Wednesday, February 27, 2013

Pending translation

This week marks the beginning of the my tenth year working for an American company in France and now, for almost the first time, I'm finding my status as a native English speaker is coming in handy.

The French division of my company was born of a friendly takeover by a large American firm, and for years we've had a "petit village gaulois" à la Asterix kind of vibe.  At work I've spoken in French, argued in French, written many detailed technical documents in French -- albeit with an inimitable style, according to my boss -- and learned quite a few domain-specific business terms exclusively in French.  I've hard-coded my share of cryptic application error messages in French, too.  In email, my French grammar is supposedly better than that of many of my native-born colleagues, a fact of which I'm inordinately proud.

Enter large multinational project.  Designed in the UK.  Developed in India.  Customized and deployed across the globe, in countries as diverse as Brazil and China.  As well as France, my new home.  Clearly there's no cultural complexity here, right?

My colleagues all understand some English and deciphering written text for them is no problem, but when they have to speak or, worse, understand some of the more obscure British accents over a poor conference call line, they're clearly uncomfortable.  Some are frankly lost.  When basic comprehension is so painful, the will to collaborate wanes, and pretty soon everyone on both sides is hiding behind walls of But They Just Don't Understand Over There that are so much easier to construct when there's a language/cultural barrier.  

Plus, I've been told, there are just some, err, issues between the French and the British. Ententes cordiales are not automatic.

So I get pulled in for a small part of this multinational project, and then for a larger piece when they realize that I can cover a lot of ground quickly when I'm serving as a technical and cultural translator.  Aside from the business terms that I only know in French and where I look like an idiot as I scramble for a translation, this is going smoothly.  I love it.  I feel useful.  And though it may simply be an accident of my personal and professional trajectory, for the first time I'm bringing something to the table to no one else can bring.

After pinch-hitting as a translator on a conference call a couple of weeks ago, I came home from work in an unusually good mood.  I picked up Le Petit at After Care and on our walk back tried to share some of my enthusiasm with him.  (I'm always looking for ways to motivate him to speak more English, but thus far nothing works nearly as well as sesamestreet.org.)  I launched into a cute "Mommy helped her colleagues and she's really proud" speech which Le Petit interrupted.

"I could do that, too, maman," he announced.

"I bet you could," I concurred proudly, "Because you speak English and French."

"...And if it were me, I'd explain to them the difference between American English and British English, too!"  he went on.

This puzzled me.  "Oh?"

"Yes.  I'd explain that in England they say 'trousers' and in America... in America, they say 'pants'!"

He's mastering cultural differences already, you see.  

I don't know if I'm going to make a big difference on this project ultimately, but there is something at about the whole thing that is exhilarating at the moment.  For the first time, too, I understand why the linguistic stakes here in France are so high, and why Le Petit's nursery school starts English instruction at age four.  Being bilingual isn't simply a skill that's nice to have, it is critical.  This is not only something I never learned in the US, but something it took me almost a decade of living overseas to fully understand.  

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

Threshold

Notre Dame de Paris got a new set bells this year.  Le Petit went to see them on Tuesday with his grandparents: for the moment they're down at human-level, not up in the ether of the belltower.  He touched them, he told me, and they made noise.

I'm sitting on the couch and watching a television program about Notre Dame, its new bells, its 850 jubilee celebration this year. 850 years and now they're busy installing the same system of locks on the doors, and transforming them into fire doors.  

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day.  My husband and I are not celebrating it for the first time since we've known each other.  At least not tomorrow.  Maybe this weekend?  Except this weekend we've planned to patch plaster and repaint the bathroom ceiling.  Tomorrow I'm dropping by the hardware store on my way home from work.  

"For Valentine's Day, I got you an apartment," my husband joked earlier, and I laughed because yeah, that's almost true.  We found an apartment in Versailles.  Our offer was accepted last week.  We're hoping to sign the paperwork that accompanies the offer next week, and start the codified process that marks real estate transactions in France.  That's why we're working on fixing up our place to sell: organizing, repainting, replacing the caulk the bathroom, carting off books to used bookstores and clothes and kitchen gadgets to donation centers.  I've been keeping my anxiety at bay by keeping busy.  I'm not sure our apartment has ever looked this neat or clean. 

Walking around our urban suburb today, my day off, I thought about the time we've spent here.  Le Petit was with me, and he ran through the park where we'd spent so many afternoons when he was tiny.  Time has gone by fast, and I realized not long ago that I've lived in this home longer than I've lived at any other address in my life.  We'll likely move in July, a month before we'd celebrate ten years here.  So it makes some sense that a new chapter is beginning now, I guess; that I'm a bit frightened, of course; that I'm astonished at the passage of time.

My husband wants to go to Notre Dame this weekend.  I do, too. To see the bells.  And to put it all in perspective.