A friend from New York asked about the French lessons I was taking to prepare for our trip to Paris. There is a myth in the US (I heard it again while we waited to board the plane) that all French people speak English, they just won’t because they are stubborn.

That’s as nuts as saying all Texans speak Spanish. According to Wikipedia, about 35% of French people speak English but the statistic is misleading. International business people (like Christine LaGarde, head of the IMF) speak English, so do upper class intellectuals in France (just as the upper class in the US speaks French). Nicholas Sarkozy could not speak English well when he was elected President of France. I don’t know if the newly elected president does either. He only spoke French when I saw him on TV exulting in his victory over Sarkozy. Oh, wait! I was watching TV in Paris… on their Election Day 6 Mai.

It is important to remember that the French HATE the English. Remember the Hundred Years War? It lasted 300 years — that’s how long they were fighting. Napoleon was planning to invade England until the battle of Trafalgar in 1805.

I didn’t meet Christine LaGarde (though I would love to — I copy her hairdo) I mainly spoke to waiters, passers-by on the street and security guards. I needed to ask directions and understand the answers like how to find the correct bus stop, or where Howard would exit Notre Dame after he visited the towers. I could get a recommendation at the wine shop and buy delicacies. For example:

Rue Cler is lined with cafes, bakeries, chocolate confectioneries, ice cream parlors and what New Yorkers call “appetizing shops.” Each has a different specialty such as pâté or thousand-leaf pastries filled with delicate ham and cheese. They are bustling in the late afternoon and filled with the local people.

One we visited had an aisle down the middle with the cashier at the end. The prepared food was in a case on the left and ingredients were over a counter on the right. I asked for a slice of cheese, a couple of thick slices of country bacon and some olives from a big French guy rapidly serving people over the counter on the right. My hands full, I was propelled by the press of people to the cashier at the back, a well groomed woman in her fifties. She asked in French if this was everything I wanted.

I looked longingly at the little quiche in the case on the left. She said “La quiche?” I nodded. She was already out of her chair and heading for it when she said, “Combien?” “Une,” I squeaked.

She wrapped it up and returned to her chair as the line pressed behind me and I churned through my mental rolodex. “Je suis desolee de votre derangement,” I stammered, knowing it wasn’t quite right. “Je vous en prie!” she scoffed and rang up the purchase. I was so relieved that she thought it was natural to help people get what they wanted. I realized that is was probably her family store and the men slicing ham and cheese were her sons.

The food was sensational and it was really nice to have something to eat in the apartment when we came home wet and tired.

Knowing some French really makes a difference. In Paris, yes, and even more in the countryside. And the difference it makes is the quality of your experience. You will have SO much more fun if you can understand the waiter when he says, “Oh, don’t have that. Everyone has this.” Just know that he will say it in French.