In my last post, I posited that I'm worthless at translation between my three languages, French, German, and English. Here's a funny story apropos of that.
Just before Christmas 1999, I flew home from Mount Holyoke to visit my family. When I arrived at the airport three hours before my flight (not my choice! it was the airport shuttle), American Airlines was already offering vouchers worth $500 for volunteers to give up their seats on my flight. Apparently the trade winds were very strong that day in the opposite direction, and if the airline didn't get reduce the weight on the flight, the plane would have to refuel in St. Louis. My flight was at 2:30pm, and the next one was three hours later. I'd still get to the Dallas airport before 9pm, and I had books with me. No big deal.
By the time the 2:30 flight boarded, the offer was $1200. Even though I had accepted at $500, I received the full amount because otherwise there would be a disincentive for passengers to volunteer early. Then when the time came to put me on the next flight, the only seat left was in first class. I said it would be hard, but I thought I could accept that. I boarded the plane, and the flight attendant took my coat and offered me something to drink. It was magnificent.
So there I was in first class, enjoying my roomy seat, metal silverware, and miniature salt-and-pepper shakers while the plebians, packed like sardines, ate their stale bread and water. I started thinking about what I'd do with the $1200, since it has to be used up within a year. I simply don't fly that much; at that time the round-trip fares between home and college were about $200, and I only made that trip about three times a year, not nearly enough to use up my voucher.
It occurred to me that $1200 was enough to fly me to France for spring break. Hot dog! That was it. Then I decided that it was enough for two people, so I thought I'd take my mother with me. In the end, it was only $50 short of airfare for me, my mother, and my friend Maggie to fly to France for a week in March.
We visited my host parents in Dijon for the whole week. They drove us around and fixed French food for us, and it was wonderful. However, there was a problem of language; my host parents speak only a little English, and while my mother had once studied French, she hadn't used it for twenty years. Maggie was studying French and could follow along, although she didn't say much. As for me, my brain switched into French mode as soon as we arrived in Dijon.
One evening as we were discussing plans for the week, in French, my host mother suggested that I bring my mother up to speed on the conversation. I turned to her and quickly summarized what we'd been discussing. She gazed at me blankly.
Then I realized that I had spoken in French, unthinkingly, not realizing that I wasn't speaking English.
To some extent I am no longer able to tell the difference between English, French, and German; if I'm immersed in a language I have to step back and actually think about the words I'm reading or speaking in order to figure out which mode my brain is in. The main criteria I once used for determining language was that if I didn't understand it, it wasn't English; that test now fails.
Ralph Melton says:
It's a sign of a bygone era that you had metal silverware.
When I flew first class in the summer of 2004 because I was bumped, I ate with the nicest plastic cutlery I have ever used.
Laurabelle says:
No kidding. I flew first-class last Christmas (because for some strange reason first class was half the price of economy, don't ask me why), and it just was not the same. I felt gypped.
A few weeks ago I read Catch Me If You Can, the autobiography of Frank Abagnale, most of whose con-artist antics in the 1960's involved the luxury airline Pan Am. In the edition I read there was a little interview with him at the end, where he said that flying just isn't the same now as it used to be, and the difference isn't only that he's now paying for his airfare. These days, flying is work.