English Lesson

Tonight I was hanging out with some Tunisian guys. Knowing I would be seeing them, I came up in advance with my big funny line, hoping I could deliver it with some conviction. I had my moment.

"I just have one question."

"What?"

"Where the fuck is Tunisia?"

It worked. They thought that was hilarious. Americans have an odd habit of not knowing where anyplace actually is, and these guys are also very entertained by my profanity. The beauty of cussing in English in France is that it's not nearly as actually vulgar or offensive here; it's more entertaining and expressive.

It turns out that Tunisia is a north African country near Egypt and Morocco.

"So you guys are African-American?"

I am my friend Mourad's unofficial English teacher. He speaks five languages including Arabic, and his English is far better than my French; he actually can conjugate verbs. This is the big stumbling block for people learning any language. Anyone can say "apple." But you have to be really smart to say, "I would not have wanted that apple." That damn sentence is fully 85% verb! I believe that's in the past imperfect conditional tense. I hope to be able to say that in French by age 45.

Anyway, he wants English practice. So I'm teaching him all the things you would never learn in school, like tonight's vocabulary word, schleppy.

His family owns a grocery store, which he has the honor of watching till midnight tonight -- I think he's the only thing open for business besides restaurants, six taxicabs and the hospital. We are in the heart of Paris, where a pack of four Gillette 'Mach 3' razor blades costs 10 euros (that's about $13 as of this writing; somewhat more tomorrow). But for the most part, it's really quiet.

A customer walks in, selects some items off the shelves, and places them on the counter. They are large, clear bottles, full of white powder.

I say in one of my mock-American accents, "What's that, snow?"

Not thinking this is the funniest thing he's heard all week, he answers in English that it's powdered sugar, for cake frosting; family project.

After he leaves, Mourad asks me if he's American. I say yes, American, East Coast.

"How can you tell?"

"Well the way he dresses, a little proper, vest sweater, his accent, he's a bit schleppy, you know, you can just tell."

So now I have to explain that schleppy is from Yiddish, an old language like German, and I do my scheleppy guy imitation so he gets the idea.

Yesterday, I was going over how you say, "Whatchadoin?" in heavy Brooklyn street talk, which is lazy, sleazy, arrogant, tough and friendly all at the same time. He was having trouble with the exact inflection, but I think he'll get it with some practice.