Say Quoi?

Note: I wrote most of this just after starting a new job, when I was well and truly (bel et bien?) exhausted by the move to Canada and starting my second job in less than a month. I think that comes through below, but I wanted to point it out, since that was an integral part of my experience while writing it. Thank you.

Before I left for England, the study-abroad literature had a stark warning about homesickness. It will come, they said, and will surprise you. The first weeks spent in country will be exhilarating, and many students find it easy to convince themselves that they have settled in comfortably. However, after the novelty of the country wears off and the recent memories of home fade, the little differences start becoming larger and larger, until, one day, you find yourself consumed by homesickness.

It is true, too, and I was overwhelmed by the feeling, although I did little to ameliorate the condition, actively eschewing the very things that would have made me feel more comfortable.

In Québec, I am still in the novelty stage, although at six weeks, I am approaching the end of the honeymoon. There are good parts to that: I travel around the city with ease, I have made some friends. But the things which seemed so alluring to me when I first arrived are starting to grate on my patience.

The biggest of these, by far, is the issue of language, and that is something which will not go away. I have alluded to it in my previous posts, but the fierceness with which the Québecois defend their language is startling. Although I have not run across any unpleasantness, I have heard anecdotal tales of crazed bus drivers calling the police because a passenger asked for the time in English and of protesters descending upon a restaurant to protest a bartender who spoke no French.

These stories seem so absurd that part of me thinks they must be fabrications, although the one about the bus driver was well documented in the local newspapers. To date, I have had no problems at all, perhaps because I am tall and charming and I smile a lot and always ask if someone speaks English before addressing them in the language. Still, the stories are enough to make me feel slightly uncomfortable; every day, there looms the threat of a separatist rearing his ugly head, staring down his crooked nose, and extending a bony finger at my face. “Tu,” he will say, “n’est pas francophone, tu n’est pas Québecois de souche, et j ne t’aime pas beaucoup.”

I had my first chance to see a movie a couple weeks ago, and the whole time before the show started, I was fretting about the language it would be shown in. The system used in movie listings is simple enough, but there were no experienced anglos to whom I could turn and ask for help. I had to work out that vf means the movie is dubbed in French and voa means it is merely subtitled. Of course, those are rarely used, because oftentimes the movie listings just print the title of the film in one language or another, translated if the movie has been dubbed. (Inglourious Basterds became Le commando des bâtards, which misses the point of the original title).

But what about District 9? Would they merely add an E to the end of “district?” Or would they write out the number neuf? As it turns out, they left the title unadulterated, and used the easier method of assuming the moviegoer knew which theaters played movies in which language. Thanks, Montreal. So, I took a chance and guessed on the theater nearest the English universities; my hard work was rewarded with an English-language (albeit with a lot of Afrikaans) experience.

Something was surprisingly relaxing about sitting in a theater where I knew that every interaction I had would be with an English-speaker, either those around me or those on the screen. In fact, it was so relaxing, I ended up seeing movies on the next two nights, as well, and each time the experience was the same: two hours without worrying what language I would be forced to use was a blessed respite.

Nowhere was the language barrier more stressful than in the restaurant. The language of the kitchen was French, of course, and the pace of 200 covers a night made every day a horrifying experience. Someone would yell out a ticket and I would stand there, slowly working out the words. “Poutine, was it regulière or foie gras? I think it was foie gras, so poutine foie gras. But did he say un or deux?” I always ended up asking for clarification, which broke the rhythm of the line, frayed nerves, and marked me as an obvious outcast. It was not until my last two shifts that I was comfortable enough with French that I did not slow down service.

Language is indeed a barrier, but it is surprisingly easy to live a life nearly devoid of French, even though this is the second largest French-speaking city in the world. At my new job, there is only one engineer who is not a native English speaker. There are two large English-speaking universities right downtown. So, although it can be stressful, and French is always hanging just around a friendly corner, living in the city has been anything but difficult.