Francophile? I probably don't qualify. I do love all things French. Citroens, baguettes (diamonds and bread), Peugeots (bikes and cars), berets and Brigitte Bardot. The nineteen year old Brigitte Bardot. Oh, don't give me a hard time here. In my dreams of the nineteen year old BB, I'm twelve.
This is probably where my French thing starts.
To speak French was always a dream. I didn't have the nerve to take French in high school. It was pretty much all girls. The nerds took German or Latin and the rest of us took Spanish, hoping to eventually order at the Columbia in an urbane fashion.
When I started college, I knew it was time to re-invent myself. To be honest, in my case, invent myself. In my first year I took History of Canada, Idea of Utopia, Logic and, that's right- French.
To my delight and my panic, my professor was a lovely, young French woman. Imagine that! I struggled for a couple of weeks. By my standards I worked hard.
When the time came to converse in my new language, it would have been difficult to miss the fact that my teacher, who I was madly in love with by this time, had to turn her back to the class every time I spoke. Her trembling was a strong clue that she may have been laughing.
I had to drop French.
When I took the drop slip to my professor for Logic, he begged me to stay. He said that I was the only one in the class who knew what was going on. Heck, I had assumed that something called Logic would be about logic.
Of course I realize that I have wandered off subject. I did fine in Idea of Utopia.
Parlez-vous français?
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