Language problem? Pas du tout!

  One thing you can expect when traveling alone in a foreign country and unable to speak the language is that you are often dependent on the natives for your survival. This dependency can lead to experiences – both good and bad – and can add much to the adventure. Many of these experiences are remembered long after other aspects of the trip are forgotten. This past summer, on my third trip to France, I spent more than a week on a solo journey throughout the country’s central region. On two previous trips my wife, who spoke French, accompanied me. She handled most of the communications; consequently, seldom did I get to deal with the locals on a one-on-one basis. As a result my initial impressions of the French was that they were reserved and withdrawn – an impression that is shared by many of my travel acquaintances. On this trip I would be on my own for eight days. I would then met my wife in Montpellier, where she was attending a French language school. This trek was filled with encounters and incidents that sometimes bordered on the magical. These eight days would totally change my earlier impressions I had of the French character. What made this adventure more remarkable was the anticipation of a less-than-friendly reception resulting from the strained relations between France and the United States over the war in Iraq. The citizens I met, and there where many, were friendly, pleasant and went out of their way to be helpful. My first encounter occurred on my flight from Frankfurt to Lyon. My seatmate was a young, casually dressed Frenchman. About 30 minutes into the two-hour flight we struck up a conversation–in English, of course. I learned that he was a cartoonist by profession and was returning home from a trip to New York and Los Angeles. For the next hour we had a most delightful conversation. Upon landing in at the Lyon Airport he went out of his way to guide me to the ticket office and helped me purchasing bus passage to downtown Lyon. I was over my first hurdle. Prior to leaving home I had secured reservations at a hotel about a 20-minute walk from Gare de Parrache, the city’s main transit station. On boarding the bus I showed the driver the hotel. He indicated he would let me know when my stop came – a stop that turned out to be the end of the line. I found myself on the lower level of a huge three-storey structure. This is not what I had expected. Buses and cars were coming and going, and people rushing by in every direction. After calming myself I found an information desk. The female clerk did not speak English and had no idea as to the location of my hotel. At this point I was even more appreciative of my French-speaking wife. Feeling slightly helpless, I wandering around the lower level until I came upon a wall-mounted city map and eventually found the street on which my hotel was located. It was about a half dozen blocks south of the station. On the lower lever there were only two exits, one for arriving and the other for departing buses. Neither would enable me to go in the direction in which I thought my hotel was located. My only other option was to take the escalators to the top floor, where a large enclosed walkway crossed over a half-dozen set of train tracks. I made my way out of the station and down to the street level. With a pack on my back and a suitcase in tow, I anxiously made my way down the busy street in the hope I was going the right direction. At each intersection I checked the street signs but nothing seemed familiar. After about a half-dozen blocks, I noted a pharmacy and decided to give it a try. Perhaps someone might speak English and aid me in my search. I got lucky! One of the clerks, a pleasant young woman, did speak English and informed me that my hotel was just around the next corner. Sure enough, as I turned the corner, my hotel appeared. It was a beautiful sight. A feeling of relief engulfed me as I made my way toward the hotel. With little effort I had overcome the second hurdle. Among my reasons for visiting Lyon was my interest in the Roman ruins located in and around this magnificent city. The capital of the Rhone-Alps region of France, Lyon is located at the confluence of the Rivers Saone and Rhone. This, the third largest city in France, is the site of two Roman theaters that date back to 43 BC. The largest of the theaters is the oldest in France and is still used for concerts and other events. It was during my attempt to visits these theaters that I once again needed to depend on what I hoped would be the kindness of the natives. The result was one of the most surprising and rewarding experiences of my eight-day odyssey. After spending the morning touring some of the grand sights this city had to offer I came upon a large city square, the Place des Terreaux. Set in the shadow of Hotel de Ville, one of Lyon’s most splendid structures, the square is surrounded on all sides by buildings, with one side lined with colorful, canopy-covered cafes. This appeared to be an ideal place to take lunch. Still feeling a little insecure because of the language barrier, I opted to take the familiar route and ordered a sandwich at a Subway Sandwich shop. To my delight, most of the employees spoke English. After enjoying my sandwich at the base of the Four Rivers Fountain I went in search of the Roman theaters. On a tourist map obtained at the Office of Tourism I located what appeared to be the site of the theaters and started walking what I hoped was the right direction. It was my constant references to the map, I am sure, that motivated a middle-age gentleman to offer his assistance. We spent several minutes trying to communicate but little was understood. I showed him the map and he pointed in the other direction. I expressed my appreciation with a number of mercies, one of the two expressions in my French vocabulary. The other is…