Todd Nelson, Comment Dit-on?

 Whether it is Castine visiting St. Castin, or St. Castin visiting Castine, our times together begin with a search for words. How do you say…?

Aside from our own French classes, we first practiced the pronunciation of their names: Hugo, Arnaud, Maxime, Margaux, Axel, Marion, Robin, Simon, Camille, Roxanne, Gianni, Morgane, Nathalie, Kévin, Shana, Nathan, Thomas, Luc, Lorena, Marie-Sarah, Julien, Emeline, Emilie; Christophe, Michel, Sandrine, Madeleine, Caroline, Maryvonne and Pierre. And they have a way of saying my name that makes it sound even shorter than the one syllable. Perhaps they are not pronouncing the second ‘d.’ When you can correctly pronounce someone’s name you are welcoming them

Then we learn the names of things, nouns. Phrases follow, organized around utility. What will we need to say first? What are our questions? What are theirs? How do you say, “How do you say?” Comment dit-on….

How do you say, come and play. We quickly find that some things needn’t be said. A gesture, a look, a tag and a chase invoke the universal language of play. Start turning the jump rope and everyone knows what to do. “We’re going to play Dodgeball,” may be abstruse at first. After groping toward a few detailed instructions an “aha!” moment arrives: “C’est ballons des prisonniers,” they say. Oui, c’est ça. Capture the flag? “La Guerre.” Allons y! Nous allons.

Google and Babel Fish translators can’t solve everything, but they were the tools for many conversations, les correspondents sitting side by side at the laptop “conversing.” Phrase books were supplied, but have limited utility since they are prepackaged, rather forced communications. Nothing worked better than pantomime. Who knew that flapping your arms like a chicken could be a suitable greeting for French boys? “I just said, ‘Oui’ if I didn’t know what they were walking about,” said one of our élèves.

How do you say, I have something to show you. More gestures.

How do you say, I have something to give you. You’ll notice more berets around town. Much more French candy. There’s more foie gras, Basque cheese and Béarnais vintages at my house. A fair amount of Red Sox paraphernalia seems to have headed back to France with our friends. Ah, Red Sox Nation: Pau division.

Last Friday, it got too quiet, too fast. There is a time-warp quality to these trips between countries and regions—we experienced the same thing last April on return from St. Castin. Modern world jet travel doesn’t allow any time for acclimation, as it might on the train or crossing the Atlantic by boat. It’s not just jet lag: It’s emotion lag. “Yes, we miss you too,” I have responded by e-mail, as St. Castinians have described this sense of loss and longing. The onset of quiet is too sudden; the slowing down of time and the cessation of bilingualism too abrupt. No one is speaking French any more! It feels unnatural. Surely, this is a kind of heartbreak. Our minds and hearts can’t adjust as quickly as our mere biorhythms. It’s easier to readjust time zones than hearts. But such an ending—even with tears, sobs and longing—is the best possible way to conclude such an all-too-short week. It affirms our compatibility and a future with reunions and renewal. “Now that we know them,” said one seventh grader, “we miss them.” Next time we won’t be making acquaintances, we will be resuming them.

We’ve been debriefing. What was your favorite photo from the week? “Standing in front of the Welcome to Castine sign: two French children and one American standing in front of a sign that represents both of their countries; an American flag and a French flag on the sign, a silver ribbon connecting the two,” wrote one student. “It felt good to show them that we honor the man who came from their town and discovered our town.”

They take a long time to eat. “I know that in France they leave a lot more time for meals than we do.” We could make an adaptation. Their school starts at 9:00am. Hmmmm.

How much French did you use? “One of the students staying at my house knew lots of English: let’s go, hungry, thirsty, water, no, yes, thank you, good-bye, this is delicious, hello and good night,” wrote one of our students. “When they first came, I thought that I new a lot of French, but by the end of the week, I realized that I definitely did not know enough to communicate—not even for a week.”

Another said, “I found it easy to understand my pen pal, but challenging to speak to him. He loved to vacuum.” Another wrote: “When they were playing 007 and trying to shoot me, I didn’t understand. But then I heard ‘James Bond’ and got it.” Another said: “I helped translate during shopping at the mall.” And another: “There were times I went home speaking English with a French accent.” Immersion leads to resolutions: “I’m going to study French harder!”

How do you say, “Let’s dance.” Wasn’t our dance on the town common a perfect final figure of speech for what we are doing together as coupled communities? In addition to the best possible fin du sejour…. Even the Maine weather said “d’accord!” and produced a rare summer evening in May. “This is delicious.” And may we have another? Comment dit-on, “We miss you!” “’Til the next time?” À la prochaine fois. À trés bientôt. “We love you!” Nous vous aimons. There: We’ve really said it.