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Published: June 27th 2008
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The Walk Approaching the Pantheon
The one I should be taking to my lessons at La Sorbonne I wake up with a start for some reason at 2:30am and sit quietly staring at the ceiling before electing to watch a Poirot. Poirot is one of my top ten people ever. I do not understand why he is not in attendance at more fantasy dinner parties. However, Poirot was dealing with a crime of espionage on an international level, so I turn to Miss Marple for a more lulling rhetoric. Lulling it certainly was, because I oversleep by two hours. And today is the day of The Exam.
The Exam is to stream us into classes appropriate to our level of French. I have spent the last ten years varying between fluent and pidgin so, really, I could save the effort and toss a coin. The exam is somewhere in the 14eme, below the 6th and not in the 5th arrmt. Google maps tells me it's a 7 minute drive, which means nothing to anyone who utilizes basic logic and I estimate the distance and guess about half an hour walk. The walk takes me along
des grands boulevards , not the best of Paris, the grey, indistinguishable junctions, and I am walking quickly wishing I had studied
The Pantheon
Just a casual stroll to LA SORBONNE more. Almost exactly half an hour later and, red and slightly puffy, I spy a forlorn looking group scuffing about outside a building and recognize instantly the self-conscious book-reading and sky-gazing as that of
les étrangers. Thems be my people.
Only one year out of university and I had forgotten the strange nervousness that accompanies exams. Everyone naturally files along in hushed obedience, collects their exams and shyly finds a seat. The exam is simple enough... fill the gaps, des ou de kind of stuff. one section has vocabulary I a) dont know and b) can't guess (which is really my secret in conversational French) and so gets left out. Then, horror of horrors, the essay question.... 'tell us about about a difficult moment in your life'. Pardon? What, now? Mortifying. After ten minutes thinking about it, the only idea that came to mind was to write an account of having to hide my ex-husband's body or something, but the old vocab didn't stretch that far.
After the exam, I am waved over to speak to a woman who looks terrifyingly like my year 7 french teacher. Both have a unique talent in being able to downturn their mouths whilst simultaneously curling the top lip upwards. She abuses me a little bit
en francais ('You have many years learning french and you have forgotten it?') and then informs me I am to return on the 3rd to the same building at 9am. I get up to leave and then a thought occurs to me... ' you mean, my classes are here?' I ask in french.
'yes for the most part' she tells me. 'next'. And that's the end of that one.
A quick scan on the itinerary tells me that my group (four week intensive) is the only one subjected to this scenario. All other classes are at, you guessed it, La Sorbonne, or somewhere in 75005 which is, incidentally, the same post-code as my
appartement in Place Monge (see map). In fact, it is not incidental, it was a deliberate move on my part.
I am walking away from the classroom in the general direction of Les Jardins Luxembourg. I want to be at the actual university (stomp). I dont like that area (stomp). A little thunder cloud has gathered above my head. I am mad, mad,
mad! (stomp, stomp, stomp.) A 40p-a-minute call to Jonny is no help, he finds me cute when I am mad, which, frankly, is good fortune for him. I manage to stamp my way through les jardins and out the other side, having barely glanced to my left or right. There seem to be about fifty thousand children carefully deconstructing the damn place (forgive me, mother, it's the mood talking).
Those of you who have been to La Sorbonne will know exactly what I mean. Personally, I think it is one of the most beautiful universities in the world. The ten minute walk up and along the Pantheon is probably the most pleasant ten minutes of my life. The hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of pounds I've spent on this dream is money I would be loathe to part with to ransom some... no, most.... members of my family. I can see no way out of this, but I try to perk up by hoping the woman was a little drunk and mis-understood the questions. Then, no, this is unlikely. This may be Paris, but it is, after all, La Sorbonne.
On top of this, my map has apparently elected to only name one out of every five streets so now I am mad and lost.
Luckily, though, my feet have better memory than my head, and find their own way back, remembering to stop at a
boulangerie to pick up a baguette and before I know it, I am carving up tomatoes and goats cheese and arranging myself in my living room/bedroom. At first the radio plays the sort of jazz that makes you want to rip off your own skin and stuff it in your ears, but soon relents and plays me Django and un peu de Ella and
Every time You Say Goodbye, and I think: Things aren't so bad. Hell, I'm in Paris. Any country that drinks wine the way Americans drink juice is where I want to be.
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