Language School

Having still not found an occasion to use "My bitch is dirty" in conversation, I have enrolled in a language school in the hopes to learn more useful phrases. In the mornings I head to the closest metro stop--Saint Sulpice on the M4 line, a snaky magenta magenta ribbon on the metro map in my bag. I go wearing headphones so as to effect the casual aloofness of the regular commuters. I don't have any music on though--I want to hear all the French around me. I do my best to blend in, but I don't think I'm doing a very good job. For living in such a beautiful city famed for amazing food and wine, everyone on the morning train looks miserably bored, whereas I'm vibrating with excitement. I love school!!!

I make a quick change at Chatelet and emerge from underground at the Tuilerie stop. Right. In front of. The Louvre. Language Studies International (LSI) is just one block up and two blocks over from the most famous art museum in the world. I get to walk past it every single weekday. The very thought still baffles me.

The school is located in the Marais, a fancy arrondissement full of designer stores. On my short walk to class, I pass by Balenciaga, Stuart Weitzman, Miu Miu, and other impossibly expensive flagship designer boutiques. The beautiful shoes and clothes in the window displays just shout You're in Paris!

The LSI classrooms are housed in a small suite on the second floor of a mid-19th century building, just off the courtyard and past an immense archway, nestled between a Baldini boutique and a Kodak store. I don't know if the 52 stairs to the second story are old or just poorly engineered, but I hug the wall as I climb them every morning as they slant quite dramatically downwards towards the central support. No one else seems to be bothered by this structural irregularity, but I find it very hard to ignore. At any rate, it doesn't matter how tired I may be when I arrive for class as the frightening ascent makes me as jittery and alert as about 12 cups of coffee.

The first day, I am given a placement test to see what I already know. I know what you're thinking and no--there was no write-in portion where I could have used "My bitch is dirty." Unfortunately. I did, however, understand a surprising amount of the test, which was fortunate as I needed to place reasonably high to be able to start mid-October instead of having to wait for the new wave of beginners to arrive at the beginning of November.

I find French to be both easy and impossibly frustrating. As an English speaker who has previously studied two other Latin languages, written French is remarkably easy to understand; and, when spoken by a language teacher who is trying to speak as slowly and clearly as possible, spoken French is too. The reason it is so frustrating is that the vast disparity of ability between language comprehension and production causes what I call oral constipation. What I mean is, I understand a lot and I really want to produce an intelligible response to questions directed at me, but, as hard as I try, I just can't.

Quel est votre travail? the program director asks me. I know she's asking me about work. I know it! But what the heck do I say? Um...erm...j'etudie...les...languages? She looks at me quizzically and nods her head. Et pourquoi êtes-vous ici à Paris? Why am I in Paris? Um...let's see...I think DuoLingo at least taught me how to say 'husband.' Uhh...me...mari...job?

 Mercifully, she stops the interview part of the test early. I think I have done abysmally poorly, but it turns out I placed into a class that had already had 30 hours' worth of instruction. I'm not sure whether to be proud or terrified, but the director says that given my knowledge of other Latin-based languages that I'll be fine in the more intermediate class. And she's right. It's a perfect fit. 

I sit next to a friendly looking girl who I later discover is from Rio de Janeiro. Her name is Paloma, and she's here because her boyfriend whom she met in Rio six weeks ago has since returned to his home city of Paris, so she's quit her job to come live with him for three months and take French lessons. Ballsy. I like her already!

After class, she invites me to lunch with her friend Luciana (also from Rio), two students from Sweden, one from Finland, and another from the Philippines. We go to a bistro around the corner and set camp at a large, family-style table. The only common language among us is English and a little French, so that's how we converse. That's also how I discover that Paloma's English is very limited. There is an odd number of us, so she sits in the awkward spot across from an empty chair, her expressions vacillating between extreme concentration and polite boredom. I try to loop her into the conversation, but it's simply too loud in the restaurant.. 

So the following day when she invites me to come along with her to the Musee d'Orsay, I'm delighted for the opportunity to finally get to talk to her and know her better. It's much colder than it was forecasted to be today, with a cold rain and harsh wind. Only I brought an umbrella, so we're walk along huddled together underneath it, arm in arm like we're old friends. 

She tells me she would like to practice her English with me, only, in the interest of having enough words to have a good conversation, it's easier for her if I speak to her in Spanish. Spanish and Portuguese are extremely similar, so she understands what I say, and if she speaks slowly enough, I also usually get the gist of what she says in Portuguese when she's tired of trying in English or French. 

So that is how we manage to talk about ex-boyfriends, the traffic in Rio de Janeiro, and the weather in Paris. We get along like this splendidly for quite some time. Despite the cold and rain, there is a long line outside the Musee D'Orsay. We queue up with the throng and shuffle back and forth in the rope labyrinth the security staff has set up. After awhile, we notice that many people are starting to eavesdrop and stare at us curiously. It's only then that I realize I'm having a lot of difficulty keeping track of which language is which. 

Having just come from French class, being surrounded by French-speaking people, and Paloma and I being both at the same level in French and trying to use it as much as possible, we speak French whenever we can. I try to maintain talking to Paloma in Spanish, but sometimes I forget a word and only remember it in Italian, so then I'll subconsciously switch to a little Italian here and there. Paloma is still trying to speak to me in English--and sometimes I'll speak a little English back before I catch myself out--but sometimes she gets so frustrated that she can't express exactly what she's thinking that she'll switch to Portuguese. So no wonder people are eavesdropping! We're having a conversation simultaneously in English, French, Spanish, Italian, and Portuguese! By the end of the day, neither one of us can speak any language at all. 

We have a lovely time at the Museum. Neither one of us are particularly interested in the sculptures or religious paintings on the ground floor, and it's a relief not to have to feign interest. We both, however, love the building. The Musee d'Orsay is only a museum in its most recent incarnation. When it was originally built in 1898-1900, it was a railway station. It was used until 1939 when it's short platform design made it impractical for modern use. It sat empty for a number of years and was actually slated for demolition, which I can scarcely believe. The suggestion that the station be turned into a museum did not come along until the late 1970s, and it took quite some time to re-design the station's floor plan to be able to house large collections, but by the end of 1986, the Musee d'Orsay was home to the largest collection of impressionist works in the world. 

That exhibit, by the way, is impressive. It was actually too much to absorb. First, you walk into this building that is a work of art in and of itself. You pass through perfectly unassuming glass doors and are immediately swallowed up in the cavernous belly of the old railway station. The ceiling soars above you, adorned with incongruously delicate, ornate moldings. The face of an impossibly enormous clock stands sentry on the far wall, keeping watch over all the happenings in the main gallery. It's daunting, really. It's too much to absorb.

By the time I reach the impressionist gallery, my ability to appreciate beauty is significantly depleted. I've wanted to see Monet's "Haystacks" since I first saw it in an art book in sixth grade, and now that I'm in the same room with it, I practically gallop past it. It gets a little lost among the hordes of other equally famous works by Degas, Manet, and Sisley. I know that sounds terrible, but Paris will do that to you--wear you out with too much prettiness. 

Thankfully Paloma feels the same. We agree that we'll have to come back another day when our ability to appreciate the art is renewed. For the time being, we're content to look out at the Paris skyline from behind the glass face of the giant clock and ponder just how much life and beauty this building has been witness to, and how much life and beauty we too will see while we're here.