Monte Carlo or Bust!

I recently visited a brand new country, my 31st in total. This was no ordinary country; it was The Principality of Monaco, the second smallest country in the world (behind Vatican City).

I’ve always wanted to visit Monaco.

Way back in the 1970’s I would watch James Bond films, and TV series like The Persuaders, where international jetsetters would drive around the French Riviera and pop into casinos winning vast quantities of money while watched by gorgeous women.

I woke up on the morning of our day out to Monaco having dreamt of driving along winding coastal roads high up on hills overlooking a beautiful, tranquil Mediterranean Sea, at the wheel of a flash red car with the wind blowing through my horrific hair.

Mrs PM helped to shatter that illusion: “Shall we go on the bus?”

The good news was that the bus from Nice to Monaco travelled along such a scenic road; it was regular (every fifteen minutes) and cheap (1.5 Euros). Sadly, it was packed and we had to stand up all the way there (an hour in total).

On the bus, I noticed a very strange man. He had dreadlocks that were completely matted and stretched almost all of the way down his back to his feet. What made it worse was that he was receding and had hardly any hair on the top of his head. Two young girls of about eleven actually panicked when they had to walk past him.

The first girl said “J’ai peur!” (“I’m afraid!”).

The second girl said “Ne t’inquiet pas!” (“Don’t worry!”) and they kind of sidled past him.

We left the bus at the iconic Monte Carlo Casino. It was a glorious day and the place was full of tourists all crowding around trying to get photographs. I would have liked to have stepped into the casino but wearing shorts and a T-shirt prohibited me. I saw a couple of people walking towards the place dressed up in full designer suits complete with crisp white shirt and tie. Parked outside the casino were several super cars including a bright yellow Lamborghini. People were just as interested in the cars as they were in the casino itself.

Apart from the casino, Monaco is also famous for the Monaco Formula One Grand Prix, and boasts the only circuit that is made up of public roads. I’ve never really enjoyed the Monaco Grand Prix that much because of the nature of the track which makes it very difficult to overtake. That said, however, there have been one or two interesting races in the past and the scenery is arguably the best of all the circuits. The famous hairpin bend was very close to the casino and a lot of tourists were taking photographs of this dangerous curve. We walked down past the bend and through the famous tunnel that makes up the next part of the circuit. It was loud enough with normal everyday cars travelling through it and I can only imagine the noise when several Formula One racing cars are charging through at over 200mph.

After the tunnel, we found ourselves on the marina, where we enjoyed looking at the large expensive yachts, before stopping for a quite expensive lunch.

While Monaco is small, we were a bit limited in time, so we opted to take an open top bus tour around the remainder of the principality, so that we could stop off at places of interest and explore without walking everywhere in the increasing heat.

The bus tour provided us with a lot of useful information about Monaco. I thought I knew what to expect but some things surprised me. For example, Monaco has its own language, Monégasque, and street signs are shown in both French and Monégasque. An example of the language is:

Santa Maria, maire de Diu,

prega per nùi, pecatùi

aùra e à l'ura d'a nostra morte

which is an excerpt from the Hail Mary prayer.

Also, the total area of Monaco is a mere two square kilometres. The principality has a monarchy, the current ruler being Albert II.

Monaco is also a tax haven and as such attracts extremely wealthy people from all over Europe. Imagine being a billionaire and having to pay no income tax at all?

Eventually the bus took us to the old town, called Monaco-Ville, which is located high on a rocky promontory that offers fantastic views of the principality. The area was similar to the old town in Nice with narrow streets containing shops and restaurants.

We took the time to stroll around the streets, devour a wonderfully creamy ice cream and relax enjoying the fabulous views, before catching the bus back to the casino so that we could return to Nice.

