Bon Jour! Where Am I?

What's going on?

Greetings and French phrases from Quebec City! In the tradition of reporting on my embarrassment in foreign lands, Quebec seemed like the perfect spot to dust off my writing wings and peck out a new article. From our first truck stop in the province, I knew it was only a matter of time before I made some sort of fool of myself in this land of francophones.

Having never been to Quebec before, I'd heard it is very French, but how French is that? French like France, or as French as Florida is "Spanish?" I had survived months in France my first year with Hens on Ice with a little more that "bon jour," merci," and "fromage," so I hoped our neighbor to the north would be slightly kinder than the Parisian waiter who chucked my dinner plate at me and wouldn't refill my water. Ah, the city of love.

Tupelo: Not Spanish for "Your Hair"

Real American. Real English.

As we travel weekly to a new city with Hens on Ice, I try to assimilate into the local culture. Last year's tour through Europe was a challenge in some ways, but easy in others. I avoided flashy clothes or anything with an American flag to blend in on the streets, and with my WASPy complexion, some locals even thought I was from there...until I opened my mouth. When I opened my mouth, no matter what country and what language they spoke, I was done assimilating. My accent was like an American flag sweater I couldn't take off.

I first thought this year's tour through much of the U.S. would be far easier to blend. I live in this country - consider me assimilated! I've had twenty...something years to learn and live. No menus in foreign languages or women asking me for directions in French this time. While Florida was easy since I live there, many of these southern cities have been worlds of their own. My parents never took me to the south to assimilate.

Bienvenidos a France

My public school education in the US led me to believe that most everyone in the world speaks English, and if they don't, they SHOULD. My schools in Colorado, known for as much diversity as skim milk, offered language classes beginning in 7th grade. Spanish was the obviously cool and practical choice, growing up with the base of "margarita" and "chips and salsa." French was for the few smarty pants kids who wanted to feel different or superior, and the German class had 5 students in its prime since no one spoke German in the area. At least the French students could practice their French at The Melting Pot. Mmm, fondue!