The last few chapters of A Tale of Two Cities are not exactly meant to be funny, but I found myself giggling just a bit as all the events unfolded into an utterly chaotic finale. While Sydney Carton’s end was certainly notable—perhaps a little predictable, to unleash my inner critic—the death that really stuck with me was Madame Defarge.

Who is Madame Defarge? Is she the brutal commander of the Reign of Terror, or is she a victim of monarchy and elitism? Well it’s not a great question because the answer is both, and that’s what makes her death so interesting to me. She faces off against the headstrong Miss Pross, personal assistant to the somewhat hollow Lucie Manette. Madame Defarge rampages through Lucie’s former residence while Miss Pross attempts to block her, and after getting into a scuffle, Defarge dies by the bullet of her own misfired gun. Dramatic to say the least, but what really elevates this scene is the dialogue.

Across the span of these several pages, the two speak to each other in different languages. Insults, rages, snarkiness hurled in French by Defarge, responded to in English by Pross.

It’s a very extreme example of a language barrier, but it’s honestly the part of the book that I relate to the most. In Paris, I’ve been in countless boulangeries, chocolatiers, and cafes sparring with my butchered French. Sometimes I win, getting through a massive, two-sentence interaction in French without bursting into tears. Other times, the cashier gives me a sympathetic look, and I cave in.

“Parlez-vous Anglais?”

Sometimes it’s a oui. A lot of the time, it’s a non. And it’s the latter type of incident that reminds me of the bubble I grew up in, the kind that makes me appreciate what it’s like living in a country where you don’t speak the lingua franca. What I’ve even further discovered, however, is that a bit of humility can go a long way. I have often found a sense of camaraderie when the other person and I stumble upon some middle ground of Franglish and hand gestures. Coming from a country that is severely monolingual and often prejudiced towards others on that notion, there is a real beauty in such a connection.

Maybe I’m biased considering that neither of my parents are native English speakers living in America. My entire life, I have spoken both Urdu and English, helping to translate street signs and bank tellers for them. It is deeply painful to me that so many Americans have looked at my mom like she’s unintelligent because she doesn’t speak English fluently, when those same people can hardly communicate with the majority of the world.

The stereotype is that American tourists expect Parisians to speak English consistently and fluently. It is certainly true, but especially in a subtle way. I have noticed that as Americans, we tend to jump right into English without attempting any French. Not to get on a high horse because I’m sure I’ve slipped into this habit myself, but it truly is a bit disrespectful. Certainly, a lot of the Americans I know would be a bit peeved if my mom instantly started talking to them in Urdu.

My point isn’t to berate anyone because nobody is perfect. Rather, I would encourage failure. Someone switching right into English after you talk to them in French isn’t rude—it’s them appreciating the gesture and respecting everyone’s time. It’s okay if that happens. Really, it is. At a boulangerie I went to, for instance, I was stuck in a crisis of knowing how to order a flan. In shaky words, I asked the woman behind the counter, “Je voudrais un flan?”

She said something I couldn’t quite understand. And then she smiled.

“Would you like anything else?” I laughed and told her no. We finished up the transaction, and for a good twenty minutes, enjoyed my dessert in the bakery. As I got up to leave, she motioned at me.

“Did you like it?” She beamed.

“Yes, it was very delicious, thank you.”

She nodded and bid me farewell—a thank you and au revoir. I’m a sentimental person, but I found this little part of my day extraordinary because it was just one more example of the hospitality I have found in France, a country that is known for its terseness at times. I could also talk about the shawarma place I went to, where the cashier sat me down and immediately pulled a chair for me, even though he didn’t speak English and I didn’t speak French nor Arabic. Or, I could go back to the chocolatier, where I asked the woman if she spoke French or Spanish, and though knowing neither, understood my request for hot chocolate in seconds.

The point is that there are imprudent people everywhere, but the vast majority of Parisians—and pertinent to mention, people from non-European countries—are more than happy to share a piece of their culture with a person who tries their best to understand them instead of demand something, be it an experience or a product. To have a Defarge-Pross conversation is really not that terrible so long as there aren’t any guns involved.

I’m trying to keep these principles in mind ws we visit the different sites this class entails to understand our literature. In museums and cultural sites like the Bastille, I try to first engage with the French I see as much as I can, recognizing familiar words and piecing together a conjecture of what I’m being told. From there, I switch into English by translating on my phone and find out if I’m somewhat correct or totally off the mark. In any case, the effort I put into it proves rewarding because I get a more intimate experience with the place. I like to think of it as a French-first mindset, stepping into a place as a visitor and observer rather than someone entitled to be there.

Of course, such situations also remind me that I have a privilege in carrying an American passport. It allows me to delve deep into societies around me while retaining my membership in the West. The reputation Americans have abroad is fair because it’s true. We are exercising a certain kind of power when we take the availability of English as a given. Never mind just France—many of us avoid places outside of Europe because of language barriers and stick to the domains we know. Once again, so long as the other person isn’t Madame Defarge, a language barrier is not an impediment to a journey—actually, it’s an enrichment.