Maybe It's Time To Go Home

Today had to be the low point of my time in Paris.  Where to begin?

Well, first of all, I'm getting sick, or am sick, or am fighting off sickness, I'm not quite sure which.  I've picked up Suzie's cold, which makes me feel like I'm running at fifty percent.  This morning I woke up and my throat felt like sandpaper and I wondered how I could possibly get out of bed.

But I did, and trundled off through the cold, dark morning, onto a painfully crowded Metro, to Boulevard Raspail, where I just started a new class with a new teacher and new students.  We were supposed to select a newspaper article to read and comment on, and I had done that, choosing an article about a proposed law that would increase the number of stores that can be open on Sunday, an issue that is big in France.  I was, of course, the first one called on, and it was almost as if I had never taken a French language course in my life.  The words would not come.  I was completely blocked.  I sounded like an idiot.  I felt like a fool.

Then later we were subjected to what I believe may be a uniquely French (or mostly French, or mostly European) treat, the "dictée."  The teacher reads something and the students have to write it down, getting the words and the spelling and the agreements correct.  Apparently this teacher has the practice of chosing someone each time to write his or hers on a transparency, to be corrected before the whole class.  Of course, I was chosen for this honor.  I didn't do too badly, maybe because I was writing so quickly that I didn't have time to think myself into errors.  Sadly, this was one of the two highlights of my day.

The second highlight was having lunch with Suzie and my son Andrew at the Alliance, a reminder of how great I have it right now.  I guess I should stop complaining, but I'm on a roll, so here we go again.

I had an appointment for a special phoentics/pronunciation workshop at 2:00 p.m., for which I requred a USB thumb drive, which I'd forgotten to bring with me, so I decided to to home and retrieve Suzie's.  Unfortunately, halfway through lunch, it had started to snow ... well, not really snow, but half-snow, a cold, miserable, steady half-snow, half-rain.  Although I always carry an umbrella in my bag, today I didn't have it, which meant that I had to walk through the miserable, cold half-snow, half-rain, feeling miserable because of a cold, without an umbrella, getting moderately soaked.  By the time I got home to the apartment I was thoroughly chilled.  But, I thought, I'll make some hot coffee and take a little break and also get my umbrella, so I'll be dry the rest of the day.

But when I stuck my hand in my pocket for my key, I realized I didn't have it ... I had given it to Suzie, because she was supposed to have been home before me.  So now I'm irritated in addition to being chilly, damp, and miserable, and still need a USB drive, which required a further walk through the cold half-snow, half-rain to the FNAC store where, I will note, I performed a trick I am often able to pull off, slowing down a line merely by standing in it, thanks to everyone in front of me having some problem or the other, which were all solved by the most chatty, talkative cashier in France.  But at least there I was warm, which was not the case once I ventured out again, another walk through the cold half-snow, half rain.  By the time I got to the Alliance, my hair was soaked, as was my nice leather jacket.

Finally, at 2:00 p.m., I presented myself for my appointment.  The woman in the office gave me a look combining irritation and puzzlement.  You were scheduled for 12:30, she said, you can see right here (showing me the schedule).  So I took out the card they gave me when I made the appointment for the workshop, which is, in fact, comprised of two sessions, an analysis session and a follow up session.  One would assume -- I assumed -- that the first date and time on the card was the first session, but no ... the second date and time on the card was the first session, a fact I just hadn't noticed.  And sure enough, the first session was scheduled for 12:30.  The woman said, I can't help you unless my next student doesn't show up, but we can at least try and begin the diagnostic; come over here.  So I did, and she proceeded to run my through a list of French vowels and accompanying sentences to test my pronunciation.

This, my friends, was ugly.  Very ugly.  It was a series of "well, you'll have to work on that," and "no, you've said the sounds backwards," and "that's typical of Anglophones," and "that's another thing to work on," until, finally, the last, most pathetic comment, "well, I don't think we have to go on to the consonants."  Ouch.  The paper she was marking on had a line for "overall evaluation"; I'm sure if she'd been honest, she'd have written "il n'y a pas d'espoir" or something to that effect.  (Google Translate is here for you non-francophones.)

At this point I was just about done.  Still cold, sick, run-down, and really, really tired of feeling incompetent all the time.  I've got seven years of post-secondary education at very fine universities, I have a responsible job, I am an intelligent, competent person, and right now I don't give two hoots and a damn if I can't say (or even hear very well) the difference between the two "a" sounds in "La patte dans la pâte!"  What the hell am I doing here, it's a lost cause anyway.

Maybe it's time to go home.