I don’t know why I thought I would be like Grace Jones. The singer and model (neither of which I am) reportedly became fluent in French within three months of moving to Paris. For some hubristic reason, I assumed I’d do the same.
But in 2018, two years after arriving in Paris, I was coasting. I could get by, but I was essentially living the life of a digital nomad, speaking English with my partner at home, working remotely for a US company and socialising largely with other English-speaking migrants – something I swore I’d never do.
Then, one night, I came across the Le Bar Commun – a volunteer-run bar in my rapidly gentrifying neighbourhood, which aimed to bring the community from all walks of life together. On a whim, I volunteered to work some shifts pulling pints and assembling cheese plates, tout en français (all in French).
The first nights were terrifying. There were so many nouns I hadn’t yet encountered, most to do with cleaning: mouchoir (tissue), torchon (tea towel), essuie-tout (kitchen towel). When such items were requested, I’d run into the kitchen to “check” if we had them, putting the mystery words into Google Translate before dashing back out with my response. One night, a customer asked for a paille (straw). When I looked back blankly, he began to mime what he was after, a display that quickly became distinctly pornographic, causing us both to blush furiously as I shoved the straw over the counter to him.
Then there were the cultural differences from the pubs I’d known in London and Melbourne, such as the weekly “debate nights”, where people gathered to discuss the future of European democracy or prison reform instead of getting drunk and yelling.
Slowly, my language skills improved, and eventually I stopped hiding from customers in the kitchen. When I was first asked to take on a manager shift, I turned it down for lack of confidence, but my colleagues didn’t give up on me. I was soon running the show for three hours on a Wednesday night, walking home through the 18th arrondissement nursing a warm sense of satisfaction. The most important thing I learned at the bar was to stop my infuriatingly British habit of constantly apologising for my French. The volunteers and customers accepted me as I was, which let me accept myself and progress.
It’s been a long time since I’ve put in a shift at Le Bar Commun. I moved away and life became busy – I began working for French employers, reporting on the country’s feminist movements, spending my volunteer time moderating bilingual panels at literary festivals and joining a community gardening group. None of it would have been possible without those nights spent behind the bar.
Now, I log into the interior ministry website daily to check the progress of my French citizenship application. If I ever get it, I know where I’ll be celebrating.
Megan Clement’s memoir, Desire Paths, is published in April