Sadly, the journey back to Nice was irritating too because once again we had to stand up all the way back and, thanks to roadworks, had to endure a much longer journey. There was one minor piece of entertainment when the driver ignored a woman who had pressed the “Please Stop the Bus” sign. This small young French lady yelled from the back of the bus, her voice reaching almost ear-shattering pitches until eventually the driver, presumably as deaf as the rest of us, pulled over finally, to let her out. The words that came out of her mouth made the remaining French passengers snigger. I understood none of them. Mrs PM, who speaks French extremely well, also sniggered and told me in no uncertain terms that the woman had poured forth a lot of expletives questioning the driver’s parentage and sexual preferences.

I’ll leave you with a few photographs showing how the other half lives.

Monte Carlo Casino - James Bond won't let me in because I am wearing shorts.
What a MEATHEAD!

My next car

Monte Carlo Casino - in a mirror

Not quite a Formula One Grand Prix

My next boat

Port Hercule - A place to park my boat when I win Euromillions

What shall I shoot?

Port de Fontvieille - an alternative place for my boat

When I win the Euromillions Lottery I will certainly consider moving to Monaco. Don’t worry, I will tell you all about driving around the Grand Prix circuit in my bright yellow Lamborghini – I owe you that much, dear reader.

Nice la Belle

I was tempted to call this post Nice is nice but to be honest I thought that would be a little corny and I wanted to express my true feelings about this fabulous French city from where I have just returned.

The city is actually called Nice La Belle, which is French for Nice the Beautiful and having just spent a week there, I am of the opinion that it is a very fitting name.

We were located in an old traditional apartment very close to Place Garibaldi, which is a central location very close to the city centre, and more importantly, to Vieux Nice (old Nice), the old town, an almost labyrinthine area of narrow streets full of tiny and extremely quaint shops, small traditional French cafés as well as restaurants and bars and even a traditional old market.

I was accompanied, of course, by Mrs PM but also my eldest son Stephen and his girlfriend.

Our apartment was ideally situated, just a short walk from a supermarket and a wonderful bakery that enabled us to buy fresh bread,  pain au chocolat and pain au raisin to enjoy for breakfast every day. I also indulged myself with French ham and, naturally, some delicious camembert.

Being based in Nice, we were able to visit a couple of other local famous locations on the Côte d'Azur, namely Cannes and Monaco, which I will dedicate a separate post to a little later.

Being with the kids, there was more emphasis on relaxing by the beach but Mrs PM and I had some influence, persuading them to explore the local area and sample the delights of southern France while at the same time allowing them to persuade us to spend time at the beach and the extremely inviting Mediterranean Sea.

Spending a day on the beach was quite expensive; we had a choice of staying on the public beach or renting a sunbed and parasol with mats to allow us easy access to the sea. SInce the beach was full of pebbles rather than golden sand, we opted for the more expensive option as it was far more comfortable and we were right next to a restaurant with waiters serving drinks to your own sunbed next to the sea. It was a temptation we simply couldn’t resist.

I did learn a valuable lesson while on the beach:

Remember to take your wallet out of your pocket when walking into the sea.

Yes I was that stupid. I walked into the Mediterranean Sea with a wallet full of Euros and Pound Sterling as well as a credit card.

Isn't it funny how you only realise your mistake when you are floating in a beautiful turquoise blue sea? Talk about shattering a peaceful moment.I had to dry out my wallet and my Euros on the sunbed for an hour having made a complete arse of myself in front of my chuckling family – and no doubt quite a few fellow sun worshippers.

And I wasn't allowed to forget my error.

The beach area we chose was adjacent to the old town, which allowed us to pop to lovely little cafés for a light lunch (that sometimes wasn’t always that light) so at least when my money had dried out, I could drown my sorrows (while suffering merciless piss-taking at the hands of people who are supposed to love me).

The old town is delightful and when we ended up visiting the area every night for our evening meal, consisting of typically delicious French cuisine accompanied by a baron of French beer and/or a glass or two of fantastic wine.

