A motley crue

I am thinking that the reason the French eat so much bread is because they need something to soak up all the red wine they are drinking. At least, this has become my excuse.

After two days of racing the 45-minute walk at a ridiculous pace to get to class every morning, arriving all sweaty and very-frizzy-haired, I finally got smart today and discovered that I could actually take the bus. For a mere 1 euro and a 10-minute ride, I was dropped off directly in front of the school this morning, arriving calm and relaxed and not sweaty, with plenty of time to sit and enjoy an espresso at the café across the street. That deserves a big fat “Duh.”

As for the French class, I can happily announce that it is great, and much better than the first class I was placed in on Monday. I am in a level that is probably over my head, but I really like the professor, Christine, and I appreciate the challenge that comes with struggling to keep up. I can pretty much understand most of what the professor is talking about, and I totally get the logic and concepts behind the different verb tenses we are studying: passé compose, imparfait, futur, conditonnel… With a whole lot of time and patience, I can construct a sentence on paper. Really, I can! But when it comes to actually speaking French out loud? Forget about it. I am hopeless. My pronunciation is dismal at best. I can’t seem to grasp the simple truth that “e” without an accent is pronounced “uh” and not “eh”. Seriously? But WHY? This stumps me to no end. It makes me cranky.

So I follow along and listen oh, so carefully, creating neat little verb conjugation tables in my notebook. But then I find myself starting to panic during class, wondering “oh my god, am I going to forget Spanish if I continue focusing on French? Is there enough room in my scattered brain for more than one foreign language? Should I stop now and run, all the way to Espagne, to practice and study Spanish so it doesn’t leave me cold and alone?” So then I start trying to think and translate everything we are learning into Spanish, and I can’t remember all that great vocabulary that I once knew so well, and I stop paying attention to the French happening around me, and then I realize I am not paying attention, and, well, I begin to panic. It’s ridiculous.

Meanwhile, the 20-ish year old “too cool for himself” wanna-be stoner/snowboarder/rap star kid sitting across from me can’t sit still, and is once again air-drumming on the table and kind of swaying in his seat to whatever song is playing in his head. He starts singing that song out loud in a voice with just enough volume to be really annoying. The disruption snaps me back from my Spanish-induced reverie, and I start to wonder… What is it with kids these days? Why do they all act so totally warped? And why do they all seem to have ADD?

And then I start to wonder…. Am I seriously old enough to be thinking this way? Um…. YES.

For the most part though, the students in this class are a huge improvement over the last. This posse of not-quite-20-somethings are all American and are all, like, really good friends. Most of the time their facial expressions ooze utter boredom, and despite being obviously smart and good with the language, they seem to lack interest in anything other than their endless stream of “Oh My God Like Totally He Said That? No WAY!” gossip girl chatter and talking about their next “kegger”. But at least they are easily shushed and brought back to attention by the professor. I give this woman credit for trying. And I crack up as the Valley Girl accent so prevalent amongst them all seeps in as they speak French: “Like…. Coh Moh Tail-ay VUH-oooh?”

I am so cruel.

So besides the professor, and the entertainment this motley crue provides, the only saving grace in this class is a woman closer to my age. She is extremely cool and has been really friendly toward me. (I should say that all the students are very friendly. But this is someone I would probably hang out with if I were here longer.) She has possibly the coolest job of any woman I know, apart from my perfumer friend in NYC (“The Nose”) . At the very impressive age of 30, my classmate is the captain - yes, the CAPTAIN - of a 105-foot boat (would this be a yacht, technically?) anchored in the Cannes harbor. She quite literally “runs the ship” that is this floating 5-star paradise, owned by some very wealthy guy whose identity I will not know. I mean, can it get any cooler than that? I think not.

I am now chilling at the practically empty Café Rotonde, just blocks away from the apartment, drinking a glass of vin rouge and listening to French pop music blaring out of the speakers. It took nearly a week, but I am starting to get very comfortable living in this strange little town, and starting to think I could and should stay and study French longer at the school.

If only….

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