French – Page 2 – European Trophy Wife no More

I am concerned about my husband. He spends hours upon hours in front of the computer on sites I deem to be unhealthy for him. He is drawn, fascinated, obsessed, speaking unspeakable words and sentences to his computer, unspeakable by virtue of the fact IT’S A FOREIGN LANGUAGE, to the cyber people of Duo Lingo.

Yes, we walk to our French class every Monday and Wednesday evening, spending one hour and 15 minutes with our comrades from Greece and Poland and Romania and Norway, who are not nearly as desperate to learn French as my husband, but to whom the accent and conjugations tend to come more easily. Our French teacher is patient and encouraging yet challenging–in our comprehension, both spoken and written, and our expression. Unlike Mark, I have no dream of being fluent in French. I simply want to be able to converse in what my expat friend Pat called, “Tarzan French–” a simple subject and verb, whether the right conjugation or not, would please me. Mark, ever the scientist, calculates the hours he’s spent and will need to spend in order to participate in a complicated discussion in the language that’s so beautiful when someone else speaks it.

When we were in the U.S. for the holidays, I discovered a book by William Alexander titled Flirting with French: How a Language Charmed Me, Seduced Me and Nearly Broke My Heart. It’s the memoir of a 57 year old man struggling to learn the language, and his wife, a natural francophone, which frustrates the author. I presented the book to my husband, desperately hoping it might transform his dream into a more pragmatic goal, but I fear the opposite has occurred.

So this morning, as I’m enjoying reading the last of The Elegance of the Hedgehog and the peace of a rainy Saturday morning, that reverie is punctuated by a man’s voice, my husband’s voice, saying “êtes vous franc?” over and over, faster, slower, with a lilt, then finally yelling the phrase with an aside of “this is driving me crazy,” as the Duo Lingo gods refused to accept his offering of the phrase as correct. (It’s truly driving me crazy, too). Mark calls me into his study, sure he will prove there’s a technical issue with the microphone when he asks me to repeat the question. “Êtes vous franc?” I say. “Ding,” says Duo Lingo. “You’re kidding,” says my dear husband. Hmmm….usually in our case, life imitating art refers to a cartoon (think Spongebob Squarepants or Bob’s Burgers), but Mr. Alexander’s life definitely parallels our skewed life here in Luxembourg!

I’m writing this as I sit on a…wait for it, because it was 10 minutes late…a bus! I’m on my way to meet some ladies for a cinema matinee. My hope was that an American movie would provide for me the inspiration and motivation I needed to hop on the bus. Returning home to our almost cozy apartment will give me the guts to get back on! As I waited for the bus, a pretty, older woman who was also waiting asked me a question, in French, of course. I understood! I was able to tell her, in French, that this would be my premiere bus ride, that indeed, but number deux cent vingt deux was en retard; we had a short dialogue all in French. We communicated, and just like that, one of the cultural limitations here was conquered (or at least encountered without my stammering “Je suis Americaine,” and running away). A second chain of culture was bent when I stepped up on the bus. These two little things truly bolstered my confidence and my courage.

Yesterday, Mark suggested I drive him to work, since I had my (first) hair appointment and the need to have a document notarized. As we were making our way toward Mark’s office early yesterday morning, seeing the sign, “Belgique 8 min” amazed me all over again. When I drove to the other side of the city, I saw the sign pointing to Germany. And we’ve been to France a few times since we arrived. So there was something special to me about arranging my errand for the notary, since I had to go to the US Embassy. What I was expecting when I saw the American flag waving on the property behind the barriers was maybe a warm welcome, a bit of small talk, a little “where are you from?” and “how about Donald and Hillary?” As my bag was being searched and I was escorted by uniformed men who were not American, I realized the folly of my fantasy. However, kindness was indeed employed on both sides, and, for a large fee of 50 US dollars, my document was notarized. In one day, I drove solo through the narrow, busy streets of the city, drove on the highway, went through many roundabouts, paid for parking in a lot and parking on the street, prayed (as my hair was processing) my car wouldn’t be towed due to an expired parking pass, and visited a tiny little bit of my country.

That was yesterday. Today? Good thing I got that conversation and bus thing going, because I’m going to have to do it all again next Friday–I was a week early for the movie!