Mrs PM led the way with her command of French but by the end of the week, the rest of us had gained enough confidence to test out our own skills. The kids basically copied the words Mrs PM spoke, whereas I, claiming to know a little more French, was a little braver sometimes attempting primitive conversation (on my part at least).

I only fell foul of my lack of vocabulary a couple of times, usually when the polite French people spoke back to me at the speed of light, prompting me to shrug in the characteristic Gallic fashion with the words “Je suis désolé; je ne comprends pas” before allowing Mrs PM to bail me out.

I did okay though.

The people of Nice were extremely friendly, something stereotypical Brits do not associate with our friends from across the English Channel. Basically I have always found most French people to be extremely accommodating, with the possible exception of certain Parisians with whom I have had trouble on just about every visit. A lot of French people outside the capital also feel the same to be honest. The extremely funny taxi driver who took us back to the airport remarked upon the fact a lot of Parisian tourists who come to Nice look down their noses at the local people. So it’s not just us. In fact, given that certain Londoners are also extremely arrogant, I can sympathise with them.

One other thing I noticed about Nice was that there is quite a noticeable Italian influence. Of all the other nationalities we encountered during our week, there were a lot of Italians there; in fact some of the street names in the old town were in both French and Italian. I didn’t realise just how close the city was from the Italian border. In fact it is only around 15 miles to the border from the old town.

We certainly enjoyed more than our fair share of Italian ice cream.

On our final day, we walked to Parc de la Colline du Chateau, a park that overlooks the old town and the Baie des Anges for some breathtaking views of the city in the glorious sunshine that we had enjoyed for just about all of the week (apart from a rather spectacular thunderstorm one day which we fortunately just missed and forced us to sit in a restaurant for a little longer than we had anticipated – allowing me to enjoy an extra baron of Kronenbourg!).

Sadly, we are back now but I wonder whether we traversed a weird space vortex on our trip back to Manchester. The temperature in Nice was a very pleasant 27 °C and back in Manchester today the temperature is exactly the same. I think we must have brought back a little bit of Nice with us.
I leave you with a few photographs of the city.

Stephen and his girlfriend make a new friend in the old town

Place Garibaldi

Shopping in the old town

Like father like son (yes - we were in big trouble)

Mrs PM ordered cactus for dinner

Nice from Parc de la Colline du Chateau

Old town market

A quaint little shop

I think we might return in the future because Nice is, as the name suggests, very beautiful. I recommend it.

Musique De Détente

It seems like ages since I’ve had a holiday. My trips to Oman in December and May simply do not count because that involves lots of work, virtually no sightseeing and little free time.

Thankfully, we are off to France on Tuesday, a visit to Nice and the surrounding area with, of course, Mrs PM and this time my eldest lad, Stephen, and his girlfriend. We aim to take in places like Cannes and Monte Carlo as well as some time relaxing by the beach.

I can speak a little French but thankfully I won’t have to humiliate myself too much as Mrs PM speaks the language extremely well, having studied it at university, during which time she spent a year in Toulouse.

I will write a more detailed post on my return but in the meantime, I thought I would leave you with a couple of songs that I like to listen to when relaxing on the beach in the sunshine (well to be brutally honest I will almost certainly be under an umbrella and covered from head to toe in high factor sun tan cream lest I end up like this ).

The songs are all really what I would class as chillax music, chillax being a word that seems to have been invented to combine the words chill and relax – a tautology that is perhaps unnecessary but kind of sums up that feeling of drifting away with the heat of the sun, the cool breeze and the gentle lapping of waves on a beach.

All the songs are beautiful in my opinion.

I hope you like them too.

Enya – Caribbean Blue

This song by Enya sums up perfectly the feeling of being on a beach holiday. Whenever I hear it, I imagine sitting on a hill overlooking a beautiful cloud free sky over a lapis blue sea with the waves crashing on an untouched and unspoilt beach.

