I love Paris in the springtime - 7

After posting a bunch of video clips, this post seems a little old school!  Okay, everyone, this is called an "excerpt," and it comes from these things people used to read in the olden times, called "books."  Isn't that amazing?

Anyway. :)  This book, called Almost French, is the autobiography of an Australian journalist making a new life in France.  She encounters a lot of snobbery and eccentricity as she tries to transition, but my favorite part is the way she reveals how much grace and warmth she finds behind each person's aloof exterior.  

In this part, she's calling to request an interview with the former Army Chief, who's still very much a bigwig at the École Militaire (military school).  But rather than having to wade through a bunch of red tape before speaking to him, she's been told that she can speak to him immediately...so she has no time to prepare her questions in proper French. 

Unnerved, I stumbled straight into a foolish mistake.  Instead of using the respectful word for "you," vous, I addressed him with the casual, matey tu.  In France, the military is the ultimate bastion of pomp and prestige and it's quite possible not even the good general's wife is permitted such familiarity.  In my growing panic, I tu-ed him again.  Then, after more nervous jabber, I said the unthinkable.

"Tu veux le faire ou non?"  Do you want to do the interview or not?  This sounds bad enough in English but in France--where the same question would require five minutes of poetic persuasion--such brusqueness is obscene.  Forget about using his proper title, mon Général-- I didn't even call him Monsieur.  My French had been reduced to the sort of crude questions you'd expect from a five-year-old.  The conversation had turned into an excruciating out-of-body experience: from my lofty vantage point it was obvious the babbling journalist had blown it.  A faint feeling of hysteria squeezed my breath.  Please oh please, let's just hang up and start again.

The general said he needed time to consider the interview, which under the circumstances seemed saintly, that he might even contemplate speaking to me again.  Rushing to end the call, I said the first farewell that popped into my head.

"Alors, à bientôt, uh."  Well, see ya later.  I may as well have said bisou and blown him a kiss.  I put down the receiver, cringing, barely able to believe the conversation I just had.  God that was awful.  Pitiful.  I was beyond help, out of control, hell-bent on my own self-destruction.

Half an hour later, his secretary called back.  The general would like a word.  I braced myself. ...

But his tone was kind.  Yes, actually, he'd be delighted to be interviewed.  Does such-and-such a day suit?  Astonished and almost speechless, I wondered what made him agree to the interview.  Was it simply his desire to state France's case?  Or did my embarrassing performance earlier elicit an act of kindness?  Whatever the reason, I was immensely grateful.  At the end of our brief exchange, there was a small pause.  Still unable to believe that he had said yes, I wondered what was coming.  The name of a good French teacher?  A request that a translator be on hand during the interview?  (I planned to bring one anyway.)  But no, it seemed he just wanted to say good-bye.

"Alors, à bientôt, uh."  It took a second or two for me to realize this was a perfect echo of my wholly inappropriate farewell earlier.  Beneath his grave tone you could almost hear him wink.