My Great Escape: Joie de Vivre
Natalie Kardum
I love all things French. I love the language, adore the films, worship the way French women are so chic and wear minimal make up and walk with grace. I love the way cigarettes hang from the mouths of French men as they expressively use their hands in conversation to further illustrate what they are saying, clogging the entrance of cafes. I love the way many French will scoff at the Basilique du Sacre Coeur or the Eiffel Tower, even though I stare at the structures in awe every time I visit Paris. And most of all, I adore the TGV, which brings me to one of my most cherished cities in a mere two hours and fifteen minutes.
I have been living in London for four months, and as much as I love this city, you may wonder why I chose London over Paris. There is one very good reason: my French is on the better side of pitiful. All right, perhaps I am being a little too hard on myself, but I have been studying off and on for years and still do not have a great grasp of the language. I yearn to feel the words roll off my tongue, the trill of the r’s and the elegance of the lips as I communicate to a local. Instead I stutter with the vocabulary of a five year old, turning white with fear every time I have to ask for directions or where the nearest toilet is. Why??? In my experience—even in Paris where the locals get a bad rap for being rude (this is not so)—every time I have attempted the language I get a nod of encouragement and the recipient responds to my inquiry in slow, fuss-free French. I think I am afraid to look like an idiot in one of the most sophisticated cities on the planet. But even five-year-olds stumble, I realize. And with that, I enroll myself in a French Course on Tuesday nights.
To prepare myself, I download every single French podcast on iTunes and listen, repeating words intently while riding on the tube, walking to work, or taking the bus. Even at the cinema, if I can’t find a French film to go to, I’ll listen to the podcasts until the lights dim and it’s time for the coming attractions. I peruse French text books in the books stores and then try to find them at my local library. If I hear people speaking French on the street, I excitedly follow them, trying to listen in on their conversations until they probably think I’m a stalker.
I have days where I am encouraged and days when I think I should just give up. But I keep on going; after all, I do not want to look like a fool in the French class. And I did sign myself up for a course slightly above my level. I intend to challenge myself.
As the days creep closer to the French course, anxiety slips in. Perhaps I should have gone for a more suitable level instead of Level 3 Module 1. What are they expecting me to conjugate? When I step into the class on my first day, will all my classmates know each other from before, kiss each other on the cheek and in perfect French, talk about their latest fabulous getaway to Paris on the Eurostar? Will I forget to conjugate the simplest verbs such as avoir and sit at the back of the classroom, terrified that the teacher will call on me? Memories I have tried to shut away since high school and college French, where I could not understand a thing no matter how hard I tried and when one professor actually had the nerve to ask me if I was even AWAKE, begin to surface. (Yes, I was awake, you asshole, but your class sucked.)
My first day of class. I am nervous as I slink into the classroom. Others are already there, even the teacher, a petite dark haired French woman, busily fussing through papers. I sit near the middle and pretend to be engrossed in my empty notebook. I notice that some people already have a copy of the required text book. I don’t.
And class starts. The teacher makes introductions in French so rapid I almost want to run out of the classroom. But I realize I understand almost everything. Almost. Even in the parts of the introduction I do not know word for word I can grasp what is being said. She then switches into English and separates us into threes to do personal introductions.
I’m sitting with a girl from Finland and a doctor from Australia. As we do our introductions, I realize something… something that has never happened to me before in any French class: I can actually speak French. Not fluently, not with the best accent or most varied vocabulary, but I can certainly get by. All these years of studying and I thought I could barely put two sentences together. But in this class I talk about my job, where I live, how long I have been in England and where I’m from. I talk about bilingualism in Canada, and I even manage to ask questions.
Could have my over-thinking, overly-critical brain have gotten in the way of my potential greatness in French all along?
As I leave the class, I feel good. I thank the teacher and say good bye to my fellow linguists, imagining weekend trips to France and speaking with locals. I dream of living in a small French village for a few months, eating cheese, drinking wine and living in a flat above a bakery. Perhaps this will all come true. Perhaps there will be a time to live out this dream.
Until then? At least I’m learning to conjugate verbs harder than avoir.