Air – Redhead Girl

While this song doesn’t conjure an idyllic image of a beach in the sun, the beauty of the music helps to soothe my troubled mind. It’s one of those songs that erodes stress and allows me to put my worries into a crate and cast it adrift onto a sea, hopefully never to be seen again.

Porcupine Tree – Sentimental

Steven Wilson is, at the moment, my favourite musician; he is the brains behind Porcupine Tree and has released, one of my favourite albums of the last couple of decades. While he is really a progressive rock superstar, he has written some incredibly mellow and moving songs in recent years. This song is simply wonderful and again is a stress killer.

Madonna – Swim

Shock! Horror! The Metal-loving Mancunian has posted a Madonna song. I don’t care! I love the album Ray of Light simply because it has some great songs, most of which are smooth peaceful numbers that are extremely delightful. This song is one that makes me think of floating on my back on a gentle sea. How more relaxed can you get than that?

 Morcheeba – The Sea

The song does exactly what it says on the tin. Play the song and you will see exactly what I mean and the reasons why I love it. I kind of want to leave my soul by the sea. Maybe one day I will.

Empire of the Sun – We Are The People

Picture the scene.

Mrs PM and I sitting in a pub with me ranting about the dreadful pop music that landlords insist on playing at a volume so high that we can barely hear ourselves think. I was in mid rant when the next song came on – this very song in fact – and I simply closed my mouth in shock.

“Oh I suppose you hate this one too,” said Mrs PM.

“No,” I said, “this is bloody brilliant!”

This is one of those rare songs that cross the vast divide between my taste and Mrs PM’s taste, and that is a magnificent achievement itself.

Joe Satriani – The Golden Room

Joe Satriani is my favourite guitarist and he is technically flawless. He’s not a bad songwriter either. While this song is slightly less mellow than the previous offerings, the Indian percussion adds an exotic flavour to the wonderful guitar and it is this combination that allows me imagine travelling through weird and strange landscapes.

Moby – Rushing

This song is simply beautiful and absolutely dripping with positivity. I challenge anyone to listen to this and not feel better by the end of it.

Steven Wilson – Deform To Form A Star

This is Steven Wilson’s second contribution to this post, this time from his second solo album rather than from Porcupine Tree. As a solo artist, he has expanded beyond the constraints of the band and this song is a fine example of his unrestrained genius. Deform To Form A Star is an absolute masterpiece. Listen to it and feel your traumas dissipate with each note.

Nine Inch Nails – Find My Way

I think this song sums me up, perfectly.

Trent Reznor has definitely mellowed over the years from the angry young man of the late 1980’s. The change is evident in Find My Way, a song from his most recent album, a hauntingly beautiful song that is a guaranteed stress killer.

At the age of 51, I am still trying to find my way although I am getting much closer as I get older so this sums me up pretty accurately.

I simply love he song and it inspires me to make a greater effort to find my own way.

And Finally …

C'est ça! I hope you find the songs agreeable and I would be interested to hear which songs you would recommend to add my chillax playlist.

Au revoir and see you in a week or two.

A Thousand Words

A couple of months ago, I read an article on the BBC website about a campaign called The 1000 Word Campaign, which was created to encourage British people to learn at least 1000 words of another language.

The campaign was born out of concerns that we, as a nation, have extremely poor language skills and as a result we are losing out on international business opportunities and jobs as a result.

I have to say that I whole-heartedly agree with this, not necessarily the fear that we are struggling to win business abroad but because, generally, your average Brit can barely string together a sentence in a foreign language.

We have become lazy. We are spoiled because we can converse with Americans and Australians easily enough and a lot of European countries speak at least a smattering of English, certainly enough to be able to have a simple conversation with an English speaker.

You can pop to Holland and have a fantastic conversation in English with many people.  The thing is, I would like to be able to chat to a Dutch person in their own language rather than English or at least flip between the two.

In my last post about school, I lamented my choices not to pursue French to fluency. The next part of that particular post will also mention German, a language I studied for three years but again forgot as soon as I had the chance to give it up.

