My fate was effectively sealed on the first day of ninth grade, when Mme Chillington asked us to write a short essay about our summers. You know: in French. Now, it’s not like this was the first time that my French had attracted attention–hell, one of the things I had to write about was how I had been sent of to…um…French camp. It was cooler than it sounds, okay? But not by much.
Anyway.
So I wrote this essay–one page? Maybe two. And based on it, Mme Chillington asked me if I wanted to go on to the next year of French. The trouble is that she asked me that in French, and I completely misunderstood and thought that she was asking if I planned to continue studying French in general. You know: like, next year. So I was a little confused when she started talking about transfer paperwork, and introducing me to my new teacher. But you know what? That’s exactly the kind of thing that happens when you’re working in a foreign language, and if my experience is any indication, it just doesn’t go away.
It does get a bit better, though, which I realized on my taxi ride back to the apartment this weekend. While chatting with the driver, I was also idly keeping a mental list of words that I wanted to look up when I got home–it would be nice, for example, to say, “I was applying for a visa” rather than “I went in search of a visa,” which means that I need to actually learn “to apply” rather than give into my temptation to substitute “to press,” which is usually all that I need, since I’ve only ever needed “to apply pressure” up until now. And “I went to press for a visa” sounds kind of stupid.
But the point is that I realized about halfway home that I was cataloging words that I don’t know–that that had gradually become the shorter list. And so we rattled on about immigration and the relative quality of life in various cities, and it was fun–so pleasant that I felt shortchanged when I called a cab for Nick yesterday and discovered that the number he has is a dedicated line for English-speakers (during the day; I had only ever called it at night before, and the night-shift folks don’t bother).
That added little layer that makes it so much more difficult? After three weeks of mind-numbingly easy conversations, I have a whole new appreciation for the pleasure of going the extra mile.