crazywonderful

This is my French instructor, Stéphanie, closing the door after the break, right before the group photo, the final exercise and 20 minutes of Amélie, which has to be one of my favourite movies; I can still hardly stop smiling while watching it. It was a good end to a class that made me feel very much the same way – twice a week I have walked out and have barely been able to restrain myself from skipping to my car, practising trills, holding my mouth like I am going to say “oo” while saying “ee”, and generally being thrilled that I am finally, finally doing something about learning French. I can’t wait till the opportunity presents itself to insult someone by calling them a pumpkin. (Tu es vraiment un courge!) I did take French through Grade 12, and while I’m dismayed at how much has slipped away, I’m beyond grateful that I’m not starting from scratch. The thought of one day carrying on a semi-intelligent conversation with someone (en Français, bien sûr!) is the language equivalent of what visualizing my hair in a ponytail was when I was growing it out: the thing that keeps me moving through mortification toward what I believe I desperately want.
The only downside to the class: the gnawing avarice engendered by my recently-from-France instructor’s voice. If the devil had approached me any day after class and had offered me her accent (possibly throwing in her facility with the language) for my soul, I would have said, sans pause, “Take it, I don’t think I’ve ever used it anyway.”
I can’t wait for September.