I am better than a large percentage of my fellow countrymen. My French is passable and I have survived numerous trips to Zurich where German is the spoken tongue, being able to ask for my hotel key, order coffee, read a menu and even order food.

However I am far from fluent and had to carry a dictionary with me all of the time so that I could cope with unexpected needs. I certainly couldn’t chat with people in German other than to impress them with odd words stolen from the lyrics of Rammstein songs, such as zerstören (which means to destroy - typical of a Rammstein song). In fact Rammstein songs have helped my vocabulary, albeit with words that I probably would struggle to use in a conversation given my limited German.

My French vocabulary is more impressive than my German but I still struggle to hold a conversation with a French person, simply because it is difficult to understand their accent and words that are delivered at approximately 1000mph towards my ear.

I have managed to make myself understood but as soon as the person has replied, my brain has failed to understand the words I heard, spoken at such a velocity that I could barely decipher them, let alone trawl my addled mind for their meaning.

This is the one flaw with the 1000 word campaign; being able to understand a native speaker.

I have spoken to some foreigners in English and they have had to ask me to speak more slowly so that they can understand the words I am saying. And I always thought I spoke pretty slowly anyway.

Obviously I don’t.

I am taking slow steps to improve and have started to take steps.

For the past year or so I have been stumbling along trying to teach myself a brand new language: Spanish.

And slowly but surely I am picking it up.

Well, when I say “picking it up”, I mean forgetting fewer words and allowing more of them to stick in my addled memory.

The secret to learning a new language is to stick with it and practice as often as you can. And for the past few months I have tried to step up a gear and at least try to pick up the basic elements of the language every single day – even if it for just ten or fifteen minutes.

What I have discovered is that words slip out your mind but return when you look them up again – and eventually they stick.

I am using a free online tool for the past couple of months to help me and it does seem to be working slowly. I have managed to retain a whole bunch of new words although I have forgotten a few I learned last year. The tool keeps a running total of the words you learn and throws phrases and sentences at you over and over again until some of them stick.

According to the tool I have learned over 600 Spanish words. In reality, I imagine the total is a lot less than that simply because I sometimes fail to get questions right when I test myself.

But it’s a start.

The tool also includes other languages, including German and French and my aim is to reacquaint myself with those languages too – but as a background activity.

The internet does help. There is a plethora of material out there as well as a huge proportion of Spanish television, articles, blogs etc. for me to delve into if and when I feel confident enough to do so.

The one problem I have is that I do not know any native Spanish speakers who can help me to understand everyday speech and make myself understood when I try to ask for a meal in terrible Spanish with a pseudo Mancunian-Black Country accent.

I will cross that bridge when I come to it.

Learning a language is difficult, I can’t deny that, but the rewards are magnificent. Whenever I travel I try to master a couple of phrases in the local language just to let people know that I have made an effort.
I can order beer, say “Please”, “Thank you”, “Hello” and “Goodbye” in Russian, Chinese, Portuguese, French, German, Italian, Dutch and even Japanese.

And even though my vocabulary is limited to one or two phrases, the local people really seem to appreciate the effort.

And yes – I can say the same words in American and Australian too. I might even try to write my next blog post in one of those two languages.

How about you, dear reader?

Can you speak a foreign language? 

If so which and how fluently?

School Daze (Part Three) - Shapes of Things

I often wondered whether I fully exploited the subjects I did at school. To be honest, unless you really know what you want to do, deciding your career based on subject matter at an age where raging hormones and, in my case, rebellious confusion can make you decide on the path of life for the next 50 or so years is quite daunting.

I know that I had little clue about what I wanted to do and if I could go back I would change it all. Sadly, between the ages of 11 and 18 I made my choice based on the subjects I was good at, rather than the subjects that were more of a challenge.

I thought, for a laugh, and for a bit of nostalgia and to give you an idea of the person I was and how my schooling shaped me into this grumpy old pseudo Mancunian IT geek in his early 50s, who hates his career and yearns to be a travel writer.

