Something on ice

"So, when was the last time you skated?"  I asked him.

"He" was a middle-aged middle-eastern man from San Francisco who just happened to also be my schoolmate at the school for French immersion.  His name: Mohommad. We were presently on our way towards the Plains of Abraham* to take in a afternoon of leisurely outdoor skating on one of the many outdoor skating rinks of the city.  Accompanying us was an 18-year old young lady from Mexico, also a schoolmate, who despite her vehement dislike of the cold, also claims to love snow and outdoor winter sports such as skating.  Her name: Alinna.  Mohommad from the USA, Alinna from Mexico, and me: a 30-year-old something from British Columbia, Canada. Yes, between the three of us we were together proudly representing the nations of North America.



Is the French word for a Zamboni "Zamboni"?

"Never." Mohommad replied to my question.  His voice was so matter-of-fact and devoid of self-consciousness that I was taken aback.  Maybe I had heard him wrong?  Or maybe he had misunderstood my question?

"Never?" I tried to confirm.  "You have never skated outdoors - or have you never skated at all?  You have never worn skates?" 

If you have ever learned how to skate you can understand why confirming this fact is very, very important. After all, I had just purchased skates after a personal 15 year skating famine, and for my first reintroduction onto the ice I had purposefully chosen to go on a freezing cold day to an out-of-the-way abandoned rink in order to avoid having an audience for my imminent performance of shame. And how shameful it was!   When I had first stepped onto the ice, it had taken all of my latent muscle memory and willpower to not become an ungraceful pancake.  At first I couldn't even move forward - I just let my legs wobble like a newborn Bambi.  After a couple minutes I had managed to summon enough stability to kind of scoot forward a little bit. And then I hit that little bump in the ice that sent me flying into a snowbank like a hockey puck.

If it had been that difficult for me, who had been a decent skater when I was a child, to get back on the ice - then for Mohommad, if he was truly a beginner.......

"No, this is the first time for me." Mohommad's voice was light and optimistic, giving off the impression that we were on our way to a picnic, and not about just about to go gliding on a rock-hard surface of frozen water on razor-thin blades of metal using muscles in his legs that he had never thought of using before.  A shiver of simultaneous horror and glee rippled through my spine.  The sadistic part of my soul couldn't help but revel in his apparent naivety, which was immediately in conflict with the nurturing, caring part of my soul that actually cares about the spiritual, mental and physical well-being of other human beings.

I couldn't blame him for assuming that learning how to skate is easy.  Watching the other people glide effortlessly on the rink in front of us made skating look as simple as breathing.  It requires the experience of having gone through the gauntlet to know what Mohommad was about to learn: that he was about to learn first-hand the true meaning of humiliation.

Sorry Mohommad, I thought to myself as we entered the shack adjacent to the rink to don our skates, but you are going to lose a little bit of pride today.  Let the fun and games commence!



On the ice and ready to go!

*If you managed to stay awake through the Canadian history portion of high school social studies, then you will remember that the Plains of Abraham are the site of a very important war fought between the French of the English, which ultimately determined the British dominance over British North America (later to be known as Canada).  If you weren't able to stay awake for that portion of the class then this footnote is for you.

Something français

STOP!  In Montreal.

 

"Excusez-moi? Parlez vous anglais?" I asked the man behind the desk at the Metro in Montreal.  My innate sense of direction was not accessible this far underground and I needed to find the bus station so I could purchase my ticket to Ottawa. Unfortunately old-reliable Google maps couldn't get a signal either, so I was forced to approach a random stranger and reveal my general incompetence at speaking the French language in the hopes of garnering some directions.

 

The man did indeed speak English and pointed the way asking, "How old are you?"  I hesitated for a moment, not sure of the relevance of the question.  What did my age have to do with getting to the bus station?  Figuring there was no harm in telling him, as I am not one of those people who feels like they need to perpetually lie about how young they are - who would I be fooling anyways? - I answered him "I am almost 30."

 

"Almost 30!" He says incredulously, "You don't know French and you have had 30 years to learn the language?!"

 

I flushed in embarrassment, swallowing the words of protest before I took anything needlessly personally.  The comment was rude, but the man was right; I had 30 years to learn the French language and I still can barely say anything more than "Je ne parle pas francais" (which itself is an oxymoron in that I claim to not be able to speak French while speaking French *sigh*).  What that man didn't realize though is that I have tried, more often than most would, to learn a language that is as elusive to me as the legendary Canadian ogo-pogo lake monster.

 

My handicap began at a young age.  Unlike most average school-attending children in Canada I did not go to a public school that offered French education from the elementary grades. The private school curriculum I was studying did not offer French until grade 9.  Incidentally, grade 9 was when I moved to a home-schooling curriculum where French was required, BUT the course-work was all done by correspondence.  Have you ever tried learning a language by correspondence?  It's like trying to whistle, not realizing that you don't have lips! It was a complete utter disaster and waste of time!  When I entered public school at grade 10, French became an optional elective, and realizing that I was 10 years hopelessly behind in the subject compared to my peers, I exercised my option to not take it.

 

Now I have to admit, in those mid-teen years of my life French was not a language that appealed to me.  It was too flowy, too elegant.  Words blended together like the notes of a melody, indistinguishable where one left off and the other began.  Personally, I was much more a fan of the harsher sounding languages like Russian, or Japanese, or Klingon.  "P'tak, get me my borscht! Itadakimasu!" But as I grew older and developed a greater interest in all things Canadian, my interest in the French language began to change too.  I began to realize that there is something very precious and unique in being a bilingual nation of people.

 

I tried to rectify my previous reticence to learn the language in later years.  I took an intro course in Fruitvale offered by my bilingual pastors, and there I learned that the bathroom is "la salle de bain". I took an intro course in Calgary as part of a continuing education program and there I learned how to ask for the time "Quelle heure est-il?"   I took an intro course on my computer using the Rosetta Stone software.  I can now identify articles of clothing by their French name, and construct a few rudimentary sentences. "Je porte un manteau blanc" = "I wear a white coat".  Every time I take a new intro course I retain a little more, but I've reached that uncomfortable impasse where I am absolutely sick of intro-courses and yet my French is still at a beginner level!

 

You see, what that man failed to realize is that it's not that I haven't learnt French for the lack of motivation in taking French courses.  It's that I haven't learnt French because I haven't lived in the right environment to help me retain it!  And one thing I realized as I travelled this autumn is how wonderfully multi-lingual Canada is, especially out east.  That bilingualism made me jealous.  I want to be a good Canadian too.  I'm already struggling in that regard because I don't really like maple syrup or hockey, but maybe, just maybe I can learn to speak French.

 

Today I arrived in Quebec City to embark on a 6-month long French immersion educational experience.  I've had about 6 hours of pitiful sleep over the last 24 hours that I was able to squeeze out of the uncomfortable bus seat and 3 plane transfers. I am exhausted but excited because finally I know that the legendary lake monster that has been evading me all my life will be mine.  I am here to learn French, in an environment that is overwhelmingly French Canadian, and this time no English-dependence/addiction will stop me!

 

Quebec City, from my week-long visit to it in September of 2015