"Have you heard of NTM, the rap band?" our teacher, Stephanie, asks us. Stephanie rolls her own cigarettes and wears clothes with deliberately asymmetrical seams. During our coffee break, the other girls in the program decided that she raves every weekend (sans ecstasy) and has a hot boyfriend. Possibly girlfriend.
Leaning against the desk, Stephanie adjusts her mod-bohemian-shoulder-drape thingy made of yarn that I am jealous of. "You know what the acronym stands for?" We sit patiently in silence. In the past hour, we've learned that questions phrased in a certain timbre of voice are either rhetorical or impossible. To volunteer an answer is to cast awkwardly phrased words into the abyss.
Stephanie pauses for an appropriately uncomfortable gap of time. "Nique ta mere," she says. We nod appreciatively, as thought bubbles sprout up around the room like daisies. What does nique mean.
Ta mere, I think. Your mom ... Blank your mom. I'm reasonably sure I can fill in the missing word. Sadly, I could not say the same for my "Name the Judicial and Legislative Branches of the Modern French Government" exercise sheet from earlier today. The "draw a line between the corresponding terms" section, post-correction, was a close approximation of Jackson Pollock's later period.
"Let's give the lyrics a listen," Stephanie says, "and then we'll discuss the primary slang terms." I take copious notes on all of the words that Stephanie deems "tres familier, yet useful for casual speech."
On my way home, pasted against the doors of a metro car, I bump up against a sketchy 40-year old man wearing jeans tighter than mine; in an effort to remain conscious - his cologne may or may not be a legalized form of euthanasia - I concoct several phrases that I will use at dinner to describe my day. I crown each term with an exclamation point, to endow my new vocabulary with a sense of Parisian vivacity.
On class: "Stephanie, our prof (1), was hyper-sympa (2)!" (1) [n., dimin.] professor (2) [adj.] super nice
On the commute: "The metro strike today was so bad. My voyages were ... (1) la bordelle (2)!! (3)." (1) [fam.] dramatic moment in which one searches for the proper word to encapsulate one's emotion (2) [adjv. n.] a total mess (3) [exclam.] two exclamation points - augmented vocal emphasis
I'm particularly excited about the last phrase, la bordelle. NTM seemed to use it a lot. It'll be fun to put it in a quotidienne context, I think. I stride off my metro car brimming with purpose.
We've moved on from our main dish to dessert. I sit between my host parents, at the head of the kitchen table. So far, we've discussed that I like grapes, the relative difficulties of storing leftovers and Sen. Barack Obama (D-Ill.)'s ears. I shift in my seat, preparing for the moment in which they ask me about my classes. Instead, Monsieur Arthuis throws a curveball; "So, tell us! How did you get to class today, with all the strikes?"
I take a breath. "Oh, it was very hard. The places were full of people. In fact, my voyages were ... la bordelle!!" Appropriate pause. Two exclamation points. I even tacked a conjunctive clause on the front. I look up from my pudding. Monsieur puts down his spoon. Madame is suddenly very interested in her napkin. My host brother Thomas has paled beneath his scrupulously cultivated 3 o'clock shadow.
Oh God. Something has gone horribly wrong. Run.
No, no - don't panic. Back up slowly. They'll think you're going to the bathroom, and then you can make a break for the front door. Screw the suitcases.
Monsieur drags his tea spoon against the table cloth. "The metro was what, again?" he asks. I contemplate the physical possibility of dying from class-one heat stroke caused by blushing.
"Today in class, we learned a word for - for when things are getting complicated. When they are confusingly bad and all over the place."
Monsieur nods. "Literally, la bordelle is the place where prostitutes work," he says. "But it's also a gros mot - a fat word. Figuratively, it's a substitute for ... poutain de merde salope-ta-mere. Fucking bitch of shit mother-whore mess."
"Ah," I say. "Good." Good.Now I can go die.
Convalescing alone in my room later that night, I make a mental note never, ever to believe Stephanie's gauge of social normalcy again. I also make plans to buy a red highlighter to mark all the vocabulary I learn from NTM and all other bands named after sexually transgressive acts. But, I say to myself, one can learn so much about the nuances of a language just by wildly insulting a native speaker's sense of decency. I'm learning, goddammit. Sitting on my bed, contemplating my socks, I think back to the other night. Thomas - in an effort to strike a note of playful intimacy upon parting - called after my American friends and me in English. "Goodnight, dirty tramps!" he shouted, waving merrily.
After things were smoothed over, we sat down and had a talk about the varying degrees of intensity assigned to each nickname for a prostitute. He learned some fat words; I learned some fat words. We bonded. Tonight, I said a morbidly obese word. I might as well make the best of it - hopping off the bed, I decide to go ask Thomas to spell and rank in intensity the following: la bordelle poutain de merde salope-ta-mere. And tomorrow, I'm giving the list to Stephanie.
Becca Foresman is a French and Italian major from San Diego, Calif. She is studying abroad this semester in France and can be reached at foresman@princeton.edu.
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