Let me guide you through the various subjects I had to endure and how I coped.

Art

I was useless at art.

I suffered this for two years before I could safely kick it into touch. Surely the teacher must have had a bit of a clue about my ineptitude when he asked me to draw a bowl of fruit and found himself staring in shock at an alien nightmare. Mind you, my efforts could probably have been seized by pseudo –intellectual art critics as an abstract masterpiece.

My attempts at pottery were equally appalling and resulted in clay being thrown at the walls and other kids, not because I was a rapscallion; I just couldn’t control the bloody stuff as it flew in all directions. And you should have seen the result.

Woodwork

I am rubbish when it comes to DIY and I blame my woodwork teacher. He was a man who tried to encourage me with dulcet words as I destroyed half a tree trying to turn wood into something useful. I have never been able to mould wood since and I have no intention of ever trying again. Everything I constructed either fell apart or ended up in the bin. Another subject dumped after two years of wasted effort .

French

French was compulsory for five years and I had several run-ins with a rather maniacal French teacher who had the ability to make kids cry with a mixture of stern authority and menacing threat. My problem was that I could see through his façade and actually used to laugh at his attempts to belittle me in front of the class.

Despite this, he was a very good teacher who immediately sussed out who the class villains were and made them all sit directly in front of him at the front. Nobody answered back – including me – yet I struggled to stifle guffaws when he started on a poor victim. Consequently he would pick on me – yet all I did was laugh.

“What is so funny?” he would ask, growling.

“You are,”  I said truthfully.

I would of course end up having to see him after class for a stern telling off and detention (or jug as we used to call it) – but I simply couldn’t help it.

 I was actually very good at languages and I still remember a lot of French thanks to this rather eccentric teacher. French is one of those subjects I regret not mastering; I would dearly love to be able to speak French fluently.

History

I found history totally boring and in the three years I had to suffer it, I had to endure tedious facts and, eventually, I found that it was drifting towards politics, a subject I despised even then.

My history teacher was an absent-minded old man who actually wrote a book about the history of my school, a rather grand grammar school in Walsall.

We just used to joke about him, saying that his knowledge was so deep because he was old enough to experience it personally.  These days I find myself being drawn towards history again and I sort of regret not being enthusiastic about it at school, choosing instead to draw moustaches on pictures of Henry VIII's wives.

Geography

For someone who wants to travel, this should have been a key subject for me.

It wasn’t.

I have the glorious distinction of coming bottom of my entire year in my final year of studying the subject. I was not going to continue, I figured, so I would do absolutely no work in the subject.

It worked; I simply couldn’t answer any of the questions or write any meaningful essays.

I didn’t care. To be honest, I don’t really care now because travelling for work and pleasure I am learning it all again – this time in a fun way.

Music

Here is a major regret. I really should have learned to play a guitar and/or piano and paid absolute attention to musical theory.

My music teacher was another eccentric maniac whose mannerisms and warped enthusiasm helped to fuel my rebellious nature.

Unlike the French teacher he wasn’t funny – he was just an obnoxious arsehole. And because I was also an obnoxious arsehole, we clashed in magnificent fashion.

When I gave up the trombone he was angry unlike the man who actually taught me how to play the instrument, a jazz trombonist whose skill with this brass monstrosity was amazing - he was very disappointed.

 Looking back, I feel ashamed that I had let my trombone teacher down – and maybe I could have been as good as he was had I pursued it.

I really should have chosen a guitar!

English Language

My English teacher didn’t like me.

I seemed to be able to wind him up just by being in the same room as he was – and this had nothing to do with any ill feeling on my part. During free writing lessons, I wrote weird stories about the Bermuda Triangle, space travel and monsters. He criticised them saying that my warped imagination was leading me completely astray.

