the accent of confidence

Faulted only by her modesty, Sylvie, speaks excellent English. She loathes her accent whilst myself and her many other friends find it delightful. Once, when I questioned her view, she related an invitation she had once had to a meal with a French friend’s family who had an English guest. She had been enjoying chatting with him during the meal until the mother of her friend interrupted, reproaching her for ‘putting on’ the (Clouseauesque?) accent. Of course she felt mortified having been doing no such thing but I can understand how the unwarranted accusation might have dented her confidence.

On the other hand when I saw her with some Francophone friends recently, she was again insisting that my French was very good (it really isn’t) so they were asking me whether my reticence to use it was mere laziness. I should add that, aside from my patchy recollection of French grammar and inadequate vocabulary, I was also hampered by a temporary dental plate (awaiting a new bridge) which made speaking English a challenge. Having inadvertently left the plate at home the following day, however, I did make a brief attempt at conversation.

On a previous occasion, I had discussed trying to learn to speak a language with an English couple I know. Gwen, like myself, perhaps a little uptight, trips, embarrassed by the mess she hears herself making whereas David just stumbles along, confident that he will learn from any mistakes he might be making. I reckon he has the right idea but I still worry too much that I’m being so insulting if I mangle a language. However, a while back, during at not very successful attempt to improve my Arabic in Egypt I sort of managed it...

The most wearying things in Luxor, Egypt is the constant hassle – as a man, travelling alone, any attempt to enjoy a relaxing glass of tea in a Café (even away from tourist areas) is usually interrupted by a barrage of unwanted, intrusive and, often dubious, conversation (in English) from local young men. At some point I realised that, as I had reached the point where (I’m a little ashamed to say) I didn’t care if they felt offended by my poor Arabic, I was free to dive in, drawing on the little fus-ha (standard) and even more patchy a3mmya (colloquial) that I knew, conversing in the direction I wanted, away from their unwanted offers of trade in Egyptian bananas. Confidence, a little boosted, later on I attempted a conversation with someone else who seemed thrilled that a foreigner could speak (a little Arabic) as, even those who are resident there, rarely do. Our conversation covered a variety of areas, including Barack Obama and US politics – though much felt like a poorly tuned radio station, fading out most of the time – I was surprised at what I could follow and it was most enjoyable.