les cochons sauvages.

It was one of those dinners typical of the first few weeks (I’m flattering myself- make that months), where the family would try to restrict themselves for my benefit to a simple conversation concerning the weather or current events, and my attempted participation in it would drive things down a bizarre path to where we were soon discussing insulin levels, walnuts, or rabid squirrel attacks.

The problem was that neither party understood the other’s half of the conversation; thinking we were still on weather, I’d be trying to remember the word for hurricane while the family pressed me to tell them more about my experiences in the armed service. Then I’d ask what I believed was a question about tornados and we’d be off on a conversation about ceiling fans.

Tonight we were discussing my future foray into the wilderness of Bretagne with the school group; there was to be an orientation trip that weekend which involved a hike along the seashore and through the forest, and my family welcomed the trip as a seemingly facile discussion topic to last us through the meal.

They were just beginning to explore out loud the possibilities of wildlife I might encounter along my trip, when I was distracted by the plate that was plunked before me. Knowing that I didn’t eat meat, the mother had attempted to compromise by preparing me fish. But this was the fish, the whole fish, nothing but the fish so help me God, and it was staring up at me with one glassy eye as if daring me to eat it.

I didn't know whether I was allowed to remove the scales, and how I would even go about doing it in the first place. The family offered no help; they were happily involved in their (headless and hideless) steaks. I decided to work on my portion of mashed potatoes to bide some time.

The family was saying something about animals, a fact I garnered only because the word is the same in both languages. They seemed to want me to respond, so I obliged them.

“Quelles sortes d’animaux?” I inquired, enjoying a surge of pride over my contribution to the conversation before turning my attention back to my skeletal friend. I believed I had found a way in by the tail, and I soon discovered that by peeling the scales up one by one, you could gain access to the fleshy part underneath. If this was the family’s way of converting me away from pseudo- vegetarianism, it was working.

So entranced was I with my fish, I almost dropped my fork a few seconds later as the host sister abruptly emitted a phlegmy, snorting sound similar to what my mother makes if startled from a deep slumber. I looked over to see the sister and father dangling their fingers from their mouths in a rather obscene way.

What exactly was going on here? I wondered. It was clearly either an evening ritual or some sort of game, and either way I was relieved to be distracted from my meal, so without hesitation I proceeded to, rather clumsily, make the sign back at them.

They immediately broke into smiles, nodding enthusiastically. “Oui! Oui!”

Success! I was in. I was now officially part of Whatever it Was We Were Doing. I was about to go back to my plate when I realized that they were still waiting for something, so I did the finger thing again, just to be safe.

The host sister nodded encouragingly before re-iterating the phlegmy sound like some primal cross-table mating call. Now the game was getting complicated, I thought.

I set down my fork and was preparing to hock up some saliva for a decent response, when a flicker of sanity crossed my mind. Hadn’t we been talking about forest animals earlier? Might this be some sort of charade aimed at educating me?

I racked my mind for animals who were known for making a comparably atrocious sound, but all I could come up with was my mother, so I turned instead to the dangly finger gestures, which perhaps were not obscene at all, rather- of course! What an inspired little rendition of tusks! A walrus!

Oh, get a hold of yourself, you aren’t going to see a horde of walruses running rampant through the woods. No, it would have to be the only other possibility, although this one seemed just as improbable. But, just to be sure…

“Les cochons?!” I squealed.

It couldn’t be, could it? Mais..

“Oui!” La famille erupted in celebration, final jubilant tusks and snorting impressions all around. Great. It had taken me half an hour, but I was now duly warned that there was a good chance my first weekend in France would be spent getting mauled by wild boars. I couldn’t wait to go on this trip.