When I first arrive in New Caledonia, a small Melanesian-majority French colony in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, my French is shit. Like properly shit. Like, people can’t understand me when I try to order a baguette.
I knew it had to be bad. I did nearly fail half of my university French classes, and I didn’t understand the guy interviewing me for my teaching assistant job when he asked me what my hobbies were. But I didn’t know I was I’m-surrounded-by-people-I-can’t-communicate-with bad.
The day I arrive, I tell the immigration guard that I’m in New Cal for work and he looks openly horrified when I can’t understand his questions. During my job’s training day, I realise I am the only assistant who doesn’t speak fluently. Everyone has either a French-speaking parent or has lived in a French-speaking country. I get home and cry – a whole day of missed communication washing over me.
I’m not used to feeling so utterly stupid. Or lonely. I also didn’t realise how much of my ego stemmed from my ability to communicate. Stuttering over my words, having people react to my perfectly innocent attempt to make small talk with a look like I’ve just spat on them does more to bruise my personal pride than I’d like to admit.
But here I am, 22 years old, three years of French under my belt and I have no choice but to adjust to the fact that the five-year-old I share a house with looks at me like I’m the most ridiculous person he’s ever met.
Tu ne parles pas le français ? Quoi ?!
I’m desperate. Not enough to whip out my French grammar book and practice of course, but desperate nonetheless. I ask a new friend of mine, a fellow teaching assistant who’s been here for three years, what I should do.
“Get Tinder,” comes the reply.
In the past, I’d consider ignoring her advice. I’ve never used any dating apps before, always being one of those people who wanted to meet someone in the ‘real world’ (ha!). But she’s been in a relationship with a local for nearly two years and speaks French like a native, alors on y va.
I’m not expecting to fall in love like she has, maisss if I did happen to meet a gorgeous Pierre and go on a few dates, improving my French at the same time, it wouldn’t be such an awful thing.
I really admire my own optimism sometimes.
It takes about a week of ‘talking’ with numerous French-speaking hommes before I go on my first date. I meet Jason* a Caldoche guy with an English name and a Tahitian pearl necklace. He would remind me of a Californian surfer (hence the pseudonym), but I find out later he’s afraid of sharks.
The day of, I nearly cancel. I still can’t hold a (sober) conversation to save my life, and when I ask my prof référant (supervising teacher) to practice with me, she gawps at me like a stoned goldfish as soon as French exits my mouth. Jason also messages me « fais toi toute belle » and I almost pull out in feminist protest, or at least consider not using deodorant.
Luckily, he is sweet, if not a bit traditional, and he speaks English. He also has issues with the French, which makes for a nice venting experience after months of misunderstanding social cues. Unfortunately, he is also way too intense. For our second date, he shows up wearing all parts of a suit minus the jacket, even though we’re just eating galette and I have never seen a single person wear a suit in New Caledonia.
I go on a few more dates with Frenchies who end up resorting to English with me, plus one archetypal German sailor who enjoys telling me how my country is a “fun illusion” and how great it is that his boat doesn’t have modern steering technology. I might not be using my speaking skills too much, but I am getting a lot of reading practice, par exemple…
Lui : « J’ai regardé pirate des caraïbes hier soir du coup ça m’a donné envie de t’aborder »
Moi : « Haha c’est vrai ? Pourquoi ? »
Lui : « C’était une petite approche… ☹ »
(His chances were better when I didn’t understand his message – having someone say they want to board you like a pirate isn’t any more romantic in French).
Then, one fateful day, I meet Pierre. No, his name isn’t really Pierre, but he is a gorgeous French man with brown messy hair, big brown eyes, facial hair, who wants to talk about art and literally works at a boulangerie – so yeah, he’s Pierre.
Perhaps even more perfectly, he doesn’t speak any English. For the first time ever, I spend an entire hour speaking only French. It is cute and awkward and I am constantly fumbling for my words but it’s okay because there is a beautiful man blushing nervously across the table at me. It feels too good to be true – I start imagining our brief love affair which will involve frolicking in the Caledonian ocean and eating homemade croissants in bed.
Naturally enough, he ghosts me about a week later.
Mais c’est la vie. Because I can speak French now bébé!!!
I go on a few more unremarkable dates, including with a sadly stereotypical French soldier I christen Charles de Gaulle; but fittingly, my final date in New Cal is with another gorgeous French man. Except this French man doesn’t want to talk arts and culture, oh non non.
He wants to talk about crossfit.
It’s perfect. The lack of intellectual depth in our conversation means I can actually maintain it over multiple hours. I am still missing details left right and centre, and he still looks at me occasionally like I’ve just donked him on the head with a metal ladle, but we are having a conversation. It moves. It flows. When he comes up to my room and neither of us knows what to do, it’s just a regular awkward first date – the two of us randomly point at objects in my room and discuss them.
So yeah, I did meet a Pierre, and a few Pierre-types, and I did not have a grand romance. But much more importantly, I speak French now. Not like a native, and not particularly well, but enough to be just as awkward on a date in New Cal as I would be in Australia. And that in itself is something of an achievement.