I flip through my newly minted “French” travel dictionary as the tiny plane touches down in the tiniest airport: Perpignan, France.

Talking softly to the headrest in front of me, I practice dropping the last syllable off words in my dictionary in an effort to sound more “French” since the French I actually know is quite limited. (And I have strategically located myself close to the Spanish border just in case all the condescension for non-speakers turns out to be true and I need a little Spanish-language self-esteem boost from time to time….that and I wanted to be in wine country as I will always be amazed at what tequila did in my college days for my salsa dancing skills!).

Walking across the tarmac, I softly recount everything I know:

  • Oui (Yes)
  • S’il vous plait (Please)
  • Merci (Thank you)
  • Un, deux, trois (1,2,3)

735My more advanced phrases come a little more slowly:

  • Comment allez-vouz? (how are you?)
  • Comment vous appelez vous? (what is your name?)
  • Je m’appelle… (My name is…)

Then I’m laughing and grasping at little French straws in the Perpignan sunshine as my vocabulary degrades:

  • Vous le vouz ley bur? (would you pass the butter?)
  • Mon petit chou chou (my little cabbage…)
  • Jouyeax noel (merry Christmas and the nickname my oldest sister and Francophile ironically named “Mercy” as in “Comment vous appelez vous?” “Je m’appelle Mercy” “Merci?! Non, Non…Com-ment vous ap-pel-ez vous?!”)

The last two…no, the last three are probably not that useful. I thought I knew more. Oh:

  • Vache! (cow! I realized I know cow from somewhere when I heard it on that one movie…)

I see my orange pack sitting in a clump.

I see an older French man with the gray-black pony tail that Martina had told me about: Jean-Luc, my airport transport!

And before me, is a short, quickly moving line of travelers flashing passports of European descent and are unceremoniously waved through.

I give a smile & wave to Jean-Luc. Smooth sailing, I think.

Then the white-haired short man in the blue customs uniform swipes the passport from my unsuspecting hand: “American!” he rolls the r accusingly…

I feel like I’ve been caught. Ugh, what did my country do now.

He waves me to follow him out of the queue and I try to think of what to say, what language to use, Saya, Alstublief, Por favor…no French. I try make sure I do NOT accidentally say the last French word I remembered. Vash. What was my other French?!

He talks excitedly to another man in uniform. He waves his arms, as if summoning the wind or talking about a massive problem I’ve just created, perhaps its a bomb threat. I stand there summoning my most helpless look. I really have no idea what is going on. That’s how foreign French is to me.

In the drama that I’ve apparently ignited, they completely ignore me. Except to point in my direction, with a string of words that sound the opposite of inviting. The old man flips through the pages of my passport, then finds what he’s been looking for. He points and barks more orders. (I’m waiting for the men with guns to come trotting in to take me away at this point.)

Then both men bend over my offending passport, as the old man holds the page steady, by making a square with his fingers next to the South Hampton, UK insignia.

The younger man raises his arm. Then lowers it to the page. A clink of a stamp registering my arrival.

The old man’s back stiffens to full attention. He turns on his heel, my blue passport in hand, a massive grin on his white-mustached face.

He offers it to me with accented-English: “A Frrrrrench souvenirrrr.” (wink and a grin)

I laugh and bow, “merci boucoup” with all my heart, grab my pack and follow Jean-Luc to one of the ten cars in the entire airport parking lot.