This all started with Mr. Mann’s foreign language class in 8th grade. My husband can blame him. I was introduced to Latin, Spanish and French so that all us “college bound” kids could make a selection about which language to pursue when we made it over to the “Big School” the following year. Latin made no sense to me. Why on earth would I study a language when there wasn’t anybody I would ever find with whom to have an exotic conversation? And Spanish… well truth be told, I just didn’t like the sound of the words, despite how much more logical it would have been given my end goal of finding people who spoke the language. So, for the sheer beauty factor alone, I chose French. Oh la la! Just call me the precursor to Fancy Nancy. (It’s just that “Fancy Erin” doesn’t flow as nicely.)
Fast forward a couple decades (yikes, does that make me sound ancient) and here we are. I have six years of language study, one three-week long stay in France, and comprehension of enough French to get me into a heap of trouble, because I can look and act like I know what’s being communicated when I really don’t have a flippin’ clue. So, of course the most logical thing to do is convince my husband (who doesn’t speak a lick of French) and my two children (who sing Frere Jacques and watch Muzzy, does that count?) to spend a year in France. A dream come true.
Ever notice how good dreams always work themselves out nicely in your sleep? A TV sitcom of your own subconscious making, they are short, entertaining, and the “problems” are always resolved by the end.
I’ve dreamed about this possibility for nearly twenty years. For sure, I am going into this with a nice strong grip on reality.
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