Vous êtes disponible?

Two months in a foreign country – check. Grasp of general location a map – check. Realization that this is not just a bad dream – check.

Geneva had been my new home for a sum total of 54 days, and things were starting to click. My French was improving, my confidence slowly emerging from its hiding place in my socks, and I was armed with enough vocabulary to feed myself, get un-lost, and apologize for being American. Which all seemed rather timely, given that this week I actually had a reason to venture out alone into this brave new world to test my fledgling chutzpah. I needed some technical support – stat. Apparently I was the only foreign email-owning expat in Switzerland who wants to use their iPhone for more than a calculator. After several unsuccessful attempts at receiving email, I had tried calling Swisscom and Mac’s own customer service line, or at least my husband had, the “French for the Telephone” course not having been created yet. And still…rien, nada, zilch. I was having serious New Yorker Smartphone addiction withdrawal. And today I was going to solve the problem, or check myself into rehab. I needed to go to the holiest of holies, the Genius Bar at the Mac store on Les Rues-Basses.

I walked into the Mac store and headed to the Genius Bar, which looked comfortingly familiar at first glance. The same color-coded employees, the rows of user-friendly Mac products, the lack of service lines that drives New Yorkers crazy, but works in a place like Switzerland, where no one minds because they don’t notice anyone else there to begin with, and therefore are completely content in the knowledge they will be helped next.

I was instantly greeted by a cheerful looking young woman in dark blue. Excellent - everything was falling into place – and so I spoke. “This is my first female iPhone. My email is strange. I need familiar you to help because it no work.” Brilliant. I was brilliant! The helpful genius lady must have been astounded by my grasp of her language, because she nodded at me for a few seconds with her mouth hanging open and then apparently decided I was on her genius level and could handle adding another word to my vocabulary. “Configurer?” She said, eyebrows raised, hopeful. Configurer…hmmm…difficult one…oh! Configure! Yes, I need help to configure! I felt a genius bond forming between us, and grinned like an idiot to express my gratitude.

She grinned back – proof of the bond – and pointed across the store while saying “chemises bleues claires.” Ah ha! Chemises = shirts, bleue = blue, claire = light…Light blue shirts! It was like a treasure hunt where all the clues were easy! I was to wait for a representative in a light blue shirt to help me “configurer,” and I couldn’t be happier. I thanked my fellow genius lady and stepped across the store, my confidence now riding high on top of my head, which had suddenly tripled in size.

I zeroed in on my target and set about waiting for a young man sporting a color no straight man would ever wear. The customer before me wanted to know how to purchase a gift card – yawn – and I was getting antsy in anticipation of using my new vocabulary word. A New Yorker’s definition of waiting is very specific, and involves standing just close enough to hear every word spoken, but never making direct contact. Staring just left of someone’s ear is allowed, as well as sighing and shifting your weight more often than necessary. I also find it helpful to make quick, annoyed eye contact every once in a while to make sure he knows you’re waiting. I have perfected this technique. Hey, you can take the girl out of New York…

But after 5 minutes of shifting, the young man said “Bonne journée” to the gift card guy and turned to me. I was ready: “Vous êtes disponible?” I had heard it before, and hadn’t bothered to check it with my husband so confident I was of my newly minted skills as a multi-lingual American. The intention was sound – are you available? – I was the picture of poise, an angel of polite conversation, so kind as to ask before assuming. Because we know what you and me do when we assume…

But the proverbial ass was not listening. El burro was not even in the room and had just set out for the border laughing his donkey behind off, because with my head the size of a watermelon I had neglected to check on the meaning of three words that had just made up my first French proposition. “Vous êtes disponible?” means “Are you free?” and not just for tea and crumpets. Apparently I was more fluent than I thought…and should look into buying stock for hotels that rent by the hour.

I guess I should mention that he didn’t accept. I do happen to have a ring on my left hand, although after reading this, my husband may decide he’s always wanted to live in Botswana. And I gather from my accent the young man in light blue quickly realized I wasn’t interested in some sort of extramarital affair. What he did do, however, after I stumbled awkwardly over sentences containing enough negatives to create a positive, and cursed out loud each time I put a subject-verb combination together wrong, was gently tell me how nice it was to hear an American speak French, even in the figurative sense. Our conversation quickly went from technical to more personal, and I realized here was someone actually appreciating my feeble attempt at communicating. He told me that since English is common in Geneva, most Anglophones walk in and ask their question in English, without attempting the translated version. As if on cue, a lovely woman walked up and announced she couldn’t get any help, and needed assistance picking out headphones. He pointed her in the right direction with a mention he’d be there shortly, turned back to me and with a raised eyebrow, said “Voilà.”

“Voilà.” Conjugated as far as I was concerned as, “You see?” And I did. I thanked the young man for his help and kind words and left, feeling much better about myself and wondering if I shouldn’t really buy stock in those hotel rooms. I am, after all, a genius.