On Learning Another Language (or A Really Boring Post)

I'll admit, before I arrived in Switzerland, I expected my French to improve exponentially, osmotically, and without much deliberate effort on my part.  Perhaps I just had a heightened perception of my affinity for languages, but I imagined that, by the sixth week, I would be able to comport myself with relative ease through Swiss society.  And I'm not that far from my goal - today I managed to flounder my way through an inelegant exchange with a bookstore clerk to order a book I needed for school (ungraceful, but successful!) - but I feel as if the steps I've made toward fluency lie primarily in quantifiable knowledge gains.  In other words, I've answered my long held questions as to how to say "that means" (ça veut dire), "I have to" (je dois), and "it doesn't matter" (c'est egal), but I haven't yet gained the familiarity with the language necessary to understand and be understood.  Given enough time and perhaps a sheet of paper, I can formulate and decipher almost any thought I have in an (almost) grammatically correct sentence.  But such are not the circumstances of an ordinary French conversation; thus, I know enough French to survive, but I'm not good enough at it to make any use of it.  Undoubtedly, the most difficult thing about learning a new language (as it seems at this point in my experience), is transferring your memorized operational knowledge of where to place direct objects, how to conjugate verbs, which gender to use, and when to use the subjunctive, to habitual memory, so you can feel out what sounds correct, rather than wrack your brain for the applicable rule.   I know I'll reach this point eventually, but I'm a little impatient, because in the mean time, I'm stuck with awkward nodding and endless, obnoxious calls, for repetition and deceleration.

I have, however, been taking several independant steps to improve my language abilities.  I've tried linguistically isolate myself in French, avoiding English websites, books, and writing home (though I suppose I'm violating my resolution by posting this).  I've started reading Harry Potter et la Coupe de Feu (page 248!), and I think it's helped me take significant steps toward proficiency.  I can feel my vocabulary growing (admittedly, it's mostly a recognition vocabulary, as I rarely use the words myself), and I've gone from using the dictionary 30 or 40 times a page to about 5 or 10.  I feel a surge of pride each time I recognize a "Harry Potter" word in conversation, knowing that my independent study was worth it.  Also, my recognition of sentence structures, and comprehension of grammar has expanded too.  I can't really formulate the structures myself, but I can now understand the sentences that stumped me seventeen chapters ago.  An interesting note, however, is that although I can understand the words on the page, I don't always understand the tone or implication of the writing.  Consequently, I have, much to my chagrin, developed a sympathy for Draco Malfoy, and catch myself wondering why Harry, Ron, and Hermione hate hims so much.

Although it sounds like a lazy solution, I've also devoted myself to watching more television.  Since I've found television one of the most difficult things to understand, I figure frequent exposure to quickly spoken vernacular can only make my comprehension skills better.  And it seems to be working; I understand a little bit more each time I watch. It may not be pleasant, but I guess I'll just have to bite the bullet and watch more television...

And whenever I acknowledge significant progress in the language, I immediately become ambitious.  In a month, I think to myself, I'll be able to start German, and by the end of the year I'll speak them both fluently.  Then once I convince myself of the practicality of my goal, my ambition becomes grows larger and larger, and by extention less realistic. I think: Since Italian is close to French, I can probably learn it in six months of intense independent study after that.  By then, I'll be really good with languages, so I'll be able to pick up Russian aftera few years of college classes, and then maybe I can start Chinese.  These are nice goals I suppose.  Just as I would like to read every book ever written, I'd like to be fluent in every language and be able to naturally communicate with any one in the world.  I know this is impractical if I want to do anything else with my life (like eat), but I will definitely strive to communicate in as many languages as possible.