Consequently I was forced to write about stuff I hated and my lack of enthusiasm must have shown through. In retrospect, perhaps I should have listened to him more and at least attempted to prove him wrong. Sadly, when my rebellious nature finally did manifest itself we drifted even further apart – which was a problem because he also taught me English Literature.

English Literature

Forcing me to read Shakespeare and Thomas Hardy was a mistake in my opinion. I hated them. I also despised poetry and my abhorrence showed itself in the essays I had to write criticising them. When I say criticising, I don’t mean pouring scorn on them; I mean giving a critical analysis of the work in question.

Sadly my true feelings often came through.

It was only when we had the opportunity to choose our own books that I somehow clawed myself back from the abyss of failure. H.G.Wells, Jules Verne and George Orwell saved me. My passion was evident, even to a teacher who regarded me with contempt and he had to acknowledge that the essays I wrote about authors I liked were actually quite good – a brave admission from the man, in my opinion, despite our differences.

Finally

There’s more to come so I will continue opening a door to the past in my next post rather than droning on about other subjects.

In the meantime, dear reader:

Did you enjoy any of the subjects I have mentioned above? 

Have you any regrets about school?

And just how cheeky or obnoxious were you to your teachers? 

Mind Your Language

Fear not – this is not a post about swearing.

Instead it is a little confession about one of my regrets; my lack of fluency in another language.

I speak a very limited amount of German, a little more French and, if it were still spoken, I could get by in Latin. Sadly, for me, I was coached in these languages thirty or so years ago at school and the knowledge has been replaced by other, seemingly more important information over the years – stupid stuff like the lyrics to songs – you know what I mean.

I’ve just returned from a business trip to Zurich, a place I have visited many times before. It’s a wonderful city and the Swiss are one of the friendliest people in Europe, if not the world. In Zurich, the official language is German, although really it is Swiss German, almost a different language. I hadn’t been there for eighteen months, and had visited enough to actually start picking up snippets of German again. In those eighteen months, however, the snippets I had acquired had been replaced by yet more song lyrics.

As I was waiting in the airport to return home to Manchester, I began to reflect on the previous week. I had been working in the office, listening to the guys speaking German and then switching to English in order to accommodate me. A lot of these guys were fairly fluent in a couple of languages and I began to feel inadequate, so much so, that I started to try converse with them in very poor German. They were quite impressed that I had made the attempt but it became apparent very soon after I had uttered the first words that my vocabulary was extremely limited. I soon switched back to my native English. I was filled with disappointment.

It was so different when I was younger. At the age of 21, I left university and had the entire summer before entering into the rat race. I decided to have one last adventure and set off for a four week jaunt around Europe with two friends. At that point, my French and German were both strong enough to make myself understood and . My friends weren’t quite so good though. I nominated myself to do most of the conversing in France and they agreed. I managed to speak to Parisians in their mother tongue and could understand them too. I was filled with a feeling of pride and achievement. Alas, one of my friends, a guy called Chris, decided that he would attempt to speak French as well, a bold gesture in city like Paris if your French is not up to scratch.

Paris is a beautiful city but I have always found Parisians a little stubborn. If you walk up to a Parisian and say “Parlez-vous anglais?”, they tend to stare at you with a look of utter contempt and say “Non!”. You have to make the effort. In their eyes, you are in the capital of France therefore you must speak French. So Chris, not a shy lad, grasped the nettle and attempted to speak French as much and as often as he could. Sadly, his vocabulary then was far worse than mine is now and he frequently confused and shocked Parisians, as well as making them howl with laughter.

For example, as we were leaving Paris to head south on a train, we discovered that each carriage was absolutely full. We walked the length of the train looking for a compartment with three spaces and were just about to give up, when Chris spotted one. He opened the door and saw several old people, who stared at him with disgust (we were travelling light and probably looked a complete mess). Chris, being ever so polite but bold, gestured at the three seats and said:

“Le corridor – il pleut.”

Basically he told them that it was raining in the corridor. Some laughed at him; the rest stared at each other and said “Huh?”

