A few weeks ago, I decided I wanted one for myself because I wasn't learning French as quickly as I wanted. So, I went down to the lobby to look at the bulletin board which is plastered with ads for moms with "3 enfants, tout tres agreable!" who need baby sitters, people selling their mini fridges and people who want to practice various languages with someone else.
One ad in particular stood out...it was hand written, one version in French and one in English. The person's English was pretty bad, which I took as a good sign: I would be forced to speak only French with this person and really help them improve their English at the same time. The add was signed "Boubacar" and included an email address.
Gee, I thought to myself. Can't say I've ever had a friend named Boubacar...I bet he'll be...different.
Our meetings take place about 90% in French, and I quickly learned that he was indeed different from the people in my usual little New England world. He is from Mali and has been living in Paris with his aunts for the past few years to study. He has eight brothers and sisters, all who still live in Africa, and he was the only one to move out and go to school. His English is about as good as my French, but he is self-taught.
Usually, we meet in the lobby of my dorm and sit on the couches and talk for a few hours. One day, we decided to change it up a little, so we went to a museum he told me about: Musee Quai Branly. It was a really cool place with both modern and ancient artifacts from all over the world. It had all kinds of crazy African masks, Native American scalps, beautiful hand-woven blankets and instruments, just to name a few of the items.
We took a couple pictures in the museum next to the pieces, which was totally dorky, but Boubacar was really excited about using his camera so I just went with it.
So, what exactly do a white girl from Connecticut and a dude from Mali who can't really speak each others' native tongue talk about, you ask? Well, everything really. Our families, cooking, sharks, mosquitos, forms of child punishment, the circus, music, etc. The point is to practice speaking, so whatever pops into our heads becomes a whole conversation.
After a few more meetings in the lobby, I invited him out to dinner with a couple of my friends and I. We went to a Moroccan restaurant in Bastille and it was soooo good. We ordered this chicken and steak dish for all four of us which came with couscous and delish vegetable soup. After, we ordered a pot of the best tea I've ever had-it was packed with fresh and dried mint leaves and sugar.
Boubacar wasn't as chatty as normal with my friends, but afterward he told me that it was his first time being out to a restaurant in Paris. I don't really go out to dinner much either, but it's my last few days here and I wanted to treat myself.
Today during our meeting, his aunt called him because she needed help with something. She lives right down the street from my dorm, so Boubacar said I could come and meet her. When we arrived, his cousins greeted us at the door. Sophie, who is 13, seemed shy upon meeting me but she wanted to practice her English so we got to talking about American music and she was very friendly. Then his aunt came in and seemed delighted to meet me. She wore a headscarf and a loose dress with an African print and looked exactly like Sophie. She needed help packing her suitcases because she was going to Mali soon for two weeks for the holidays.
My favorite of the cousins was Ibrahim. He was about four or five and ADORABLE. He was getting dressed in the living room and put on jeans and a little sweater vest and then needed help with his belt which was way too big for him. He sat next to me and was showing me his sister's iPod, speaking in cute little kid French that I could understand. Everyone else spoke at a hundred miles an hour, so I just smiled and nodded most of the time and chilled with my new pal Ibrahim while Boubacar helped with the suitcases.
Later, another female cousin came over, about Sophie's age. When Boubacar and I left to go back to the dorm lobby, they were giggling and whispering, probably because they thought Boubacar and I were dating or something. He told me I would have to forgive them because they were being crazy girls. I guess being a crazy teenage girl is universal.
OH MY GOD BOUBACAR I LOVE YOU. I saw him on the other side of the RER today getting off the train.. I was tempted to yell across the tracks to him, but then thought better of it...
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