Across the Rhine from the Schwarzwald, on the lee side of the Vosges, we shopped for some French bread and items for an afternoon picnic.
But my wife’s debit card from Germany would not work.
Was there something wrong with the machine?
Or does it have something to do with the very recent change from the German mark to the Euro, while France still remained with the franc?
Alas, the helpful clerk seemed also to be perplexed as to why the card did not work.
To make matters more difficult, she was unable to speak either German or English, and we, the parents, were limited between us to those two languages.
Perhaps the manager could assist us?
The manager arrived, dressed fashionably in business skirt and vest.
Sadly, she also could speak only French.
But our daughter, with only a year of grade-one French immersion education behind her, asked the manager to tell her what the problem was, and that she would translate that to her parents.
It was an interesting sight: a professional woman, towering over a small child, providing an explanation for the non-functioning card, animating with her arms and hands as she spoke, as is the charming way of the French, with the little girl, folded hands in front of her, head raised to look at the manager, listening, nodding from time to time.
When the manager was finished, our daughter turned to her mother, explained everything rapidly in German, and then turned to me and rattled off an explanation in English.
It was the damn cutest thing.
The manager looked at us in turn, inquiring with her eyes.
Had we understood?
Yes, we had understood.
We paid for our things with cash, and went off to our picnic.
I was lost in wonder for hours after that interaction, how our little girl had learned so much in such a short time in school, had successfully applied her learnings in the practical world, showing courage for such a shy child.
A proud moment for a parent, in a strange village, in a strange land, far from home.
