Please fill in all fields and then click Submit.
Once submitted, your comment will be sent for approval by one of our editors.
Language problem? Pas du tout!
One thing you
can expect when traveling alone in a foreign country and unable to
speak the language is that you are often dependent on the natives for
your survival. This dependency can lead to experiences - both good and
bad - and can add much to the adventure. Many of these experiences are
remembered long after other aspects of the trip are forgotten.
This
past summer, on my third trip to France, I spent more than a week on a
solo journey throughout the country’s central region. On two previous
trips my wife, who spoke French, accompanied me. She handled most of
the communications; consequently, seldom did I get to deal with the
locals on a one-on-one basis. As a result my initial impressions of the
French was that they were reserved and withdrawn - an impression that
is shared by many of my travel acquaintances.
On
this trip I would be on my own for eight days. I would then met my wife
in Montpellier, where she was attending a French language school. This
trek was filled with encounters and incidents that sometimes bordered
on the magical. These eight days would totally change my earlier
impressions I had of the French character. What made this adventure
more remarkable was the anticipation of a less-than-friendly reception
resulting from the strained relations between France and the United
States over the war in Iraq. The citizens I met, and there where many,
were friendly, pleasant and went out of their way to be helpful.
My
first encounter occurred on my flight from Frankfurt to Lyon. My
seatmate was a young, casually dressed Frenchman. About 30 minutes into
the two-hour flight we struck up a conversation--in English, of course.
I learned that he was a cartoonist by profession and was returning home
from a trip to New York and Los Angeles. For the next hour we had a
most delightful conversation. Upon landing in at the Lyon Airport he
went out of his way to guide me to the ticket office and helped me
purchasing bus passage to downtown Lyon. I was over my first hurdle.
Prior
to leaving home I had secured reservations at a hotel about a 20-minute
walk from Gare de Parrache, the city’s main transit station. On
boarding the bus I showed the driver the hotel. He indicated he would
let me know when my stop came - a stop that turned out to be the end of
the line. I found myself on the lower level of a huge three-storey
structure. This is not what I had expected. Buses and cars were coming
and going, and people rushing by in every direction. After calming
myself I found an information desk. The female clerk did not speak
English and had no idea as to the location of my hotel. At this point I
was even more appreciative of my French-speaking wife.
Feeling
slightly helpless, I wandering around the lower level until I came upon
a wall-mounted city map and eventually found the street on which my
hotel was located. It was about a half dozen blocks south of the
station. On the lower lever there were only two exits, one for arriving
and the other for departing buses. Neither would enable me to go in the
direction in which I thought my hotel was located. My only other option
was to take the escalators to the top floor, where a large
enclosed walkway crossed over a half-dozen set of train tracks. I made
my way out of the station and down to the street level. With a pack on
my back and a suitcase in tow, I anxiously made my way down the
busy street in the hope I was going the right direction. At each
intersection I checked the street signs but nothing seemed familiar.
After
about a half-dozen blocks, I noted a pharmacy and decided to give it a
try. Perhaps someone might speak English and aid me in my search. I got
lucky! One of the clerks, a pleasant young woman, did speak English and
informed me that my hotel was just around the next corner. Sure enough,
as I turned the corner, my hotel appeared. It was a beautiful sight. A
feeling of relief engulfed me as I made my way toward the hotel. With
little effort I had overcome the second hurdle.
Among
my reasons for visiting Lyon was my interest in the Roman ruins located
in and around this magnificent city. The capital of the Rhone-Alps
region of France, Lyon is located at the confluence of the Rivers Saone
and Rhone. This, the third largest city in France, is the site of two
Roman theaters that date back to 43 BC. The largest of the theaters is
the oldest in France and is still used for concerts and other events.It
was during my attempt to visits these theaters that I once again needed
to depend on what I hoped would be the kindness of the natives. The
result was one of the most surprising and rewarding experiences of my
eight-day odyssey.
After
spending the morning touring some of the grand sights this city had to
offer I came upon a large city square, the Place des Terreaux. Set in
the shadow of Hotel de Ville, one of Lyon’s most splendid structures,
the square is surrounded on all sides by buildings, with one side
lined with colorful, canopy-covered cafes. This appeared to be an ideal
place to take lunch. Still feeling a little insecure because of the
language barrier, I opted to take the familiar route and ordered a
sandwich at a Subway Sandwich shop. To my delight, most of the
employees spoke English. After enjoying my sandwich at the base of the
Four Rivers Fountain I went in search of the Roman theaters.
On
a tourist map obtained at the Office of Tourism I located what appeared
to be the site of the theaters and started walking what I hoped was the
right direction. It was my constant references to the map, I am sure,
that motivated a middle-age gentleman to offer his assistance. We spent
several minutes trying to communicate but little was understood. I
showed him the map and he pointed in the other direction. I expressed
my appreciation with a number of mercies, one of the two expressions in
my French vocabulary. The other is "Parlez vous Anglais?"Now
totally confused, I started toward the other end of the square, which
took me by the Subway shop. Ah, I thought, this is a place where
English is spoken and they can probably give me the proper information.
They were still busy with the lunchtime crowd, so I waited for an
opening and then approached the young man behind the cash register and
told him of my search. Although he did understand some English he was
of little help. Frustrated, I left the shop and continued my walk
toward the other end of the square.
Having
gone no more than several hundred feet when I felt a tap on my left
shoulder. Turning, I was confronted by a young, attractive woman of
African decent. I recognized her as one of the employees of the sub
shop. In impeccable English she graciously gave me detailed directions
on how to get to the theaters. She suggested I take the metro rather
than make the long trek which, she explained, concluded with a steep
uphill climb. She further explained that I would have to change trains
and take a funicular up to the theaters.
I
was overwhelmed by her thoughtfulness. It did not match my initial
impression of the French. She left her duties at the sub shop, followed
me down the square and spent five minutes aiding a complete stranger.
It was an act of kindness I will not soon forget.
Making
my way to the metro I would again be rescued by several other good
Samaritans. Noting that I was having trouble with the ticket machine
because of my inability to read the French instructions, an elderly
gentleman, without being asked, assisted me in the purchase of the
correct fare. Then upon arriving at the transfer point my uncertainty
must have been apparent because a man dressed in a fashionable business
suit and carrying a brief case offered his assistance. He led me to the
proper platform where I was to catch the second train. Within one hour,
three kindly people came to my rescue. With their help, I was able to
spend the afternoon exploring, while also contemplating the
marvelous accomplishments of one of the worlds great empires that
existed more than 2000 years ago.
My
first full day of my solo odyssey was magical and there would be more
such days to come. Any ambivalence I harbored about traveling alone in
France soon dissipated. While walking back to my hotel, the thought
occurred that had I been with my wife or were able to speak the
language I would have never have gotten to know the generosity of the
citizens of Lyon.
--
Originally from Canada, Bob Christman lives with his wife Joyce in Portland, Oregon. They travel to France whenever they can.
Originally from Canada, Bob Christman lives with his wife Joyce in Portland, Oregon. They travel to France whenever they can.
