Scarves

   

I think it’s possible to fool most of the people most of the time. When we lived in Valbonne, almost everybody spoke to us in English. I had to insist on speaking French with “Nous sommes en France, on parle français s’il vous plaît.” It worked for the most part, local residents indulging me as I stumbled my way through. At first I understood one word in ten. Over the last seven months in Antibes, after many session of Coffee break French, Learn French by Podcast and News in Slow French, I'm getting better at it.  With one-on-one sessions with Aicha Maroune, my polyglot friend and teacher who has taught me to speak better by correcting my pronunciation, I sound like a native speaker.
I mean native of Pondicherry. Chennai is not far, and one of my very favorite uncles lives there, so I don’t feel I’m stretching the truth too much, and yes, I know it’s a lie but it’s a nice one and makes me happy and I don’t hurt anybody and I am very good at justifying this. I would like to say I’m native Parisienne or Antiboise but I know nobody will believe me so I don’t bother. Perhaps in my next life, I will be French, not that I plan ahead.
It was pointed out to me by Mme. Mattice (rhymes with rice, go figure) that most, if not all, French women wear scarves. The éscharpe is like the cravat, or tie. It can be of any color or fabric and doesn’t have to match anything, allowing for free expression of artistic soul. I’m now wearing a black scarf under the misguided, unsupported  and unproven South Indian assumption that black and white match everything. It explains why a Tamil woman will wear a white blouse with a red Kanchivaram silk sari with a blueborder. I will soon upgrade to dark floral scarves in my effort to blend in, but I will not wear the infamous marbled silk scarves from Pondicherry .
When I wear a scarf, I’m spoken to in French. It speaks to the unconscious mind of the unsuspecting French people. I’ve experimented with myself as a control subject, scarf vs. no scarf. The scarf works 99% of the time.