An Abbot and Costello Moment

I’ve been struggling with the word une recently. Une. One. Not two or three. Une. Say it with me: une.

On Sunday, I went into a busy bakery and asked for “une piece de pizza” (one piece of pizza). The young girl looked at me warmly and repeated, “Deux?” (two)

“Non, une, sil vous plait,” I said.

“Deux?” came the response.

This time, with my thumb extended: “Je regrete – UNE piece de pizza.”

“Ah, oui: une. Bien sur monsieur” as she went to get my pizza.

I stood there, somewhat shaken. What was I doing wrong? I thought I had this kind of thing sorted out by now.

Fifteen minutes later, after eating my une piece, I decided that deux would have been a good idea, as I was still hungry and dinner was a long time away… maybe that’s what was going on: she was recommending I have two pieces… or maybe they’re on sale and she’s offering me two for the price of one. No matter… I go back for seconds. I have to wait on line, and as I justle to maintain my position, I try to time it so that the same girl will help me again – she seemed sympathetic and surely, by now, we understand one another.

“Une plus piece to pizza, sil vous plait.”

“Oui, monsierur, deux.”

Breaking out my trusty thumb earlier this time, and with my voice raised in exasperation, “Non, non, non… sil vous plait, ma accent c’est tres mal: UNE piece”

“Oui, monsieur”, though from the look on her face, I could tell she was thinking, “Oui, large, crazy person who will be leaving my store soon, I hope.”

I’m as shaken as she is. Grinning broadly, I think to myself: Gimme my g—d--mn pizza, lady, and quit messing with the helpless foreigners.

So… fast forward a day: I leave work around 5:45p or so on Monday, and stop in at a grocery store on the way to the hotel… a picnic in my room tonight: baguette, terrine, goat cheese, and mineral water.

I stride confidently to the bakery counter: “Une baguette, sil vous plait.”

“Oui, monsieur, une euro vignt-cinq” (One euro, twenty five cents.)

That’s quite a bit – in the boulangerie baguettes are usually seventy or eighty cents. The mystery is resolved when I hand the lady my change and she gives me back two g—d—m baguettes.

Deep breath. Fine. It’s not worth the coins for me to try and sort this out. I’ll take the two loaves and go. Deep breath. What is the problem? I talk to myself, aloud, all the way back to the hotel: “Une baguette, sil vous plait. Une. Je voudrais UNE baguette. Une. Une. Une. Une bier; une voiture; une marché. Pas deux: UNE. Trois c’est trop de baguette – UNE. Soulement UNE. Une.”

This morning, confidence renewed, I head out early and stop in the café down the street for a quick espresso: “Une café, madame.”

“Deux, monsieur?”

I snap. “Non, UNE.” Thumb up.

As she’s making my coffee, I say alound, though mostly to myself, for lord knows that no one else seems to hear me very well: "Je ne comprends pas. Je dit une. Tout le monde responde: deux. Qu-est-ce c’est le problem?” (I don’t understand. I say: one. All the world replies: two? What’s the problem?

The lady returns with my coffee says, “Ah monsieur, vous parlez tres bien le francais.” (You speak French very well.)

Yeah, right. Except for une.