Aide-toi et le ciel t'aidera (Heaven helps those who help themselves)

She adores the soft vowels and pursing lips. The sweet pastries that flake from buttery baking sheets to the paper they hand it to you in. The melodious way “cwass-ahnt” sounds tumbling out of her mouth. She adores the people: the snobbish ones, the childish ones, the glaring-on-the-metro ones, the fashionable ones, the ones who have no time for anyone, the ones with the sing-song-y southern accents, the smiley ones, the patisserie ones.

She loves the music with wacko lyrics that shout about thumbs and crack and the way their love looks at them across a room full of squares. Their movies are imaginative, and though they also have “comedie romantique” they also have a myriad of films that merge reality with absurd. Shots with a hint of independent film, but then matched with the dialogue of a Blockbuster hit.

Is “Blockbuster” even a term anymore?
Will the new term be a “Netflix hit?”

Their verbs are ridiculous and conjugating verbs in over 8 different variations is the most tedious exercise, but embracing this, to her, denotes true love. Because despite the absurdities posed avec le passé composé, and the attitude “etre” brings with it wherever it goes, she wouldn’t have it any other way. The pretention of the French and their constant disregard for the some rules while staunchly clinging to others is what makes them French. Yes, it’s the nude beaches, the berets, the baguettes, the wine, and, of course, the cheese. Yes, it’s the Eiffel tower, the rich history, the needy street vendors, the cafés, the accordions. 

Yes, it’s the little French maid outfits and garcon aprons. It’s Julia Child and escargot. It’s bike messengers and French kissing. It’s “Merde!” It’s Notre Dame. It’s Musee D’orsay. It’s Monet’s gardens and his Japanese bridges. It’s Marie Antoinette and “Let them eat cake!” It’s fabulous shopping and racy Vogue photo shoots. It’s the Sun King and lavish gardens that starve a nation. It’s an entire valley dedicated to castles. It’s the macaroons, the chausson au pomme and pain au chocolate. 


It’s cwass-ahnt. It’s the Charles de Gaulle, the Gare du Nord, Le Metro. It’s the floral countryside and legendary literature. It’s the cigarettes, the fur, the city lights. It’s the small towns, the neighborhood markets, the fresh produce. It’s the impeccable culinary dishes. It’s the soup with onion, the coq au vin, le crepe. It’s simplicity, it’s glamour. It’s exploration and pop stars that marry the president. It’s the geometric bushes and petite bulldogs. It’s Bastille day, it’s ballet shoes, it’s “vive la France!”

But amidst the stereotypes and love for sweets that melt on the tongue, is grammar and sweaty palms. The trembling the moment it’s your turn to utter “je suis…” It’s boldly speaking with vowels that don’t exist in your own alphabet. There are accents to scribble with an uncertain pen and lots of silent consonants. Hours spent agonizing over “miex” vs “Meilleur” vs “MERDE!”

Intonation, rhythm, understanding, comprehension, analyzation, writing, articulating, linguistic-ing, listening, trying, failing.

Next to a bucket list of adventures including sites to see, countries to live in, memories to be made, sits the lofty goal to master another language. To have the vocabulary and the stamina to relate to an entirely different variety of people who know a thing or two about nasally vowels.  This requires confidence, it requires failure. It requires a willingness to hear your own voice seduce another alphabet, write words never encountered before, Google countries you never thought you’d need to discover.