Once, when I had told a particularly charming story, I thought, of something my son had said, to a french speaking friend, she responded, “il est malicieux, ce petit.” Malicious, my son malicious? Hanging up the phone, I ran to my french/english dictionary for clarification, there it was, malicieux, mischievous, impish, arch. Phew. It was like the first time I’d heard him called “malin”, malign?, did he say something wrong? No, it means clever, cunning, sly.
My husband, even after speaking french for 25 years, has occasional lapses into other languages. The other night he was talking to a french friend about additives, you know the stuff they put in food to preserve it , préservatifs. We all laughed. In french “préservatif” means condom, and that’s definitely not what he meant.
I was terrifically relieved to see that my college in the U.S. had been upgraded to University status, so that I could state with impunity that I’d gone to University, because when I lived in the French speaking area of Switzerland our street intersected with the “Chemin du Collège,” that’s the local kindergarden through junior high-school, not what most of us associate with college.
Lending new meaning to “what this old rag” we fans of the unforgettable scene in Funny Face I think, where Audry Hepburn runs down the steps with the ends of her beautiful silk chiffon scarf floating above behind her, creating a living image of Winged Victory, are miffed to learn that in french chiffon means rag.
If you offer a gift to a german speaking friend you might see a look of consternation pass over his or her face. Gift in german means poison.
These are what the french refer to as faux amis, false friends, similar words that do not mean the same thing in different languages. I’m sure they occur in many languages and I can attest to squirming in two other languages French and Italian, trying to understand and make myself clear. Peels of laughter rang out when my Italian husband heard me exclaim: Mascarpone! (delicious sweet soft cheese) instead of mascalzone, you rascal!
Long after buying a house in Italy and all the administrative correspondence, I still feel that when I address a letter to: Egregio Signore, I’m making a flagrant error. Not at all, I’m addressing it to: Distinguished Sir.
We chuckled one day when our son, head caught in the arm of the armchair, screamed “Mamma I’m castrated!” knowing he just meant the translation of sono incastrato: I’m stuck.
Here in Italy it’s common to hear someone say to a child “sei tremendo, lo sai”: you’re tremendous, you know? Wrong again, it means something like “you’re a terror.” Fortunately, it wasn’t my child they were talking to, this time.
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