Several months later, I found myself in the doctor’s office again. This time it was just for a routine check-up. But, when scheduling my next rendezvous, the receptionist started to try to tell me something. After several attempts of speaking slower and louder in French, she finally understood that I just didn’t get it. She led me to the waiting room where there was a friendly, young mom waiting with her child. The receptionist asked if she spoke English and the woman did. So she translated that if I needed an appointment for the same day, I was to say “urgence.” If I needed a routine appointment, I was to say “contrôle.” She gave me a code word. Apparently, our conversations were painful for her as well.
I decided that I could take two approaches with the language. Either be upset that I could not express myself or just throw a dictionary in my diaper bag and get out there. I spent too much time and energy in Germany feeling bad that I didn’t speak the language. I’m trying a new approach here. I’m not going to lie—it’s sometimes draining just completing daily tasks. Other times it is pure entertainment.
And for those of you wondering, vomir is vomit in French.
Other columns in the series:
Stories from the Land of Cheese: Buoyed by Mont Blanc
Stories from the Land of Cheese: Old World Charm and Moon Boots
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