I intervened and asked them if we could sit down. They reluctantly agreed but openly talked about us whilst sniggering at Chris. I understood a fair amount of what they said and they were criticizing our lack of French, even though we had at least tried.

I’ve been to Paris and other places in France on several occasions since then and have always tried to speak the language. As the years have passed, however, my ability to remember the words has diminished and I have had to resort to a pocket dictionary or a phrase book. Happily, in the last ten years my job has been made a lot easier because Mrs PM speaks French almost to fluency. She’s a little rusty these days but she can hold a decent conversation with your average French person. On a recent trip to Bordeaux, she was taking snaps for her photography course, when a woman started talking to her. The conversation was fascinating, mostly because Mrs PM was laughing and making the other woman laugh as well – not because of her poor French but because she was cracking jokes. How I envied her – I still do.

As far as German is concerened as I have said above, I have been to Zurich quite a few times over the past five years made a conscious effort to at least try to speak German outside the work environment. In the past, I have managed to ask for my room key, order food, order beer, buy train tickets and even have attempted to switch to German when talking to other people, switching to English only when I have had to. The more often I have been, the more progress I have made. Sadly, though, lack of practice makes you forget and this last trip was frustrating because I had reverted to having to ask for things in English again.

I still make an effort, whenever I visit a foreign place, even if I don’t know the language. In Moscow, for example, I learned a few choice phrases that helped me out.

“Two beers” – “два пиво “ (pronounced – “dva piva”)

“Thank you” – “Спасибо” (pronounced “spassiba”)

“Hi” – “Привет “ (pronounced “preevyet”)

I was stuck in Moscow in the middle of a harsh winter, with temperatures of minus 20 degrees and managed to find my way around the city, by learning how to pronounce the Russian alphabet. Sadly, speaking the above phrases only helped in a bar, so I ended up drunk.

Sometimes, attempting to speak a foreign language can be embarrassing (as Chris had discovered). In Beijing, I was in a restaurant with Mrs PM eating crispy duck, having had a few beers. Obviously nature had to take its course and I had no idea where the toilet was. In the end I had to ask a waiter. I waited until one of the male waiters walked past and pointed out the word "toilet" in the phrase book. He began to explain in Mandarin but I just stared at him like a lost kitten. He realised that I had no idea what he was saying and beckoned me to follow him. Feeling strangely courageous, mainly due to a little alcohol, I decided to practice the word as we walked. The phrase book had an English pronunciation for the word and I attempted to say it to him. He smiled and said the word properly. I repeated it and got it slightly wrong, so he repeated it again. This continued all the way across the restaurant when I finally pronounced it in an acceptable fashion. Just then, I noticed that a lot of people were staring at me with an ill-concealed look of mirth on their faces. I couldn't work out what was so funny. And then I realised; I had just walked across the restaurant with a Chinese waiter saying the word "toilet" very loudly and very badly and very often to him. He in turn had responded with the word "toilet". They had witnessed two grown men marching across a restaurant shouting "toilet" at each other. No wonder the patrons were laughing. Slightly embarrassed, I smiled at a couple seated next to the lavatory, pointed to the door and said "toilet" in Mandarin. I thought the woman would have a seizure. Her hand covered her mouth and she grunted and snorted, trying to give me the impression that she was choking on her food. The man stifled a laugh but nodded approvingly, simply, I hoped, because I had made an effort.

Ultimately, when we retire Mrs PM and I may want to spend a lot more time in France. If I can find the time beforehand, I will make an attempt to re-learn French to fluency. I may even have a go at improving my German. I don’t think it’s too late to try – I just need to fight another battle against my willpower and fill this particular void. I sense an oncoming war against procrastination.

Thankfully, this year our trips abroad include America and that’s a country where I can speak the language almost fluently. I need to get to grips with words like “faucet”, “sidewalk”, “diaper” and “garbage” to master the language fully.