High School French is the only bit of foreign language I speak. Il fait chaud, Je m’appelle Jessie, Comment allez-vous….that’s about it. I wonder at my age if I would ever be profluent in another language, other than a sexual act that is named after one. I feel that skill is reserved for children and the language talented people who, like the “Matrix” movie, seem to just download the information. I don’t fall in either category, and I can’t roll my “r” (but I don’t think there is any “r” rolling in French so I think I am safe). Then there is that possibility after multiple of classes you still can’t understand a damn thing when you actually visit the country. Due to the speed of the spoken word, dialect, slang and the possibility they will just speak English back at you…which quite frankly I can’t comprehend English in a foreign accent either.
Besides all this nay saying, I’ve been thumbing through the local community college catalog and feel compelled to take on a string of French courses starting in the spring.
This endeavor was inspired by my massage partner at school. We like to communicate with each other in every language other than English. ”Bonjour Mademoiselle”, a little Korean ”ban gap sum ni da”, a tad of Japanese “Itai”? meaning “it hurts”. I respond with a “Nein Nein” and perhaps a “Merde” when she uses too much pressure.
Now, when I think about taking French classes, I reminisce to when I spent a month in France one summer when I was 16 years old.
I was invited along with a girl friend and her parents to travel by RV. We drove to Dover and took the ferry to Calais (an armpit of a destination, like Newark). We drove through Paris. Saw the Eiffel Tower for 5 secs, 3 miles away at about 80 mph. Stops were made at small towns/villages while we made our way down to southern France. Our main sustainance was cheap wine, Rockford cheese, fresh baked baguettes from local bakeries and tangerines from the farms. We spent our days being tourists. I was able to venture off to go for runs. Once we reached southern France, 15 kilometers from the Spanish border, we ceised travelling for a week. One day we snorkel in the Mediterranean and climbed on the cliffs and jumped in, I was fearless. However, once when climbing out of the water, I felt dizzy and collapsed onto a bed of sea urchins and my grandma was picking spines out of the palms of my hands weeks later in Florida. I had another brush with fate when I had my retinas scarred. My girl friend’s mum’s saggy breasts were on display when we spent one day at a naked beach…I kept my one-piece on thank you very much.
On the very last evening in France, every body except I was sick with food poisoning, so I took an adventure around the camp grounds. I first headed to the club house where a french comedy was being viewed on the television. It did not amuse me, so I left. I was followed by a handsome french boy, a little older than me with dark hair. We walked together and between his limited English and my French we conversed satisfactory. He escorted me to a white footbridge over a creek . There I had my first french kiss. After some kissing. He walked me back to my temporary home, it was around 10pm. After we bid au revoir, I discovered all my travel companions were asleep. I left promptly searching for that hottie.
Thinking back, it was a good thing I did not find French Fry again, otherwise I would have had another “first” that night I am certain.
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