Fitz column mug

David Fitzsimmons, Tucson’s most beloved ink-stained wretch.

The following column is the opinion and analysis of the writer.

When I told Ellen my cartoonists syndicate had invited me to attend an annual gathering of hundreds of cartoonists from all over the world in Saint-Just-le-Martel, a dairy farming village south of Paris, she was skeptical. β€œParis, Texas?”

β€œParis, France. It’s the 38th Salon of Caricature, Drawing Press and Humor. The best cartoonist in the world wins a cow.”

β€œHoly cow.”

β€œNope. What cartoonist would want a sacred cow?”

I told her we’re going to stay with a French host family. And then I asked the million-euro question: β€œHow’s your French? You took it in high school, right?”

She smiled. β€œOui.”

The next day she asked, β€œWhat gift can we give our host family?”

β€œI’ll draw a caricature of the whole family!”

β€œThey’ve probably been drawn by every cheapskate cartoonist who has freeloaded off them for years. Let’s give them something special. ”

β€œWhat? Salsa? Wine from Sonoita? My old Tombstone Epitaph T-shirt? I’ve got it! Let’s give them a cow.”

I got the look.

β€œWhy don’t you shop for something … while I study my French.”

I’ve been ignoring my Duolingo app alerts. β€œMonsieur, you are blowing off ze language lesson again!” I push the β€œOui” smiley face.

I plan on hiding behind my wife, β€œma femme.” When we hail a taxi, I’ll say, β€œBonjour, monsieur,” and then, in a tribute to Marcel Marceau, I shall, with great flourish, point to my wife, say, β€œOoh la la” and wait for her to speak perfect French while I just smile.

I’ve learned three phrases. β€œOui,β€β€œOΓΉ sont les dessinateurs?” which means β€œWhere are the cartoonists?” and β€œJe suis dΓ©solΓ© de t’avoir piquΓ© dans les yeux avec mon bΓ’ton de selfie.” I’m sorry I poked you in the eye with my selfie stick. β€œJe suis un AmΓ©ricain!”

I made a reservation online at the β€œHotel French-Name-I-Can’t-Pronounce,” in the Latin Quarter of Paris, where most of the American cartoonists will be staying for a few days of ink-sotted misbehavior, before we all take the train to St. Just, for the festival.

As soon as I got the online β€œreservation confirmed” I returned to studying old Jacques Cousteau specials.

Next morning I opened an email from the β€œHotel French-Name-I-Can’t-Pronounce” addressing me as β€œMonseiur.” I feared the worst. French.

I wish it had been in French. β€œYou card did not go through,” was followed by the terrifying request: β€œPlease call. Merci.”

Call? What? And talk to an actual French person? In French? I panicked for two reasons.

Whenever I talk to people with foreign accents I unconsciously begin to mimic them. If I talk to a Brit, within five minutes I’m talking like Earl Fitzsimmons from Downton Abbey. I can’t help it.

I learned French from watching the β€œPink Panther” movies featuring Inspector Clouseau uttering such memorable French phrases as β€œDo you have a lie-sohns for your min-key?” A phrase that’s good to know if I need to say, β€œMay I have a lie-sohns for my cow?”

Will I use Inspector Clouseau’s, β€œI was ’appy to have a rhe-um at ze ’otel” or β€œI am here to feeks your pheaun”? Doubtful. However, if Gerard Depardieu falls from the Eiffel Tower and lands in front of us I will be able to say, in my best French, to Gerard, β€œI believe you have rah-cei-ved a bimp on your ’ead.”

Ellen is wise. β€œMon Dieu, fool. Don’t ask Parisians if they speak English! Make an effort to speak French first. They will appreciate you making an effort, and, because you will be talking like a French 2-year old, they will pity you and they will speak English.”

Merci, Edith Piaf. If I call the β€œHotel French-Name-I-Can’t-Pronounce” and the nice man on the phone speaks French, and no English, I am still up ze River Seine without a paddle.

Translator app open, I dial. I rehearsed β€œBonjour, monsieur!” over and over until I sounded as smooth as Pepe Le Pew. A cheerful man’s voice answered from the other side of the planet. β€œBonjour. Hotel Name-I-Can-Pronounce.”

I sputter β€œBonjour, monsieur” sounding like a cross between Maurice Chevalier and Gomer Pyle. After a moment of silence the man clears his throat. ”Mr. Fitzsimmons? Thank you for calling us back. If you can give us your correct number we’ll hold the room for you.”

English! I dodged a bullet. I was so relieved. We resolved the matter at hand. I was fine until the end of the call when he said, β€œAdieu, monsieur.”

Without thinking I replied, in my best Peter Sellers’ voice, β€œMonsieur! I was very ’appy to have a rhe-um at your ’otel.”


Become a #ThisIsTucson member! Your contribution helps our team bring you stories that keep you connected to the community. Become a member today.

David Fitzsimmons: tooner@tucson.com.