I leave for Paris in about an hour and all I can think about is the phone conversation I had with Jeanne the other day, in which it became all too apparent how vigilant my father and I were about speaking French together in these last few weeks (not very).
I told her some stories I’ve told my American friends a few times already, and as I cast about for the proper way to describe someone I know, someone who can only be described as “cute-ish” because that is the most academically ideal word for this person, I remembered how I feel when I’m speaking French: like I’m performing with a live band that I can’t hear. Or maybe it’s like playing Pictionary blindfolded.
You never know exactly how you’re coming off until you get a reaction, and sometimes even then it’s hard to tell. Are they laughing because using “Je gere” for “I’m all over it” is surprisingly appropriate (and how funny coming from a foreigner!) or because it is totally, spectacularly inappropriate?
Heady thoughts! Leave me alone-- I’ve had four hours of sleep.
Let’s look at some pictures of me saying goodbye to my Dad last night. Try not to let my father’s enthusiasm jump out of the computer screen and suction your face off with its overwhelming zest.
Here’s another little guy I’ll miss. But hey, I’m got my télé with three fuzzy channels in France to look forward to!