Thirteen – Experience French

I can’t speak French.  I can quite honestly say that I didn’t learn anything during the three and a bit years that I studied French at school.  I remember my first ever class.  All students were ushered into a massive classroom where we were asked to copy words from a text book into our exercise book.  We were occasionally given lists of words to remember; there was no accompanying context, just a never ending stream of tests, all of which I failed.

The third year was the most entertaining.  I ended up in the ‘divvy group’ for three different subjects: English, French and (for a while) mathematics.  Everyone who was in my French class didn’t want to be there.  The class was used as ‘recovery time’; it sat between physical education (which I hated) and a very welcome break time where the students could eat crisps and kick a ball about in the playground.  Subsequently, all the kids were either tired, bored, or both.  A gang sat at the back of the class and practiced flirting and shouting; another kid acquired a skill of walking on desks.  When surrounded by chaos, noise and hormones, I did exactly what I did in the other French classes I been to: I copied words from a textbook to my notebook, not really understanding what I was copying.  We didn’t speak French.  We wrote French.

I re-read the description of the event for a second time (which was in English) and I was immediately worried; I needed to do something.  I was going to a French public speaking club; a club that was a part of an organisation called Toastmasters International.

I opened Google translate and typed in a few words of a simple introduction.  I looked at the French words that were generated.  I didn’t recognise any of them.  I also didn’t have a clue how to pronounce them either.  No matter; I printed my ‘speech’ out in huge idiot-proof text (thinking I could always show them my speech if it went wrong), put it in my top pocket, and left my office.

The meeting was held in a building called City Temple which was close to the Holborn viaduct, which is just south of Farringdon.  I opened the door and walked in.  It was a modest room.  Thirty chairs were set out in rows and a French flag was draped over a lectern.  Bunting (also French flags) was sellotaped to the wall; I was certainly in the right place.  People were talking, in French.  I stood at the front of the room for a few seconds, wondering how on earth to introduce myself.

I started to walk towards a group of people at the front who were chatting away.  ‘Hello!’ came a voice.  I turned around.  ‘It’s Chris, isn’t it?  Chris Douce?’  I had no idea who this was.  ‘It’s Lucy!  Julie’s friend! I recognise you from Facebook!’

I suddenly realised who Lucy was.  She was the daughter-in-law of one of my friends who I had visited in hospital a few weeks earlier.  We had become ‘Facebook friends’ when we had  both posted about our respective visits to see Julie, but we had never met in real life. Julie used to live in France, and I knew that she had a strong interest in the world of ‘public speaking groups’.  These facts together made Lucy’s presence in the group make sense (in contrast to my own presence, which, of course made absolutely no sense at all).

‘Chris!’  I turned around.  It was another friend of mine.  It was Helene, who I had met a few times at a comedy Meetup.  I couldn’t believe it.  I was floored by all these co-incidences.

‘I didn’t know you could speak French!’ Helene said, before giving me a huge hug.

‘I don’t!  I didn’t know that you could speak French either!’

After a bit of catching up, it was time for the evening to begin; I moved to sit down.   I noticed there was someone sitting at the back of the room who had a stop watch and a set of coloured lights to let the speakers know how much time they had left.  Introductions were carried out in English, primarily for the benefit of a Toastmasters divisional leader who was there to make sure that everything was running properly.  There was also a ridiculous agenda that had over twenty items.  It was all incredibly well organised.

The meeting was split into three parts.  The first bit was a set of pre-written speeches, which were called ‘manual speeches’ (all members had to try to complete something called the ‘competent communicators’ manual).  This was followed by a bunch of evaluations and some ‘impromptu speaking’; this was where speakers were given a topic and they had to ‘make stuff up’.

The first speaker was Laura.  I had absolutely no idea of what she was talking about, but she did show us some nice pictures.  She showed us a map of France, a picture of the statue of liberty and a picture of a croissant.  The second speech was by apparently about ‘democracy’.  Unlike the first speech, there were no pictures, but I started to listen to the cadence and tone of her language.  The third speech of the day was to be inspirational, motivational and appeal to a ‘higher purpose’.  It was given by an English woman called Emma.  Emma did a cracking job; she smiled, changed her speed of delivery, asked the audience questions, had exquisite body language, and spoke totally fluently.

As she spoke, a part of me fell in love with her.  Although I had absolutely no idea what she was going on about, but I was enchanted and fascinated by her ability to speak fluently in two languages.  How did she manage to achieve this?  What was her story?  What was her connection with France?  Every member of the audience was enchanted; you could hear nothing except her gentle yet expressive voice, communicating something that was obviously important but resolutely unfathomable.

Towards the end of the first half, all the guests were invited to say something.  My name was called out.  I walked to the front of the room (which is what the other guest had done), and reached into my shirt pocket for my Google translate script. I looked out at the crowd. I was suddenly petrified. I cleared my throat.

‘Hello, my name is Chris, I live in Lewisham, and I have come here by mistake.’

Everyone laughed.  I was suddenly very aware of sounding undeniably and distinctively British.  I looked out at the audience again.  I had a second sentence.  This was harder than the first.  All the words were alien to me.

‘I am visiting one hundred different Meetup groups and your group is number thirteen’

There was silence.  Thirty people looked at me with an expression that suggested utter bafflement.

‘Thank you for having me.’  I nodded, then went to sit down.  In retrospect, I should have said more.

I received some polite, muted applause.

The rest of the meeting went in a bit of a blur.  The interval comprised of some bread and cheese (French cheese, of course), followed by the impromptu speaking section.  There then a time keepers report, and then evaluations of the ‘table topics speakers’ which was by my friend Helene, who made everyone laugh by doing exaggerated impressions of everyone. The meeting ended with a final ‘general evaluation’ speech.

I stuck around for ten minutes or so.  I learnt that Emma was married, that my friend Julie was a lot better now that she had left hospital (and that she would welcome a visit at home), and Helene was between jobs.  I also managed to chat to the president of the club who had come directly to the meeting from her job in the city, where she worked as a management consultant.  I looked around.  The room was almost empty; almost everyone had gone home.  It was time for me to go home too.