Awkward Moments in France: Small Talk and Big Misunderstandings

When you’re still learning the language, small talk can feel like a marathon.

Sometimes, adjusting to life in France isn't about the grand cultural differences or big, transformative moments. Instead, it's the smaller, more unexpected challenges—like navigating everyday conversations when you're still shaky in the language. It’s in these seemingly mundane moments, like waiting for a bus, where the gap between familiarity and confusion becomes the most apparent. Simple interactions can spiral into complex exchanges, leaving you struggling to keep up, yet feeling too polite to escape.

Small Talk, Big Confusion

I was standing at the bus stop, glancing down the road, trying to figure out if I’d missed my bus home.

As I waited, an elderly woman shuffled up beside me. She gave me a polite nod, and I smiled back. She looked familiar—one of those faces from the neighborhood. I had seen her before, but we were all the way downtown.

I could feel it coming: small talk. It’s still really tricky for me in French.

Before I had time to prepare some canned phrases, she launched into conversation.

"Quel temps, hein ?" she said, looking up at the sky, gray, but undecided. It’ll probably rain.

I nodded, figuring this was safe territory. "Oui, le temps… toujours changeant."
("Yes, the weather… always changing.")

That should’ve been it—a quick exchange about the weather, a polite silence after—but she was just getting started.

"Ah, oui, mais tu sais," she began, leaning in a little closer, "mon mari, il disait toujours que le ciel d’octobre, c’est comme une vieille chemise. Toujours en train de se froisser et de se défroisser. On ne sait jamais quand elle va être lisse."

("Oh, yes, but you know, my husband always said that the October sky is like an old shirt. Always crumpling and un-crumpling. You never know when it’ll be smooth.")

I blinked, trying to process what she was saying – was that a metaphor? Something about an old shirt and the weather? I nodded again, adding a generic, "C’est vrai, c’est vrai," ("That's true, that's true,") hoping it would cover whatever she was saying. But she was already onto something else.

In fact, the only reason that I think I figured out what she had said is because I thought about it for the rest of the walk home and then had to ask a few French friends about it.

Buffering… Input Processing Error

But at the bus stop, I just stood there, kind of confused. I have this kind of music that plays sometimes when I am really confused. The piano bit from Clair de Lune? Her eyebrows raised and her expressions changed and then I figured out the song! It was Clair de Lune! Debussy!

My attention floated back to the conversation. She was talking about her husband, I think?

Or the mayor? Maybe it was her cousin then, and then something about the new bakery (I got that one!), and all the while my brain was playing catch-up like a browser stuck in “buffering” mode.

She is also much, much smaller than I am. I had to lean down to hear her, which I think she took as keen interest.

Buffering… Buffering…

Where do I know her from again?

Just when I thought I was about to get a handle on what she was saying, she’d pivot to something new—her garden, her neighbor’s dog, the guy who doesn’t clean up after his dog, I think…? The guy with the big dog who's always saying doucement, doucement to calm it down, the prices of tomatoes?

There was definitely a dog.

I glanced down the road. Still no bus.

It was just the two of us at the stop, and I didn’t have the heart to zone out entirely. So, I kept nodding, throwing in the occasional "Ah bon?" ("Oh really?") or "C’est intéressant," ("That's interesting,") hoping she wouldn’t notice my struggle to keep up.

She didn’t.

"Et vous, vous êtes d’où ?" she asked, her voice bright with curiosity.
("And you, where are you from?")

"Uh… je viens des États-Unis," I stammered, suddenly aware that I’d barely spoken during this entire interaction.
("Uh... I come from the United States.")

Her eyes lit up. "Ah! Les États-Unis ! J’ai une cousine là-bas, tu sais, à Mè-rie-lahnd."
("Ah! The United States! I have a cousin there, you know, in Maryland.")

Her pronunciation of Maryland threw me and it  took me a second to catch what she was saying. "Oh, vraiment… je viens du Maryland aussi!"
("Oh, really? I’m from Maryland, too!")

I’m not from Maryland. I don’t know why I said it.

I mean, I’m pretty comfortable lying to strangers, if it makes things easier. I’d say I was from Maryland, Montana, or the moon—whatever is simple. For some reason, I suddenly felt like I wanted to fix it this time.

I tried to correct myself, "Enfin, pas vraiment—je suis de New York, mais..." ("Well, not really—I'm from New York, but..."), but she was already moving on, diving into a detailed story about her cousin. I think.

The conversation was speeding up again—she spoke surprisingly quickly.

She also had this habit of raising her eyebrows twice, like a two-step move: once when she started saying something, and then again, even higher, when she finished. It made her look as if she was surprising herself all the time.

This was getting stressful. I wanted to be nice, but…

She was talking about Mè-rie-lahnd, but then maybe airports or maybe holidays. By the time I’d figured it out (I think), she moved on to how she preferred French bread to American bread (not a controversial take, by any stretch).

"Vous avez essayé la nouvelle boulangerie ?" she asked, her eyebrows raising.

("Have you tried the new bakery?")

"Oui ! Oui, je l’ai fait ! J’ai même pris quelque chose !" I replied, maybe a little too enthusiastically.

("Yes! Yes, I have. I even got something!")

Which was a strange thing to say.

My ears were starting to feel hot.

Finally, the bus arrived. The doors opened, then she waved me onto the bus ahead of her, and settled down in the seat right next to mine, oddly close.

I stared out the window, trying to gather my thoughts, but she was still talking, unfazed by my weak responses. Her grandchildren, maybe? Or the weather again?

"Tu sais," she said, tapping my arm, "les nuages ici sont comme des draps mal pliés. Jamais bien rangés, toujours un peu en désordre."
("You know, the clouds here are like wrinkled sheets. Never properly folded, always a bit messy.")

What?

I was already exhausted. As the bus approached the next stop— nowhere near home—I made a snap decision.

"Uh. Um. C’est mon arrêt," I said, smiling apologetically.
("Ah, this is my stop.")

"Oh, vraiment ? Déjà ?" she asked, a little surprised, more with the eyebrows.
("Oh, really? Already?")

"Oui, oui," I lied, "j’ai des courses à faire ici."
("Yes, yes, I have some errands to run here.")

She waved me off with a smile and a "Bonne journée," ("Have a nice day,") as I darted off the bus.

As it pulled away, I took a breath. No more deciphering weather metaphors for a moment. Even though I had no idea where I was exactly.

But I am sure I’ll be seeing her in the neighborhood.