Getting a Tattoo in a Country Where You Don't Speak the Language
A true story.
There exists, on any trip, an opportunity to bridge the gap between the culture of the place one is visiting and the culture of one’s own home. On many journeys the crossing of the gap between two cultures is the greatest crossing of all. In my own travels, no moment has highlighted the significance of this crossing more than the moment I got a tattoo in France.
Booking a tattoo appointment anywhere involves high stakes. Throw in a language barrier, and those stakes skyrocket. My French is limited, so when I contacted the tattoo artist in Aix-en-Provence before my trip, I used a translate app to write my email. The thing about translate apps is they only translate words— not unspoken cultural norms. Crossing a gap between two cultures involves so much more than just translating sentences word for word.
Though experiencing different cultures is one of my favorite aspects of travel, I completely forgot to factor these differences into the logistics of my tattoo appointment. I sent the email booking the appointment and forgot to leave my American expectations at home.
Months later, my two friends and I stood outside of the tattoo parlor in Aix-en-Provence, France. It was the sixth of June, a brilliant summer day in the South of France; it was the appointed time, early afternoon; and it was closed. The tattoo parlor was shuttered up in that very French manner. In our very American manner, we were early to the appointment. Maybe they’re still out to lunch, I thought, as we settled in to wait. The minutes ticked past. We tugged on the door, tried to peer inside past the shutters. I reread the confirmation email.
The hour of our appointment slowly passed. The ancient blue wooden shutters stayed tightly closed. No one emailed us. No one came back from a long French lunch break. In fact, no one walked past us at all. The quaint Provençal street was very quiet. Clearly we were missing something. The tattoo parlor which we had so carefully researched and to whom we had sent meticulously translated emails was shut up tight.
Eventually we admitted defeat and walked to a nearby cafe to regroup. Aix-en-Provence has a wealth of ancient squares centered around fountains. Many of these squares are surrounded by sidewalk cafes: we had our choice of picturesque outdoor tables. After settling into one of the tables under a plane tree and ordering tiny coffees, we determined to get to the bottom of this gross miscommunication.
Having paid no deposit, we were certain we weren’t being swindled. The emails were relaxed and friendly, an embodiment of the southern French attitude. The sunshine slows everyone down a bit in this part of the country, and it coaxes out the friendliest side of many people. Truly who can be upset for long while sitting at an outdoor cafe in the warm Provençal sunshine?
I had a sneaking suspicion that the gap between our two cultures must somehow be to blame for this mistake. Perhaps the translate apps failed us.
Then, I saw it. Right there in the confirmation email: the date of our appointment. In all the travel planning and excitement of finally arriving to Aix, it completely slipped my mind that in France, and much of the world, the month is written before the day. We had read it hastily, and we had read it wrong, confusing the six for the month of June as the date. Our appointment was tomorrow. We had been standing out in the hot sun on an abandoned street impatiently waiting for an appointment that didn’t exist until the next day. Even worse, we had already sent an email to the tattoo artist crying out for help over the missed appointment. How embarrassing!
Our chagrin didn’t last for long. We were in one of the most charming cities in France, after all. We brushed aside our embarrassment and decided to stroll across town to visit Cezanne’s studio which is now a small museum preserving the space just as he kept it. As we ducked down streets lined with golden buildings— quintessential Provence— we began to laugh at ourselves over the whole debacle. It was a funny lost-in-translation mistake, entirely our fault. We would try again tomorrow, the true day of the appointment, and see what new adventures we faced on this tattoo journey.
The next day we arrived to an open tattoo parlor! The shutters weren’t shut; the door to the street was flung wide open; people bustled in and out. A hip interior beckoned us inside. Our tattoo dreams were about to come true!
A group of very cool, very French tattoo artists chatted in the lobby. Two French bulldogs lounged on the floor at their feet. All eyes turned to us when we approached, and our courage began to fail us. My doubts crept back in. What if no one here speaks a common language, and we can’t communicate? What if the scheduling mix up made them upset with us? Will we even get a tattoo today?
We bravely offered our “bonjours”. Before we could even form the sentence, “Parlez-vous anglais?” an older tattoo artist with cool sneakers was saying in perfect English, “You must be the Americans!”
We sheepishly admitted this to be true and prepared to eat crow over our date mix-up. But then I realized his exclamation was said without even a hint of annoyance or accusation. The tattoo artist’s voice was tinged with glee, and when I looked at him I realized he was delighted to finally meet his long lost American clients.
As we began to apologize for the date mix-up, he waved away our apologies, introduced himself as the owner of the tattoo parlor, Pierre, and ushered us into the tattoo studio. “These things happen,” he said, and he informed us that the day before had been a minor public holiday; many businesses were closed. Suddenly the sleepiness of the city made more sense, and I felt a sense of gratitude that whoever emailed us back the day before had kindly done so on their holiday.
Pierre began to confirm our tattoo designs. My friend had changed her mind since we first made the appointment, and she started to apologize for the inconvenience. Pierre once again waved away the apology saying, “It is your body! You can change your mind!” He simply turned his music up and began to sketch out a new design.
My friends and I smiled at each other: how casual he was about a last-minute change! We were definitely in a foreign land… and we were definitely getting tattoos! I finally cast aside my American expectations and fully embraced the relaxed culture around me.
As Pierre got to work, I looked around the studio, observing the modern art and photos of Pierre’s family hanging against the old stone walls. Outside the windows locals scurried about their day in the hot sun, carrying baskets of goodies home from the market. The sounds of conversation in French in the next room drifted in and mingled with the pop music.
Pierre began my friend’s tattoo. A Justin Bieber song came on the radio. My other friend, Pierre, and I all began to sing along and dance at the same moment, though Pierre never stopped tattooing. The three of us, realizing we were in sync, looked at one another and laughed, agreeing over how catchy the song was.
That was the moment. The moment I crossed over the cultural divide. All of the miscommunications, scheduling mix-ups, and lost-in-translation mistakes faded away. The moment we were jamming to American pop music with the French tattoo artist I knew we had crossed the bridge between our two cultures and met somewhere magical in the middle.