remote at the bottom. As each train arrives and then departs, the bottom-most train slowly ascends along the list until it is the top-most posting. The destination and departure times are also accompanied by a short description: “On Time”, “Delayed” “Arriving” “Departed”. And then the listing disappears when the train has left.

Our train to Bordeaux duly appeared at the bottom with its time and destination and slowly ascended through the various destinations. However, there soon appeared the word “supprimé”. Both Barbara and I studied French in some remote age so we took some educated guesses:

“Superior” she said. “It’s a first class train”.

“Supreme” I replied. “It’s a high-speed, non-stop train”.

While both of these statements were true about the train we wished to take, they are, as the French say, “Faux amis”, that is “False friends”.

Trains and time marched on and our 11:25 to Bordeaux slowly climbed up the board. 11:25 approached and then passed. The departure gate, called a “Gare”, was never posted. It never said “Arrivé”. Fearing the worst, I went to the information kiosk where they spoke English and inquired:

“What happened to the 11:25 to Bordeaux?”

“Ah, monsieur, you see. The trains are on strike. It has been cancelled. Didn’t you see “supprimé?”.

I quickly pulled out my dictionary, “Supprimer”: verb, transitive, regular: “to remove, delete, eliminate”.

“Ahh, yes”, I said with a knowing expression.

“So, how do I get to Bordeaux?”

“Well, there is a train at 1:20 from the Montparnasse station, but you must hurry. You can exchange your tickets there. Do not delay. With Paris traffic, you won’t make it in a taxi or bus. You must take the RER and then the Metro.”

Gathering our four Musketeers together, we moved with bag and baggage to the RER, which is the equivalent of our St. Louis light rail METRO and bought our tickets for Montparnasse. The RER train moved quickly through the rural suburbs of Paris, then through the banlieue or inner suburbs and then descended into the depths of the city. We then had to transfer to the subway also called the “Metro”. Paris is an old city and so are its subway tunnels. Pushing and pulling our roller-bags and carry-ons we moved among the crowds, sometimes going with the tide, sometimes against. Pulling our belongings up flights of steps then pushing them down steps in the heat of the Paris summer was exhausting. Ouf! Turning left then right, trying to discern which aperture to take to get the Montparnasse metro, we stumbled along. Look. The way, the truth, the train. We jumped on, pushing our way and overstuffed suitcases into the crowded tramcar, hoping it was bound for Montparnasse. There were only two stops left. Bursting out of the car, we ascended into the light of a bright Paris day at the railroad station. Quickly we moved to get our tickets exchanged and then to find the correct voie or platform for the Bordeaux train.

Now remember, the trains were on strike. This seemed to mean that some, but not all, trains were supprimé. Fortunately, not ours. But it also meant that there were very few uniformed railroad personnel around to ask which was the right train. We took an educated guess and climbed aboard one and fervently wishing we were on the train to Bordeaux, in the right car, at the right seats. Soon the train started off and headed southwest. Or at least we thought it was southwest. The train picked up speed. Soon we were hurtling along through the beautiful countryside passing houses, farms and fields at 180 miles per hour. No one came ‘round to check our tickets. The towns along the way passed by in a blur, too quick to read the station signs. The announcements on the p.a. system were as unintelligible as they are in the States: “Reebensac, Carbonsobersac, Mitesonef”. [i] We could have been headed for Madrid, Moscow or Milan. Finally, after four hours we crossed a wide river and entered a large city. That must be the Garonne and this must be Bordeaux. We made it. Sacré bleu. Next time, I’m going to Atlantic City.

How I almost adopted an African child in Paris.

A brief vignette while we are talking about Paris. On another hot summer’s day we had been to the Orangerie, an art gallery of impressionist and post-impressionist paintings located in the west corner of the Tuileries Gardens near the Place de la Concorde. We decided to take the Metro back to our hotel which was near Luxembourg Gardens. First we had to walk along the Tuileries and then descend underground to the les Halles station. Unfortunately, we found out that we were on the northbound platform and needed to be on the southbound. So we climbed the stairs again and descended the stairs and were on the correct platform. It was rush hour. It was crowded. It was hot. I pulled Aleda aside to the safety of a Coke machine in order to avoid pickpockets. The crowd was growing. Beside us was an African lady (recognized by her headdress) with two children, one an infant over her shoulder and another, a small child, perhaps five or six with numerous small braids in her hair, typical for a girl of that age. The train came, the doors opened, the contents of the car rushed out like a wave at the beach, the crowd ebbed and then flowed back into the subway car. We wound up standing next to the lady with the small children. Soon the train started up again and shortly I felt tugging at my sleeve. I looked down and it was the child. I smiled. She tugged again. I smiled again. She looked apprehensively at me. I waved and smiled.

Now let me explain a key detail. This was the day and age of flip-phones and I carried one with me in a holster on my belt. The holster was closed with a flap and secured with Velcro. What had happened was that as we entered with the mad rush of people, her braids had become entangled with the Velcro on my cell-phone holster. We were now attached, perhaps not at the hip but at least at her head and my waist. I now realized why she wanted my attention. So I fumbled with her hair trying to separate it from the Velcro. She was very patient and didn’t cry or fuss. But I wasn’t making any progress. So the only thing to do was to remove my belt and holster and try to extricate the braid from the holster, though done at the risk of dropping my pants in the Paris subway. However, I got the belt off, separated the holster from it and was able to separate the child from the Velcro. She was much relieved. I was much relieved. The mother was much relieved. All this time I was thinking, suppose I can’t separate me and the child then I would have to take her back to the States and we would be adopting a small African-French child.

[i] These words are a transliteration from a comedy routine by Bill Cosby, the first track on his first comedy album Bill Cosby is a Very Funny Fellow entitled “A Nut in Every Car”. This recollection kindness of Bob Hoffman.