Caroline in Paris

If you want to learn a foreign language, move to a country where it is spoken. Right? Okay. Then get a dog.

As it turns out, people who need directions, or want you to participate in their survey, or are hawking mushrooms at the local market will eventually give up on you and talk to someone else if you stammer long enough. But people who want to know what kind of a dog that is simply refuse to walk away without an answer. Dog lovers are relentless optimists, and they will keep at it until you accidentally make sense.

I now know all of the basics: “What kind of a dog is that?” “How old is he?” “Male or female?” “Is she friendly?” “Is he vaccinated?” and, of course, “Oh! How cute!”

I can also explain where we got Jolie and why, and that no, she is not yet quite housebroken, but she is quite bright and wants very much to please us, so we expect that she will catch on soon. And no, she almost never chews on the furniture, although we’re still working on discouraging her from nipping at us when she is excited.

It was a nice change, though, on Friday, to have an actual grown-up evening. We went to dinner in the 8th with Nick’s coworker (inconveniently named “Nicolas”), his girlfriend, and another couple (a French woman and a Sri Lankan man who are, incongruously, moving to Scotland shortly). We ate, drank, and had actual conversations, and after an hour or two I decided that Jolie would be just fine, and that we probably wouldn’t need to rush home right after the main course after all. We saw people’s vacation photos, and idly planned some vacations of our own–Florence is only an hour’s flight away, and we already know at least one restaurant there that we really like.

And it was especially fortunate that the Sri Lankan man spoke no French, which let us off the hook in the name of inclusiveness. Nick tells me that I am moving into what he calls the “rejection phase”–emphatically avoiding conversations that I know will have to be conducted in French, resenting people for not speaking English, and just being generally petulant. I even casually steer the dog away from people I hear speaking French, although she is encouraged to flirt with tourists and ex-pats.

Nick says that his own rejection phase was fairly brutal, but I expect that mine will be a bit gentler, if only because I am not doing this alone in any sense of the word. It’s much easier to keep perspective when I have someone who understands right on hand, and even easier when he will occasionally tackle frustrating conversations on my behalf.

But still, if you know any English-speakers in Paris, have them drop me a line. I’ll even let them meet the puppy.