I think I've become a bit of a Google junkie these days. Every day I rush home from work and the first thing I do is run to my computer and type in any random word that pops into my head, followed by: NYC, and something new and interesting to experience will always catch my eye. The other day, that's exactly what I did. I don't remember what I typed in, but I came across an event called Bastille Day, or French National Day, an occasion that just so happened to be celebrated in the city this coming Sunday. Whatever this event was, I hadn't missed it and it was being held on the Upper East Side all afternoon. Curious, I clicked on the subject and found that it was a day in which the French celebrate the anniversary of the storming of the fortress-prison called Bastille that happened in 1789. Wow, I thought. I wonder who was in that prison that was so important it started a revolution? Apparently, after doing some further investigations on this storming, there were only seven inmates imprisoned at the time, for nothing more than some arbitrary actions and judgments that could not be appealed. And in the battle, there was only one defender that died against ninety-eight attackers! Either this unfortunate defender was as big as Goliath or those ninety-eight attackers were a bunch of pansies wearing berets too big for their heads. I kind of felt bad for that poor guy who had to face ninety-eight attackers. I'm sure he was just doing his job. I bet he wished he called in sick that day.
To my great surprise, the Bastille festival was also a day that celebrated the best of what France had to offer in New York City. Brilliant! I thought. I don't know very much about France, other than it's a country in Europe and the stereotype that they were considered a class of uptight people. If this was true, I wanted to know for sure. If this was a false accusation, I wanted to be able to correct the assumption and vindicate these poor misunderstood people of France. Also, I wanted to participate in those wine and cheese tastings and free French classes they mentioned on the website. If it's free, it's for me.
When I finally reached to the Upper East Side, three trains later, I stumbled through the myriad of people walking shoulder to shoulder trying not to step on little French children or their tiny dogs. As I passed the tents stationed along both sides of the street, my eyes were on the hunt for the fi:af (French Institute: Alliance Française) awning so that I could sign up for a free thirty-minute French lessons they were offering. Realistically, I knew I wasn't going to learn much of anything in thirty minutes but I wanted to try it out and hoped to walk away with something more than I was going in with. Also, who doesn't like the sound of the French language? Even if I never understand it, I still love the strange sounds and faces they make when forming the words that are so foreign to the rest of the Latin based languages.
Drooling past the tents grilling crepes and selling freshly baked tarts, I finally found the one I was looking for. How could I have missed it? There were so many blue, white and red balloons tied around it, I was surprised it didn't take flight. When I found a space I could slide into so that I could sign up for the next class, the girl under the tent asked me what level I wanted to enlist in. Shamefully, I responded that I would take on the beginner's class because I had no clue how to speak any French, other than the universally known: yes, thank you, very well, and, do you speak French? And, whenever I would utter these few words in response to a French person speaking to me, they would usually get excited, for French people, assuming I knew the language and start spewing their fancy words at me and I'd find myself ducking away in a fluster, pretending I had something else to attend to while I hid in a corner until they went away or bombarded someone else with their questions. I'm not sure if the girl under the tent heard me or not but she began to point at the classes that involved learning dialogue for shopping and ordering food at a restaurant. I looked at her in horror, imagining myself having to jump into dialogue about shopping in front of a class when I didn't have a clue how to even introduce myself, let alone how to ask for a dress size or how much something costs. I don't even like shopping. Why would I go all the way to France to do it when I it's like pulling teeth to do it in my native country? When the girl turned away for a moment to answer someone's question behind me, I caught sight of the class I was hoping for at the bottom of the list, basic French for beginners. Oui! When the girl turned back to me I pointed to the class I wanted and I got the bewildered shame-face look from her I was dreading. I know, I know...go ahead...make the same assumption most foreigners make, like many of the immigrants I grew up with and the one's that live all around my neighborhood. The thoughts were there, rolling around in her head. I could see it in the slight roll of her eyes and shake of her head...Another ignorant American wasting our time. I don't think she could fathom that anyone would actually need to take THAT class. Doesn't EVERYONE know some basic French?
Hey missy, at least I'm willing to try here. And I do know more than one language. So keep your nose down and give me a break already. Unfortunately, the beginner's class wasn't for another two hours and I had some time to kill. So, I went about to explore the other tents and entertainment they had arranged throughout the day.
