For the fourth semester I took a modern French drama course. I couldn't stand the waste of time with the same prof. A good friend, who had French as her maternal tongue, loaned me her notes.
I translated them word for word as I did the readings. All went well until I had to write exam answers in French,
"WHAT are you DOING in this class?" the teacher asked.
I couldn't say, "I couldn't face another semester with the idiot professor. He was her friend.
She let me write in English and graded me on my knowledge. It was a good grade.
I then ignored French until I was in my late 40s. I spent 3 weeks in at the Académie Francaise in Toulouse and the wonderful teenager where I was staying with kept drilling me even making up additional lessons. But I had to return to the States where French was not a priority while my mother was dying.
I was lucky enough to get a job in Switzerland and my clients would be at least bilingual in English. The staff not only were mainly anglophone but also came from several countries with strange words for the same thing. I spoke French for the next 16 years with two gentlemen friends not at the same time, took lessons and was functional enough to get my Swiss nationality.
My boss at the company that hired me said I was too old to become fluent in French, something that made me want to do it all the more. When we met at a company reunion, he conceded I had done better than he expected.
In 2012, I remet the American who would become my husband. He is now fighting with French lessons and I feel his pain.
Still there are times I am totally flummoxed. At my hairdresser's we were chatting away in French when he started talking about Sankjay.
Sankjay?
Sankjay?
And it could be hazardous to my health.
I asked him to spell it.
5G. Cinq for five and the pronunciation of the letter G in French which is said J.
French will always leave me humble.
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