How far can you go?
I've been rather slack of late. The reason, though no excuse, is that Aude has been experiencing a bit of a heatwave during the last few weeks - almost unbroken sunshine and the bluest of blue skies. Finding the time to sit at the PC when I could be on our third-floor terrace or out walking hasn't been easy. Everything is in blossom and the plants on the terrace, which had been in a resentful sulk all winter, seem almost delerious in the heat. Their appreciation of the change in season is clear as they burst and bloom, spread and extend. All, that is, except the marigolds which are being eaten by a visiting migrating locust. This lengthy ramble hasn't much to do with language but does explain my silence. And I do take an unwholesome delight in talking of the fine weather, especially when I have to assure relatives shivering in the UK that I am taking good care of my sunburn.
We had some friends round for dinner last evening. It was a rare occasion when none of our guests was French. In general, we have a "mixed bathing" rule i.e. always ensuring a mix of French and non-French but as we know more expats than French, we sometimes run out of locals. And I must confess that I'm more than happy, once in a while, to leave French at the front door and to indulge my enthusiasm for English. I've been intrigued by and enjoyed most of the languages I've come across in my travels but my love of language I reserve for my langue maternelle. With English I'm on home ground. I have to work hard at French but I can play with English. In the course of a Brit night, I get the chance to enjoy to the full, the height, depth, breadth and almost limitless possibility of my mother tongue. I delight in it's colour, shading, it's multiple layers of meaning. I can spin words with a shift in accent, rhyming and phrasing and searching for alliteration, while relishing it's vulgarity and poetry. Finding myself back in English, I can begin to imagine how a penguin must feel, finding itself back in the water after waddling with little elegance on land. Learning and speaking French, I feel awkward, as if my natural exhuberance is curbed and disciplined, like a well-behaved dog; with the freedom that comes with MY language, I'm that same dog, taken to the countryside and let off his lead to run and career without any hindrance, concern or constraint.
Please note that I'm taking here of my delight rather than of my competance; my grammar, syntax and spelling can be ropey, to say the least.
Among our French-speaking English visitors were two who had lived here for many years and are very proficient linguistes. A discussion arose as to the appropriateness of adopting local accents. My question was "Which local accent?" We are blessed here with all sorts of variations.
First of all, the most common is the accent of the Midi, elements of which are heard from the Pyrenees, throughout old Languedoc and almost as far as the Alps. Amongst it's characteristics is that habit of adding the letter G to any unsuspecting words ending with N. Hence words like bread, wine and tomorrow are heard as "peng, veng, dimeng". If you haven't seen the film "Jean de Florette" (Gérard Depardieu and Yves Montand, superb!) rent or buy it for the accent as well as the Provençal scenery.
A linguistic idiosyncracy I've noticed around here in the Vallée de l'Aude is the penchant for adding extra syllables, the favourite being "er" to words ending with E and sometimes to words that don't. In the bakery: "Une-er baguette-er courte-er, svp" "Allez, au revoir-er. Bonne-er Dimangche-er!" Now this one I like. I find myself slipping into this style as easily as I slip into...well...slippers. It lends the words an ease that I find attractive and reminds me of Maurice Chevalier and other boulevardiers from the hayday of French cabaret and comic operettas. Who can forget "Valentine"? - "Elle avait un tout petit menton, Valentine-er, Valentine-er". I can almost feel the cane in my hand and the boater parked on my crown at a jaunty, even slightly rakish, angle.
Then there are those locals whose first language may even have been Occitan, the original langue d'Oc. There aren't as many native Occitan speakers here as elsewhere in the region but they are heard from time to time. Occitan is making a comeback. One of the schools in town is dual-medium, teaching both in Occitan and French. Our regional newspaper has an Occitan section.
Add to these three, a fourth option. In our street, most of the residents are Spanish migrants who came across in the 1950's and 60's. They were looking for work, or joining family members already here or leaving villages and town's where life under Franco was still uncomfortable for those on the 'wrong' side. So here we have fluent French-speakers with strong Basque, Catalan, or Andalucian accents.
So back to the discussion at dinner. How far can you go when taking on a French accent? What is acceptable? What is expected? It was argued that the most natural thing would be to adopt the sounds around one. On the otherhand, one doesn't want to be thought to be taking the p***. (We've heard French tourists in Carcassonne doing just that as they snigger while practicing "peng, veng, dimeng" - not friendly, not nice.) And yet again, someone suggested, we might be taken for snobs if we end up talking like presenters on "France Culture". Fat chance! At this point we realised the ridiculousness of our concerns. Such a debate should be left for the time when we appear to be at risk of speaking French with some confidence and fluidity. We all agreed that a degree of local adaptation is inevitable but you can't adapt what you haven't got.
In the meantime I'll work hard, attend French classes, enjoy the newfound fecundity of my plants and decide whether having a pet locust is worth the sacrifice of my marigolds. Hmmm.....decisions, decisions.