Montréal, Quebec – July 6, 2023
We’ve just arrived in Montréal, and my boyfriend isn’t feeling well. He’s curled up under the hotel’s bedcovers, and I’m longing to do something for him. He never lets me take care of him, but we’re thousands of miles from home, and—a sinisterly caring part of me rejoices—this time he has no choice.
Eager to rise to the occasion, I tuck him in and strike out on a mission for covid tests and medicine. It’s my inaugural foray into the city on foot, and my first impression is: I’m grateful the historic heart of the city isn’t pocked with ugly chainstores, but I’d kill for a CVS. The pharmacies I find instead are far between, don’t carry covid tests, and close early in the day. In the end, all I can bring back is food, fluids, and a goofy get-well card.
But he looks so pale and drained. I do what always helped me when I was little: I put a cool damp washcloth across his forehead. He thanks me. He thanks me too much. For a level of care that, to me, is small and obvious. I let him sleep.
He insists I enjoy my trip—I’ve wanted to see Montréal for a long time. So I’m in and out, and we leave the “Do Not Disturb” placard on the door so he can rest. But I remain vigilant in the hallways, watching the housekeeping cart’s location so I can intercept someone for more washcloths and coffee pods for him.
The cart is a couple doors away as I get ready to go out. Then I see her: a housekeeper dressed in black scrubs, with close-cropped curly hair.
“Pardon,” I say, in my best french accent.
Up to this point, every server and hospitality worker I’ve tried my french on has detected my accent no matter how throatily french I try to make it. And each one has opted to click over to english immediately. Why waste time on a tourist’s butchering of your tongue?
I took french in high school. And college. And in classes as an adult. I’ve Duo-Lingoed the hell out of this language. And I can read at decent intermediate level. But my listening comprehension? My speaking? Almost non-existent. I chalk this up to social anxiety. Because my reaction to hearing someone speak another language at me is a full-on collapse of my nervous system.
It’s no different when this housekeeper replies to me in french.
I freeze and assess.
Elle ne parlais pas anglais. D’accord. Pas de problème. Je parlais français… a peu prés…
I hype myself, excited to test my french in this very low-stakes setting with no one else around. But the difference between excitement and anxiety is unfortunately a mystery to my body. So I start to stumble through a conversation that leans more heavily on my improvised sign language than on my years of dogged french instruction.
I can’t even remember the word for towel!
Thankfully, as I make scrubbing motions on my forearms, she figures it out. “Ah! Une serviette!”
But it’s a hand towel that she grabs from the cart and passes to me. We have plenty of those. They’re too big for my purpose. I gently shake my head and smile, “Non.”
We gesture fruitlessly back and forth for a minute, and I try to show her the size of the serviette I want with my hands to no avail. As our gestures escalate though, I get the sense we’re gaining on something…
With an invisible washcloth, I start to scrub my face in big circles. Her eyes light up with recognition!
And with her invisible washcloth, she thrusts her hips forward and starts to scrub her crotch. “Ah, une petite serviette!” She has the biggest, most unironic smile I’ve ever seen.
“Oui!” I say with uncertain excitement, while we each stand there scrubbing very different parts of our bodies with our mimed washcloths. (Why haven’t we stopped yet?)
Our furious circles wind down, bringing the joyful moment of cross-cultural communication to a close. Coffee-pods, smiles, and a fat stack of washcloths are exchanged.
“Merci beaucoup,” I say and turn away pondering the possible cultural difference I may have uncovered. What body part comes to mind first when thinking of a tiny towel? One’s face? Or one’s crotch? And how is this choice affected by whether one is French-Canadian or American? I’ll have a thesis statement by end-of-day.
Back inside the room, I make my boyfriend another washcloth for his forehead and recount to him the tale of how our petite towels came to be. And I get a little smile from him before he shuts his weary eyes again.
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