La Fin de la Cours du Langue

Yesterday was the last day of my language course - bittersweet as most endings are; we're finally heading off to collège, but at the same time we're abandoning the liberty of gradeless four hour school days, and the camaraderie and solidarity of spending it with other students going through the same experiences. Hopefully, we four will remain friends through the course of the year. Of course, it was bittersweet in more ways than one: the latter half of our final day was spent at the 190 year old Cailler Chocolate Factory (which merged with Nestlé in the early 20th century). There were demonstrations of the machines, explanations of the development of chocolate manufacturing technology, vintage Caillers ads, and of course - my favorite - free samples. They had bite-sized pieces of every chocolate they produce, free for the taking. Naturally, I felt it necessary to take advantage of the opportunity to experience the legend of Swiss chocolate, and proceeded to sample every type of sweet avaliable. It was a delicious, but probably ill-concieved endeavor; Cailler produces several dozen varieties of chocolates, so after about twenty minutes of stuffing my face, I was thoroughly disgusted with myself. Our teacher, under the bidding of the language school, I suspect, bought us each a chocolate bar. There were many worthy varieties, but I discovered the absurdly dark "Noir Extrême" chocolate, with 80% cacao. It was delicious.

The day before, we had taken a similar outing, to explore the city of Fribourg. We walked (short one - Valeria was celebrating a holiday with the other Mexican students in Switzerland) through the old city, exploring the impulsive and idiosyncratic network of meandering back alleys, haphazard stairways, and unnecessarily intersections. With its mysterious semisubterranean doorways, misplaced windows, and arbitrary architectural easter eggs, there was a whimsically slapdash quality about the preposterously short-sighted medieval construction. Having no regular plan, Old Fribourg, holds all sorts of fountains, statues, and other mysterious and ancient treasures to be discovered.

 After our unsatisfyingly brief exploration of the old part of town, we walked over to the Cathédral de Saint-Nicolas, the undisputed emblem of Fribourg. Though I'd already been with my family, I was still awed by the dramatic gothic construction of the chapel, much to the amusment of the cathedral-jaded Germans in my class. We left the prof in the sanctuary, and climbed the 368 stairs to the top. We had a fantastic view of the entire city (though unfortunately, it was shrouded in a rather depressing fog), and spent the better part of an hour admiring the city, before we returned back to class.

Bénichon

Today was the Bénichon Festival, particular only to the Canton of Fribourg. We went to Philippe's parent's house to eat with the entire extended family, an annual tradition that extends back fifty years. In all, we probably numbered about 25 or 30, which meant alot of introductions, and awkward half-conversations. Despite my relative inability to comport myself in French, I think people definitely underestimate my proficiency. They talk to me with painfully deliberate enuciation, crawling through their sentences to ensure that I understand, and immeadiately afterwards translate any potentially difficult words. I appreciate the gesture to reach out and include me, but I feel a little silly when they talk like a children's television character. Today, one woman told me her husband was Simon and Alain's uncle. "Tu sais que s'est, oncle?" she said "It's Uncle, in English." Perhaps I just have a naturally inquisitive face. Admittedly, I have developed the rather obnoxious habit of responding to anything adressed toward me, with "Quoi?" or "Repete." One of my greatest fears is responding to the wrong quesion, so I always ask to double check my comprehension, regardless of whether I think I understand it. No doubt, that gives the impression I understand far less than I do. Many of the adults talk about me in French, assuming I don't understand them, but my eavesdropping skills far exceed my speaking skills. Interestingly, I can sometimes do this with German. Based on context clues, cognates, and what little German I know, I can deduce what Ruth or my brothers are saying. I always feel rather proud whenever I successfully eavesdrop - French or German - because it feels like I'm a level above where I should be.

We were there from about noon until 9:30, for two meals. The first consisted of cabbage soup, and lamb, and potatoes, and meringue - not exactly what I would have chosen, but it was good enough. Philippe's mother kept insisting I eat, filling my plate with slabs of lamb, despite my good-natured protests. I think Alain and Simon's grandparents almost treat me like one of their kin, inquiring about my being, drowning me in food, and taking me on outings in the mountains. The next meal consisted of, like most evening meals in Switzerland, just bread and various toppings. There are invariably dozens of varieties of bread, each sweet, fresh and soft, three or four cheeses, sharp and pungent - entirely different from American cheese, but delicious, several types of jelly, butter (which I only discovered I liked about three weeks ago), meats (turkey or ham), and of course, moutard de Bénichon, a specialty spread of Fribourg. Thus, souper, despite its simplicity, is undoubtedly my favorite meal of the day.

