You Want Whipped Cream on That?

During my first real meal at a restaurant in Paris, sitting at a community table with strangers, I ordered fish for dessert, as I attempted to read from the menu. But a compassionate waitress knew what I intended, despite my atrocious French, and kindly explained the difference in broken English.

In general, I found the people in Paris to be friendly and helpful if I made an honest attempt to communicate with them in their language, instead of just speaking slowly and loudly in English in hope that would help them understand me. I couldn’t believe how many times I saw clueless Americans do that. It was embarrassing.

I carry a translation book with me. But even with that, it doesn’t always turn out so well. One afternoon, a half dozen small children ran up to me as I walked along the Left Bank. Clearly they were excited, and they all starting speaking--- French, of course--- at the same time. I had no clue what they were telling me. So referring to the book and replying in what I thought was passable French, I said, “I don’t under you. I’m an American.”

That silenced them immediately and they quickly ran on down the street. But just a few yards away, one of them stopped, turned, and yelled, “Auf wiedersehen!” I’m not sure if he was sincere, and my French was that bad, or if he was just having fun with me. But he did have a twinkle in his eye.

--- Excerpt from My Neighbor Was a Serial Killer--- A Writer's Memories of Mayhem, Romance, and Murder