What’s the French for
“Pizza?”
Out of my hotel room window, I can
watch cars line up at the McDonald’s drive-thru. They are there almost any time
I look. If I tilt my head just a bit I can see the blue “t” of a Walmart sign.
Though I can’t see it, I know there is a Taco Bell just around the corner. But
such evidence is misleading. I’m clearly not looking out a hotel window in
Columbus, Ohio, or Hereford, Texas. The McDonald’s sign promotes their
“Saucisse McMuffin avec oeuf.”
I am in the old city of Quebec
(founded 1608). The first European settlers in the area spoke French and the Québécois
have never gotten over it. The official language of the province is French. All
the road signs are in French—only French; ironically, the neighboring provinces
of Ontario and New Brunswick use both English and French on their road signs.
Fortunately, stop signs (“Arrêt”) are octagonal.
Pat and I sometimes couldn’t find anyone
else who spoke English; when we did, it was often an older person. The problem
wasn’t insurmountable. I even resurrected enough of the French I had studied
years ago to order breakfast one morning (Saucisse
McMuffin avec oeuf sans fromage). Okay it wasn’t elegant.
I often thought of
the old 1953, Jimmy Kennedy song about Constantinople becoming Istanbul. It has
the line, “Istanbul was Constantinople/Now it's Istanbul,
not Constantinople . . . Why did Constantinople get the works? /That's nobody's
business but the Turks.”
That the Québécois have chosen to hold onto the French language
is nobody’s business but theirs.
An old joke goes:
“What do you call
someone who speaks three languages?”
“Trilingual.”
“What do you call
someone who speaks two languages?”
“Bilingual.”
“What do you call
someone who speaks one language?”
“An American.”
Americans do
sometimes brashly assume everyone speaks English or, at least, ought to speak English.
(Not an unreasonable assumption: in much of the world people are eagerly
studying English.) We Americans are sometimes provincial; convinced everyone
ought to be like us.
But I know places
in Columbus where signs are in eight languages. I was recently in a hospital
room where there was a phone that allowed doctors speak to patients, though
interpreters who spoke one of 200 languages.
As individuals we
Americans might be a bit narrow-minded from time to time. But on the whole we
know we’re not the only folks in the world. And, contrary to widespread rumors,
we want strangers to feel welcome. It’s a good attitude. N'est-ce pas?
