Pardonnez moi, mais je ne parle pas français!

May 16, 2011, marks a milestone both personal and professional. For a period of slightly less than thirty minutes, I was reduced to a nervous wreck the likes of which I have not resembled since my undergraduate days. The occassion was the XXXI^ème Séminaire de la Société Francophone de Biologie Théorique (the 31^st Conference of the Francophone Society of Theoretical Biology). To finish the very first session of talks, I stumbled my way (not completely awkwardly) through a hastily concieved and poorly rehearsed overview of my research.

Entirely in French.

Apart from some minor errors—milliard means billion, not million—and a problem with the sound-system, the talk went surprisingly smoothly and the audience was very friendly. But despite a plea for the questions to be given in English, as a reward for my linguistic efforts, the discussion soon left me adrift in a sea of French, and grinning slightly foolishly as my chef (boss) responded to the questions. This, at least, gave me time to recover from the adrenaline-fuelled pounding in my chest. Ultimately, I emerged unscathed and buoyed by the supportive atmosphere.

Several people offered charmingly positive feedback as we broke for the first intermission of the day, though I cannot say if was offered in honesty or out of politeness. Perhaps the most memorable moment was that, as I stood outside in the sun and nursed a coffee, a friendly Frenchman happily noted that I “spoke English very well”. I was taken aback at this remark, visibly so, and he grinned before correcting himself. “You speak French very well.” Such was my introduction to French humour.

The rest of the conference was notable for the wine (served and consumed at every lunch, as well as at dinner), for the beautiful surroundings (Autrans is a small ski-resort in the winter), and for the unending barrage of French to which I was submitted for 72 straight hours (minus sleep). The first two somewhat compensated for the third, but I was left in an almost-vegetative state by the time the final talks had concluded.

I shall end by tempting the ire of the March Hare, who famously advised Alice to “start at the beginning”. The six hour drive from Paris to Autrans offered me my first chance to drive in a country where one drives on the right side (this is not, as some people insist, the correct side). I negotiated the initial difficulty of changing gears with my other hand, and the continual difficulty of staying within the lane markings when seated on the left-hand side of the car, all at 130 kph. But before my stint behind the wheel, we were treated to the unusual sight of a DeLorean, which lingered in our vicinity for perhaps an hour. Photos were hastily snapped before this rarity had a chance to disappear from view. The Back-to-the-Future vibe was only reinforced the following day when my chef donned a puffy vest, eerily reminiscent of a young Michael J. Fox…