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Unfiltered Story #215117

, , , | Unfiltered | November 11, 2020

Many years ago (1958), after my father died, my mother and I sailed from England to Canada to visit my sister and her husband in Edmonton. We docked in Montreal and had to spend a night there before catching a train to Toronto and then across Canada.
We arrived at a hotel and my mother asked for a room – in English. The young woman behind the desk began to prattle off in French that she didn’t understand and that she only spoke French. I was only 12 at the time, but I’d had nearly 4 years of French in school in England.
She stood there with an arrogant smirk until I said “Mademoiselle, Je parle Francais. Tu parle Quebecois! Maintenant, une chambre. S’il vous plait”. Which was “Miss, I speak French, you speak Quebec dialect. Now, a room, please.”
Suddenly she spoke fluent English and seemed a little embarrassed that an obvious ‘English kid’ spoke French with a Parisian accent that was purer than hers.