Lost Without Translation

My mother didn't bring me up to take the easy road. And neither, it seems, did Jess's. Some might call us gluttons for punishment, but we want our time in Paris to result in our growth as individuals. Believing ultimately, that what doesn't kill us will make us stronger - nothing ventured, nothing gained... and so, tonight, sans the map (although we did practice the route there and back this morning), we set out to see our very first Parisian play. A comedy entitled, J'aime Beaucoup Ce Que Vous Faites (or... I Like Much What You Make). As you can imagine, the entire hour and twenty minute production was en français!

Now before you all sigh, and say we wasted our money - because admittedly, we understood almost none of the dialogue - we did in fact prepare for our endeavour. Call it research, if you will. A lovely Parisian boy told us about it the other day and gave us a brief plot summary. Basically, there are two couples. One is visiting the other at their home in the country, and on their way there they phone to confirm directions. The country couple decide to let the call go to the answerphone, and then low-and-behold, the couple in the car forget to disconnect, and the machine records the rest of their conversation... in which they say what they really think of the friends they are visiting! Needless to say, their comments are less than positive. The country couple are at first horrified, but then they concoct a little scheme to get their friends back. This includes a little mocking, and even a devious taping of the other guy calling his girlfriend a halfwit (although, admittedly, she is a few clowns short of a circus).

And yes... it was very funny. At least everyone else in the audience was laughing. I understood words here and there and thoroughly enjoyed each character's facial expressions and interactions, but I have to say, that a whole lot of the play was lost in translation for me. What made me feel worse was the young girl sitting next to us with her grandmother. She obviously found the whole play hysterical, and kept urging us to see the funny side. A huge part of me wanted to turn to her and admit, "Je ne parle pas le français"... but my pride wouldn't let me. Whether I understood what was happening or not, I refused to destroy the illusion of being Parisian (for a night). And when the lights went up, we clapped along and so hard that the actors got three bows out! A successful evening for all concerned, vous ne pensez pas?

ps: bought another cheeky item today... a gorgeous little ring from a equally lovely jeweller (that specialises in imitation designer rings) in the Jewish Quarter: Camille et Lucie, 6 Rue des Rosiers, 75004 Paris