|It used to be my village|
Where is home? I am not sure any more. In London, when I speak English, people who believe that they can speak French systematically try to say a few words of French during the conversation. It seems to make them incredibly happy to be able to show off their French skills. They feel very proud. I know that they are just trying to make an effort, and, even if I usually can’t understand a word of what they are saying, I compliment them. Well, I am not British for nothing. I don’t want to upset anyone.
Well, things are exactly the same in France: when I explain that I am living in London, they try to speak English. Here we go again. I can’t win. I have to listen to them. “Whaat ize ze wither like in London?”. And if even I can hear their French accent, well, it must be pretty strong. Don’t get me wrong, I smile, I am helpful and patient with them. But don’t ask me to like it.
Why does everyone feel compelled to talk to me in a different language? Is it something on my face? Do they want to make a point? I wonder. Why can’t they just talk normally? It really feels a bit weird not to feel at home in my home country. I can still speak French, I promise.