Montréal

My French book, check. A notebook to jot down new phrases, check. The folder with printed lessons, check. I packed as if this was a trip for a conference. But no, Aisela and I were heading to Montréal to “immerse” ourselves in a French speaking world for three days.

Only after our talk with the hotel manager, did we learn that certain parts of Montréal are English speaking only, and other parts are predominately French. We stayed in Le Plateau-Mont-Royal where all the people we met are bilingual. We tried to practice French with everyone we had contact with: Uber drives, hotel staff, waiters, ticket agents, fruit sellers at the market, and custom officers. Their typical response to our slow and broken French was a tentative statement: “I also speak English” or the automatic switch to the less awkward language. “No, no, no,” we continued with our well-practiced line: “we are trying to practice our French. In fact, that is why we are here!” That usually put a smile on people’s face and then they kindly embraced this uncommon request. Our Uber driver from Gambia told us we were the first Americans (one Chinese and one Albanian) who spoke French to him in the past 10 years of giving rides and he cheered on our attempts. If nothing else, that encounter made us proud and happy.

We stopped by a berry stand at a farmer’s market and admired the fresh produce. In conversing with the owner, we explained that we are still learning French so please bear with us. She warmly pulled us to the side and said: “No reason to apologize! We, ourselves, are Mexicans and our home language is Spanish. It takes time to learn a language.” Canadians are so encouraging, sometimes to a degree that is entertaining. I asked a hotel staff whether I can buy tickets on the bus, in French. To dispel his confusion, I added “I am still learning French.” Delighted and relieved, in an animated voice, he said: “Oh!! That is great!! I could tell you were speaking French! I just don’t understand it.” I burst out laughing uncontrollably. At least, I sounded right.

The city itself is lively, even at night. We found ourselves out about late in the evening, either having a meal out in a pedestrian street while enjoying the summer breeze, browsing through fun gadgets and home décor in a little Japanese store downtown, or taking public transportation and then walking through a park back to the hotel. A sense of safety and community reminded us both of our home countries.

Our room was upgraded to a suite with a deck overlooking the street and a sizable park. Bikers and buses go by from dawn to midnight. Sitting on the balcony with a coffee and fresh pastries in the morning, and a fizzy drink at night, we chatted about everything, from the endearing stubbornness of our parents to the hopes for our children (Aisela has two wonderful teenage boys), from the importance of right proportions in styling to gardening techniques. Of course, we also reviewed our French lessons on the very same lunge chairs. As I quietly said goodbye to the balcony the morning we left, I realized this trip is as much about friendship as about French.

It was a win towards the end of our stay when we managed to go through a whole dining experience without switching back to English. For me, the trip was adventurous, yet relaxing. No screaming kids, no research agenda, no jackhammer breaking up the concrete in the basement, no stress about dinner plans. I tasted the joy of learning and enjoyed the inevitable comedy that comes along with it.