Language is a Tricky Thing
Two years ago, when I met Gibi in Saorge, I thought I understood him to say he had a son of 18 months. That was a little surprising, given that he’s probably in his 50s.
All this time, I’ve thought this.
Yesterday on the mountain, I asked how old his son was now.
“No, I mean your other son.”
“I have only one son.”
“But didn’t you tell me you had a little son?”
“Oh yes! My little son. He’s 4.”
Then my faux pas hits me. In French, Petit fils means grandson, even though a direct translation would be “little son.”
Boy, we had a good chuckle over that one!