As I travel, I tend to make the (usually wrong) assumption that all white people speak English.
That’s precisely how I found myself tangled in an awkward moment with a French woman on the bus. I blurted out a few questions, trying to engage her in conversation. She shrugged and smiled.
She only knew a few English words. I speak high school preschool French. We didn’t have much to say beyond hello. I dove deep into my brain for every possible French thing I could muster and emerged with “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?” and the les poissons song from “The Little Mermaid,” neither of which were appropriate.
There was no way to continue this conversation. Instead I attempted to bury my head in a Kindle, which is très difficile.
After we arrived in Bangkok and unloaded our luggage, the woman approached me.
GIGI (I am making up this name): Please. I do not speak English. Guesthouse?
ME: I no stay guesthouse.
GIGI: Merci. I stay with you.
And suddenly, we were crammed into a tuk-tuk together.
Normally I wouldn’t mind being accompanied by a fellow traveler, but I wasn’t heading to a hostel or guesthouse. I had a friend from home meeting me in Bangkok, and we reserved a nice hotel for a few nights. I knew this place was beyond the typical backpacker budget, but I had no clue how to express that to my new French friend.
Instead we had a patchwork of pleasantries, sewn together with scrappy bits of each language.
GIGI: Hmmm. Where do you from?
ME: America. How long do you travel?
GIGI: Vietnam. (Long pause.) My English is unhappy.
ME: My French is very sick.
And then because I couldn’t think of anything else to say, I busted out the only other phrase I know en Francais.
ME: I would like to buy some socks today.
She nodded.
GIGI: D’accord.
When we arrived at the hotel, Gigi nodded her approval. It was slick and fancy, with a modern lounge that frightens you into standing up and keeping your hands to yourself. The walls were brushed metal and spotless glass. The chairs were somehow lit from within. A bellboy handed me a blue cocktail.
The receptionist asked if I needed an additional bed in my room to accommodate Gigi, and the French lady looked at me expectantly. As much as I wanted to help her out, it wasn’t my place. I would hate for my friend to fly halfway around the world, walk into her hotel room and find a stranger there — especially since my friend booked the room.
I did my best to explain.
ME: Mi amiga — er, mon ami is coming ici.
GIGI: (French words, French words, French words).
ME: I’m sorry.
GIGI: Oui. No good. I go.
Before she left, I held out my blue cocktail. That gesture needed no translation. She downed it with a grin, then disappeared into the elevator.
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