And although my French is shy, awkward and stuttering, Paris is as
smooth, soft and sexy as the voice of a French lover. The problem,
really, with my French, is that I know just enough to start any
conversation, but can’t comprehend enough to respond to the answers my
questions may have summoned. I’m disappointed but relieved when my
question in French is responded to with English. And I fluster up a
curious mix of Spanish, English, French, obscene sign language and
red-faced silence when the conversation changes into fast lanes of
French to which I had been blind-sided.
But these words –
fluster, curious, obscene, embarrassed, blind – they are good words,
ill-fitting only to show me where I can grow. On the couch in the
studio of a friend I have not yet met, my stomach grumbling on
something I ate that might have been meat, or cheese, bone marrow or
bean paste (only in France, for the richness of all foods, could you
not know the difference), I count my Euros, which are all now in coin
having distributed only large bills in fear of giving anyone exact
change for mistake in comprehending the number owed. Oh how I remember
this same storm of struggle with Spanish in Spain! But it’s a storm I
seek, and dance in. And as if on cue, outside my window, lightening
flashes and thunder snaps with a trailing roar. Rain pummels down onto
the metal rooftops outside as French voices, food smells and street
songs continue to waft up. Childish delight festering at every root end
and finger tip, I gather up my day’s successes -- navigating the
airport, purchasing train tickets, steering my way through the maps and
maze of metros, meeting two new friends, asking for help and
directions, buying bananas and nectarines at a small fruit stand --
like I did the small trophies I earned in dance competitions in 3rd
grade. And with a smile that insists on staying the night, I curl up on
the couch, and I sleep with them.
