A tale about miscommunication between a Brit and French paramedics reminded Matt Hambly not to get broken hearted about his language learning.
A tale about miscommunication between a Brit and French paramedics reminded Matt Hambly not to get broken hearted about his language learning. Photograph: Alamy.
At college I was lucky enough to learn art theory from a brilliant tutor. Martin (not his real name) had no less than two degrees, in art history and African cultural studies, had published several text books and was a well-respected Turner scholar. He also possessed that rare thing among such intelligent people: empathy. Aware that not everyone was as quick on the uptake as he was, he took great pleasure in making even the most challenging of subjects seem accessible.
In his spare time, Martin led tours around various cities, bringing them alive with his encyclopaedic knowledge and brilliant, anecdotal skill. This is how he came to be leading a group of British retirees around the catacombs of Paris one summer afternoon. During the tour, one of his party, an elderly gentleman of about 60, was taken ill with a suspected heart attack. A trained first aider, Martin, came to the man’s rescue, administering CPR while an ambulance was called. Once the paramedics had arrived, Martin, ever diligent, offered a thorough handover in French. Well versed in art criticism and conversation, Martin was not, however, familiar with what he referred to as “medical French”. But no matter. He was a quick thinker, and cobbling together a suitable phrase with the French he had at his disposal, told the paramedics that the man had, in his opinion, suffered “un coeur brisé.”
There was a moment’s pause while the paramedics digested what he’d said, followed swiftly by some raised eyebrows and a few stifled sniggers.
The men, remembering themselves, thanked him but suggested that despite never having met the man’s wife, they feared it might be something more serious than a broken heart.
My point is that no matter how intelligent, how experienced you are; it is always possible to learn something new. And indeed, when you’re a complete beginner, even easier.
Having just completed lesson one of my Rosetta Stone course, I can say that I have definitely learned something. I now know the collective nouns for boys, le garcons, and girls, les fille. I also know that if I want to say “he swims” I’ll need il nage, she reads elle lit and if the chaps are eating, then les homme mangent it is.
The course is easy to follow, with a series of increasingly difficult tasks to complete, matching phrases to pictures, beginning with individuals eating or drinking, progressing to groups of boys and girls, men and women, indulging in all manner of leisure pursuits.
It’s an effective way to learn, and should prove particularly useful if I ever end up on a mixed couples’ retreat to Centre Parcs. Soon enough, the melodic harpsichord of joy that heralds a correct answer even begins to trigger a warm, Pavlovian response in my belly. I want to please it. I get nervous when I’m unsure of an answer, and I chastise myself when I’m wrong. Nevertheless, I’ve started learning French, and received a satisfying 85% on my first module. Next up are a series of core lessons designed to improve my grammar, pronunciation and vocabulary. In the meantime, thanks to Google Translate, I also know that should you find yourself talking to a paramedic about heart attacks, the phrase you’ll need is une crise cardiaque.
lab4free 