Expecting Malendendues

I think that half of learning a foreign language lies in expectation. But this is a new discovery for me. When a stately, older woman just getting onto the tram (a different tram, a different time than Ben Kinsley’s) asked me about my sanity, I because convinced of the importance of context. Projecting a range of possible expressions, possible words in an upcoming situation is necessary when one’s ears are not fully habituated.

So, startling questions from strangers about one’s sanity are difficult to expect, by default. I had just come from the “Grand Place,” whose appellation is fitting and I need not expound. But I really should: it is a Home Depot, Bed Bath and Beyond, Chinese Grand Buffet, and Mall of America all housed in a decidedly soviet-inspired architectural theme, a multi-level smorgasbord with interior street names complete with sign-posts and a post-apocalyptic façade greeting guests. And there are a lot of guests. I fought my way around them, using the convenient street names to point my way. I managed to find le CocaCola, on sale, no less, and j’en ai acheté beaucoup. To be caffeinated is to be American.

I was rather laden with Cokes as I boarded the tram back to civilization. So, it was with some difficulty that I cocked my head as I tried to both understand the stately lady’s question, and also to not look like a person who pauses between intra-cranial translations of foreign languages. I was unsuccessful at both, and my cover was blown. I was either foreign or, lacked sanity. In my case, both. My linguistic delay caused some consternation to the lady, and those holding onto the fluorescent yellow, convivial rail in the tram. I pursed my lips, and began my standard, “Je suis désole, madame, mais je ne comprends pas.” Ok, good so far --- “I am sorry, but I don’t understand.” That makes sense for someone who is potentially insane or, perhaps, just doesn’t understand the question. But what rolled out next, I just don’t understand. Not only did I not understand, I then added, “je suis américain. As if that explained the phrase that preceded it. No translation necessary here. No reason for it; it was just additional information to strangers, and in this situation, like additional information to the IRS.

My effect was chilling. Silence. Luckily, a Ben-Kinsley-in-waiting did not rise up and verbally assault me with a anti-étranger soliloquy. The stately, inquisitive lady did not respond. Maybe they thought I was about to snap? So, I was faced with contemplating my impertinence en silence. Well, of course an American wouldn’t understand.

When the stately lady left the tram, she still said nothing. It was after the doors closed that I realized something, something rather important. Context: What was I holding? Ah yes. She didn’t say sanité; no, she said something quite different. She asked me how my health was: my santé. Les CocaColas: not good for your santé. Well, good; she had not been concerned for greater psychological well-being. Maybe I don’t have a perennially insane air after all.

I do realize, though, that maybe my nationality-based response wasn’t so bad. Les CocaColas aren’t good for your santé. But, I am an American, as I told her. We are all in bad health, so one Coke more won’t matter. Context, context. Expectations, for me on a tram and for the stately lady when she meets me again.