Bonjour. Je m'appelle Melissa. Je suis de New York. Je suis étudiante en littérature. J'adore Dior? Et Les Misérables. Et fromage! Et cafe au lait avec un croissant chaud. J'aime mon petite chien. Ummm. Oue les toilettes? Bon voyage! Bon chance! Paris est très bien. Je n'es pas Frances. Comment allez vous? Voulez vous? S'il vu plaît? Sacre bleu! This is how I introduced myself to my French class this morning.
I just hope they're not intimidated by my incredible sophistication and brilliance.
Or perhaps they figured out that I know a few words and tried to string them all together to sound like a native Parisian, obviously.
My first French class this morning was straight out of a David Sedaris story (which I can't complain about, as the future female and funnier version of Mr. Sedaris.) Six of us, including my two creative writing professors, sat around a table with a young French woman who was brought in to teach us "Survival French." We went through a vocab list and had short conversations about famous historical figures, artists, and our lives. I said “oui” a lot and nodded my head.
Actually, it was a lot like this.
After an hour and a half, I learned pretty much everything I need to know to survive in Paris. Napoleon owned a chain of Marches, like supermarkets, and Simone de Beauvoir was a beaver. Or was called beaver. Either way, the innuendo doesn't translate in French, leaving our instructor to find cute pictures of beavers online and make her hands fold into cute paws while the rest of the class (professors included) giggled uncontrollably.
Although I am now fluent in French, somehow I misunderstood the teacher asking us to translate a book into French for Wednesday into “Go have fun in Paris!” Oops. C’est la vie!