Today is an English day.
“Sleep, my love,” the Rock said to me at 5am this morning. He and his colleague at the Manic 5 paramedic post had to leave before the sun had even considered peaking through the horizon because the ambulance needs repairing. The closest mechanic is two and a half hours away in Baie-Comeau.
I’m glad they’re fixing the truck because I don’t want my husband rushing to save other people’s lives in an ambulance without functional breaks. The Rock discovered the problem during his routine equipment check upon our arrival yesterday afternoon. That was after he blasted me with the sirens from less than a meter away. “T’es mieux d’embarquer si tu veux éviter le sond.” Yesterday was a French day.
There are many ways to live as a bilingual couple. My osteopath married an anglophone ballerina from Les Grands who doesn’t speak a lick of French. Together, they speak in English and to the kids, they each speak in their native tongue. The president of the ballet school where I teach grew up discussing practical affairs with her English-speaking father and more emotional matters with her Quebecois mother. Other couples switch back and forth at random or choose one language and stick to it. The Rock and I do it a little differently.
If today is an English day, then tomorrow is a French day. All conversations, jokes, texts, letters, words of love, arguments, and whatever else is verbally shared between husband and wife is done in the language of that day.
“What if you’re talking about something really serious?” Phoenix asked me one morning while I was working the reception at Ballet Professionnel Montreal. “Do you ever feel like you can’t express yourself or you’re being misunderstood?”
So far, that hasn’t been a problem. The Rock and I take our time to make sure we understand each other and we try not to get offended by a poorly worded phrase or misused expression.
In fact, speaking each others’ language has many perks. Besides learning another language and enriching our own cultures, living like this is hilarious…
…For example, I remember the messages The Rock and I used to write each other at the beginning of our courtship. In our letters, we discovered that we had both stayed at the Graziano apple orchard in Kelowna while working for different ballet companies in BC. It was a mansion. Massive foyer with a grand piano, a kitchen the size of my old apartment and five or six bedrooms with en suite bathrooms. “I love that hose,” The Rock wrote to me. “It’s a dream hose. One day, I wish to have a hose like that.” Of course I knew he meant house but reading it literally made me laugh until I had no breath left. It also made me want to hug and squeeze him for his adorable mistake.
***
…Another funny misunderstanding happened while we were opening wedding gifts during the car ride from Toronto to Montreal. I opened a very nice card from Claire Bogs. Bogs is Pecan’s good friend and old college roommate. She is the chillest person on Earth. On the morning of a final exam, Bogs slept in and when Pecan woke her, reminding her that she had five minutes to get dressed and run to McGill campus, Bogs mumbled, “oh crap,” before rolling out of bed and calmly sauntering out the door.
I tried to describe to my husband the extent of Bogs’ chillness. “Pecan jokes that she’s so calm she’s almost comatose,” I explained.
“Ew, gross. I hate that.” The Rock made a disgusted face.
“Honey, that doesn’t make sense. Comatose can’t be gross.”
“Fine, I’m sorry for your friend. It’s not gross,” The Rock amended diplomatically. “But I really hate to see that. If someone’s pants are too tight that it makes a sandwich in the front, they should buy bigger pants. It’s especially worse in the fatty ones.”
Then it dawned on me: camel toe.
I called Pecan immediately to relay The Rock’s mistake in believing that Bogs had perpetual camel toe. The three of us laughed all the way to Montreal–Pecan on speaker phone, me in the passenger seat, and The Rock behind the wheel.
***
…The last time The Rock worked a two-week shift at Manic 5, I couldn’t accompany him. Since the beginning of the summer, I have been traveling all over Quebec performing with Fleuve Espace Danse. I also spent ten days teaching for the Ezdanza summer intensive at L’Astragale and rehearsing for our company’s performance in Trois Rivières at the end of the stage. Then there was the launch party for ID Danse, a company started by Anso and her bf, which is producing a new show by David Pressault (I am one of the 4 dancers in the show). All in all, a busy summer.
When I’m not with him in Manic, The Rock passes his time by watching films. One night, he was telling me on FaceTime about a great film called Fruit Loops. I thought it was a joke because he loves Fruit Loops cereal so much and always buys the jumbo boxes from Costco. “What’s so funny?” He kept saying. “It’s a great dance movie.”
Footloose.
***
Communication is one of the most important elements in a relationship. It’s tough enough when both people speak the same language. That’s why the Rock and I are so patient with each other. We correct each other’s mistakes, we teach each other new words, and we try not to get frustrated when we need to explain something three or four or even ten times before the other understands. But for the most part, we have fun with our bilingualism.
I recently taught The Rock the expression, “I’m pooped.” He loves to say it.
After hiking to the summit of Hautes-Gaurges’ highest mountain a few days ago, The Rock exclaimed, “I’m poop.”
“Pooped,” I corrected.
“Poops.”
“You need to pronounce the D at the end.”
“Pooed.”
“No.”
“Say it again, please?” He asked sweetly.
“Pooped. Try to say it as if there is a T at the end: poopt.”
“Poo-oop. Sss. Pooooops!”
We’ll work on it.
Dance Diary 