As I walked towards the main stage, set up about two blocks away, to watch the can-can dancers and The Hungry March band, I think I saw more strips than I've seen since visiting Santa's village at Macy's during Christmas week. Those French can certainly pull it off with those long, slender bodies though. Unfortunately, there were a few people who could have done without the striped sailor shirts. They must have been American, I speculate. We tend to get a bit glutinous with our eating habits and those horizontal strips don't do so well in hiding that misdeed. While I watched the dancers and the band play their jazzy tunes, I enjoyed watching the crowd buzzing around me from the side of the stage. The seen was a melting pot of all cultures. Those that I presumed were not French, enjoyed the festivities in awe like myself, and those who were, seemed relaxed, basking in a reverie of days bygone and pride for their heritage. It was just as delightful for me to observe this, as I was sure they felt. I absolutely love how New York City will celebrate a day for every country, big or small, that wishes to celebrate it. There is room for everyone here. As happy as the French were today, I was proud to say that I was born in this country that has adopted so many men and women who needed a home to go to when things were not going so well with their motherlands.
When it was about time to go to class, I made my way back to the fi:af tent to meet with the group that would be joining me, apparently, in the company of a mime that decided I needed an escort. I didn't realize I had a new friend in tow until I noticed the crowd in front of me staring in my direction. Suddenly uneasy with the attention I didn't understand from where it was coming from I thought I might have had something dripping from my nose or a giant bug on my head, but when everyone started to giggle I looked to my side and saw, to my great relief, it was a mischievous mime mimicking my stupid grin and bouncy step. She stopped just as I turned her way and the crowd roared with laughter. Wonderful. So glad I'm the source of everyone's amusement. When she saw that her act was exposed, she turned to me, beamed a toothy grin and bowed before me like a jester at a royal court. And just as fluidly, she turned away and tailgated another unsuspecting bystander on their trek down the street.
Once everyone was settled in the tiny classroom inside the fi:af building, our teacher immediately began her introduction...in French. Everything she said from that moment on was...in French. If you didn't have at least a basic understanding of the language, you were lost. I thought this class was for BEGINNERS! Maybe it was because of my fluency in Portuguese, which is also a romance language, I was able to understand more or less what she was saying. Or, maybe it was the adrenaline coursing through my veins from the anxiety I was feeling when she started to call on people to introduce themselves that might have triggered some hidden potential in the left side of my brain. Suddenly, I was tapping into some sort of subconscious overdrive and once it was my turn to introduce myself it just rolled off of my tongue with an intelligent introduction like I was a French maid from Bordeaux. I did it! Yay me! That was it though. I had depleted all of my resources in that one exercise. Although able to understand everything she was saying, from that point on I had nothing left to help me articulate any further conversation. I sounded like I was gaging on a petit four after that. It didn't help that the two girls on either side of me, who were clearly NOT beginners, were rambling their French banter in my ears to each other. I wanted to knock their heads together every time they opened their mouths to talk. What are you doing in my class! Go learn how to shop instead and leave me to learn how to say my alphabet in French without feeling like I should be in special needs! Note to self: learn how to say..."take a hike" in French.
When the class was over, I was glad to be out, breathing pungent New York air again. Although the class was a challenge, I was happy that I had participated, even if it only revealed to myself just how ignorant I really was. This realization has now lit a fire in me to slap French lessons onto my bucket list for the future. It might be a little while before I can revert all of my energy into it, but I'll be sure to attack that language with a vengeance as soon as I could. My brain was fried by the end of those thirty minutes but it was nothing I couldn't handle with the help of some good vin and cheese from the different regions and Abbey's of France. The oncoming rain told me it was time to leave Bastille Day behind, but not without a fresh baguette that climbed over two feet tall, a bottle of Beaujolais wine and a bag full of Port Salut (my new favorite cheese), Brie and some of the stinkiest cheeses you could find this side of France. I must have smelled as good as the homeless woman sitting at the other end of the train because I got a seat and the one beside me, in a car that was packed with standing passengers, all to myself.
At home, I opened my new bottle of wine, put my feet up on the coffee table and slid a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo (in the French track) into the DVD player. Sipping the sweet purple liquid I lolled in the façade of being French for the remainder of the day and listened to the murmurs of a language that sounds much better when Jim Caveizel delivered it than I had gargled just two hours prior. Maybe if I listened to it long enough, I could pick it up...eventually.
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