Spring Chicken

Pardon moi while I gloat. As the sun begins to set today, I just thought I should let you know how Madame Benz spent this warm, sunshine-filled day. As I limped to class this morning, it did not appear as it was going to be one of my more successful days as yesterday had left me bushed (please note: the acquisition of Reuilly was a positive one, but he is quite high maintenance—tucking him into his coozie was taxing!). However, as I rounded Rue de Fleurs off of Boulevard Raspail, and walked into my building, how quickly my pain and self-pity absolved. As I trudged to room 101, there sat Katherine and Stephane, two of my professors (the French word for teacher). They greeted me with a warm welcome, and I immediately launched into what I had been practicing last night and as I made the three-mile walk this morning. This was more to prove to myself that on the other side of the fence, as the etudiante, that I was not as moronic as I may have appeared yesterday.

Let’s rewind to yesterday, where I was one of five French newbies (sitting amongst four professors). Stephane wasted no time before we were up on our feet, role playing with what broken, horrific French skills we brought to the table. No one told me I was going to have to pay attention AND retain throughout the duration of the class, and as I was singled out as “professor” during one of the last mini-units, my five minute attention span had run out a long time ago. So, I tried to quickly digest my notes, and up I popped. As I stood next to the too-familiar chalk board, chalk in hand, I started to do what I knew all too well: fake it. For me, feeling comfortable in front of strangers while having no idea what you I am doing, comes way too naturally. So, I stood there, smiling, the token AmeriCAN, and waited for some audience assistance. Once I had mastered, “Comment vous vous appelez?,” I was onto the next hurdle; “Can you spell that please?” It simply wouldn’t stick, until I pulled out one of my old studying tricks: associate the word with an image you are familiar with. As luck would have it, mid-grapple, the epiphany came. Epeler (the way I say it), sounds like poulet (chicken in French). As I came about this discovery, and had annoyed the class for the umpteenth time by forgetting the sentence, I acted out my discovery by flapping out my arms like a chicken. Apparently that is the universal sign for moron, as all members of my class, each a different nationality, stared at me then broke out into laughter. This morning I was greeted by Katherine with a “Bonjour Ashley” and a flap of her wings. I am making America very proud over here.

I did try to make up for it today by hosting the best cocktail party yet that room 101 at the Alliance Francaise has ever seen. As we are still learning introductions, and today specifically how to “present” one another, Stephane had us attend a formel cocktail party in the middle of the room. As I carefully made my introductions (since yesterday I had called Cihan from Turkey the very wrong name of “G-had”), I also felt it necessary to hand out imaginary vodkas. I am not sure if the class wants more of this Ash-lay from America, or wants me to take my poulet and imaginary vodka and take a running leap off of the Eiffel Tower. By the way, Je m’appelle Ashley. Ju suis Americaine. Je vous presente Reuilly Diderot. Il est amphibian. No vodka for fish, though.

And, speaking of cocktails, it just so happened that I had a lovely bottle of white vino with my friend Carolyn this afternoon, sitting at a café (Le Saint Medard) in the 6^th arrondisment. We were parched after a casual stroll through the Luxemburg Gardens and then shopping on the cobble-stoned Rue Mouetard. The sun was beating down on my body, red Wayfarers were on, and life was good. This was the first time since my arrival here that I could feel the warmth of the sun permeating my clothes, and it was both a ray of sun, and a ray of hope.

On my way home, as I came upon a Polish grocery store nestled away on a side street near my flat, I went in to explore (in the hopes that the Polish are smart enough to have pre-made icing like the Americans---they are not), and walked away empty-handed after contemplating the purchase of a fresh pickle and jelly beans (more like misshapen bean knock-offs). But as I sit here and sip my tea, chat with Reuilly, and watch Matt on his work conference call (making sure he does not get pen on the new bedspread), I am feeling a sense of contentment. I am learning French in a breathtaking city (Paris looks damn good in the sun with the green starting to peek its head out), there are fresh muffins sitting in the kitchen as a result of my new silicone tins and mastering the micro/oven, and my calendar is full. Full of excitement, full of new friends, and full with my new life here in Paris. Friends, Romans, countrymen, and cyberspace, lend me your ears. Je m’appelle Ashley Benz, je habite a Paris, and I think I am starting to like it.