A funny thing happened to me during a quick get-away to Old Orchard Beach this summer.
There I was, walking the shoreline early one morning, when a man approached me at a rapid pace. He looked like he was on some mission.
“Bonjour,” he said. And with a flick of the hand, he saluted me like I was a four-star general.
Now, I always thought with four years of high school French, that “bonjour” simply meant “hello.” And that “Bon matin” was how you said “Good Morning.” Apparently, that is not the case.
I was more mesmerized by his manner of speech. He greeted me in French, likely his native language. An educated guess has me estimating that maybe half the tourists in this coastal resort Maine town are French-Canadian.
They come here in droves. Given their manner of speech and how actively they portray it, one might think they were meandering through Montreal or Quebec City, rather than New England. Other languages were also being spoken, much like a United Nations conference.
A thought occurred to me as I strolled the surf this day. If some stranger addressed me in the language of his heritage, then why not do the same? Just to see how the general public would perceive an unknown language.
I would address all beachcombers with my very best greeting and wish them a “good morning” in Armenian. Okay, so it takes a little gall but that Canadian didn’t seem to hold his tongue.
A woman with a brisk pace approached me. Just before she passed, I uttered a hearty “Pari louys.”
She gave me the once over twice, then moved by me in a wink. Kind of rude if you ask me.
Next came a dog-walker. It was difficult to determine who was walking who. From the looks of it, the canine was pulling her owner.
“Pari louys,” I muttered. The man said nothing. I did get a bark from the dog. Better than nothing. Perhaps our language was going to the dogs after all.
An elderly couple met my acquaintance. They were holding hands while strolling the beach. True love could outwit time,” I thought.
Our eyes met. “Pari louys,” I smiled.
“What language is that?” the man said.
“Armenian,” I told him. “I’m just exercising my culture while exercising my body. Good morning.”
“Well, same to you,” they both said, perky as ever. “You have a nice day.”
A woman on horseback came galloping along the sand. A “good morning” was certainly in cadence with the beat of a hoof. It didn’t even get a reaction.
A younger couple with a child in tow made an approach. Common courtesy once more was displayed. “Pari louys,” I chirped.
They both simply nodded in return.
I recall some years back, while combing the streets of Manhattan, I passed by a travel agency with a sign in the window. It read, “Armenian spoken here.”
Inside I went, mindful of the rich Saroyan saying about two Armenian strangers meeting in the street and creating a new Armenia with the language. Tell me you haven’t met an Armenian in the strangest of places. We all have at some point.
“Parev,” I had said, hoping to catch someone’s attention.
Nobody looked. Either they were ignoring me or just preoccupied with their own tropical dreams. “Parev,” I repeated. “Parev.”
Still nothing. Finally, I caught the attention of a clerk.
“Who speaks Armenian around here?” I asked, pointing to the window sign.
“Just our customers and others who come inside, nobody else,” the employee said.
My beachside stroll was not going well. I was determined not to let the language die this futile morning. The gulls were gawking. The horses whinnying. The dogs barking. The French were on a roll.
A woman wearing a modest swimsuit gave me the eye. I couldn’t resist the temptation. “Pari louys,” I blushed. She answered with one word. “Morning.” The conversation never got beyond that.
As the morning wore on and my walk was nearing its end, I continued whistling a happy tune. The day was just beginning on the right foot and the sun was dancing in my heart after recent cardiac surgery.
A woman came into view and one last greeting followed in Armenian. She stopped in her tracks, flashed a smile from ear to ear, and responded with “Louys pari.”
Turns out she was just as Armenian as I could be—a Charkoudian from New York—and was glad to meet another of her kind. Two strangers who bonded through their language. It doesn’t get much better than that.
Saroyan would have been proud.
Tom Vartabedian
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You are right, Tom, we meet each other in the strangest of places. Many years ago, my husband and I were crossing the US – Canada border. We always left very early in the morning in order to avoid the work-day traffic. The customs/duty inspector was asking all the usual questions – where are you going? how long? anything to declare? My husband was responding to the questions, and he had both of the passports. I had my head back on the headrest of the car and was just in that neverland where you are not awake, but not quite asleep either. Suddenly, the border inspector said, “kisher pari, Perouz.” I burst into tears! He sounded just like my father did, all those long ago years when I was a child. Suddenly, I was again 8 years old, and my father was alive, and standing at my bedroom door, saying, “kisher pari, Perouz” as he always did. I could not stop sobbing. The border guard and my husband were perplexed. Finally, I was able to explain. Tears brimmed in his eyes too, as we shared my memories with me. This happened more than 40 years ago, and I have never forgotten it. I looked for him every time I crossed the border after that, but never saw him again. I wonder if he remembers it as being one of the most unexpected things that happened in his job. Thanks for bringing back the memory, Tom. Indeed, we hear our language when we very least expect to.