Between the two meals, I spent time primarily with the other kids. There's about five years differnece between the youngest (12 or 13) and the oldest, and there are enough of them, that we can play sports fairly effectively. We played alot of basketball, because there's a hoop that all the older kids could dunk on, with the appropriate lines painted on the pavement. Feu rouge, or Knock-Out, was the main game, and at one point or another basically everyone participated. Simon also grabbed two baseball gloves, so some people were tossing around a ball.

We also went to a carnival to ride the "carousel," which turned out to be a large Tilt-o-Whirl. We also spent some time in some bumper cars, and on a platform of several incredibly springy trampolines. Interestingly, there were hardly any attempts at crowd control or safety restrictions. People were running willy-nilly through the bumper car pit during a run, and the trampolines were regulated only through the number of people in the cage. I also expect the litigation subculture here is less active than that in America, so people can take whatever stupid risks they want.

Fête au Quartier

Saturday was the fete au quartier, which is basically a block party for the street I live on. I helped set up tables, and was introduced to dozens and dozens of people. I never thought it was possible for one family to have so many neighbours! We came back an hour or two later for the fete itself. The tables were packed, and little kids ran the streets, selling assorted wares, and services, brownies, and carnival games. Night time came after much incoherent and awkward mingling, and it was time to eat. The salad was tossed, the grills were lit, and so ensued the strangest barbecue I have ever seen. Each family unpacked their meat from their private tupperware container (And what an assortment there was! Not a single meat went unrepresented: strips of horseflesh lay beside thick gourmet cuts of marinated turkey and chicken, spiced steaks cooked atop juicy slabs of ham and under dripping rabbit kebabs, and strings of sausages draped across the whole menagerie) and placed it on the grill to cook, flipping it and prodding it themselves, all waiting around the grill for their family's meal to finish. And if a chef (that's the only thing one could concievably call them), prodded with too much gusto or flipped with too much zeal, and the steak tumbled to the street (or even into the ashes), they picked it up, brushed of the debris, and placed it back on the grill. Afterwards, I was introduced to someone else, a girl who had been an exchange student to Germany the previous year, Pauline. She invited me out to meet her friends (probably since she knew what it was like to know no one), and we went to the big park in the center of town. Surprisingly, I could understand most of what she said, and we had what was a skeleton of a conversation on the way to the park. We met up with her friends, and watched a local ska band, with a rather mediocre trumpet player perform a couple of decent songs, all with the same chord progression. Afterward, we went to the bowling alley where we played a couple of rounds of billiards. We tried to go to XX or Vigntieme, a bar, but I didn't have my ID, so I couldn't get in. I arrived home as the fete was winding down, just in time to watch a few rounds of the most inspired foosball (foot-foot) I have ever seen. The brute force reaction test that I had come to take for granted as the basis of the game, was abandoned in lieu of passing, dribbling, feints, and heretofore unheard of ball manouevres.

On Sunday, I went with my dad and his parents to a beautiful lake in the mountains. There were so many fantastic views of so many things: of the mountains, the crystal blue water, the Swiss chateaus, the valley cities, the snowcapped Alps far in the distance, lake Geneva, Montreaux, and even France. On the way back the car broke down, and we had to wait half an hour for the Swiss Triple A to come get us. We got back to his parents house, which I found vaguely reminiscent of The Godfather's, and they gave us vegetables from the most formidable vegetable garden I have ever seen. There were zucchinis over a foot long; plump, tennisball tomatoes; and veritable bushes of lettuce. The whole system of greenhouses, gardens and trellises must have occupied an acre.