My high school French teacher friended me on Facebook. Like any good educator, her first order of reconnecting was to inquire into the current proficiency of my second language. While I was far from fluent, I had a cache of useful phrases that usually won over important people like concierges, bell hops, and bakers.
It was a one night stop for the food β the restaurant was hailed as one of the best in France. Fix-it was a broad-shouldered, dark-haired man who was a real-life incarnation of Gaston from Beauty and the Beast, complete with the red polo shirt. I giggled when I saw him. He instantly became sour when he realized we were American. Je comprends mieux que je parle. I understand better than I speak.
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He smiled and repeated what I just said. Your French is excellent! As he walked me to our room, he chattered away at me. Talking about what to see in Bordeaux if I had any time and then carefully instructing me on how to work all the high-tech functions in my new age white-from-floor-to-ceiling room. The bed was on the floor and every light and blind and tap was operated from one remote control. Le Saint-James is the kind of boutique hotel that can get away with charging 40 Euro per person for a basket of breakfast breads.
Our indulgence had been dinner the night before β a luxurious multi-course tasting menu of nouveau French cuisine. For breakfast, all we wanted was a roll and coffeeβ¦ and not to spend another fortune on a meal. I saw Gaston sitting at a counter outside the restaurant. He was reading the paper and I paused to scan the headlines and pictures over his shoulder.
There was a snapshot of a local rugby game. I asked if he played and told him my father had played for South Africa. It was a replay of a chat I had a few years ago in a college level French conversation class. He quickly turned to the fancy coffee machine next to him and rolled out a petite cafe β the French version of espresso and ran down the hall.
