Which are both me. Yes, my English self had to let go of someone today. The guy was a hard worker, but his skills just didn't cut the Dijon mustard: my French self.
*Job opening: Now hiring a new French self. Required skills: fluency in French and ability to navigate French streets without GPS.*
I arrived in Montpellier last night and found my friend's apartment without any trouble. I'd like to say Montpellier is my second home. I found the souvenir shops I visited last year, and I ended up at my favorite cafe where resident poet Roch-Gerard was installed and reading the newspaper with his colleagues.
He asked how I was doing and how long I'd be in Montpellier this time, and I handled that fine. Then, I dove off the language cliff without shoes and hit the water with bare feet. With a year of intermediate French, I shouldn't expect to hold an intellectual conversation in French with a French poet. That's like taking one salsa class and going to a salsa club to show my stuff (yes, I've tried that, and let's say I need lots more salsa classes).
My English self was aghast, nay, dumbfounded, by my French self's bravado. What the Hell was my French self thinking? Sure, I could patch together strings of Latinate words and say them with a French accent in an attempt to convey BIG IDEAS ("immigration," "réaction"), but then came responses and questions that flew over my head like ducks fleeing a shotgun.
As with last year, when I first met Roch-Gerard, he and his colleagues were generous with their patience in hearing me out, but I lasted for only half an hour before cutting my losses and begging off to meet someone.
Next came the numbers snafu. I went into a gift shop looking for a t-shirt for my son. The shop keeper asked how old my son was, and my French self blurted out, "50!" So confident, and so "with-it." Yes, my son is actually my age, is was what my French self told the shop keeper. She must get this all the time -- English speakers victimized by their unreliable French selves -- because she immediately suggested sizes appropriate for a 15-year old.
"Quinze not cinquante!" my English self yelled inside my head across the great expanse that separates the two languages.
Chagrined, my French self tried to make up for things by guiding my English self home. My French self knows this town like his own backyard! I walked and walked until I realized I was seeing a blue tram pass by instead of an orange tram. I was supposed to be walking along the orange tram line. When I turned to an authoritative source - the satellite geo-positioning on my smartphone - I was off my a mile.
English self had had enough. He fired French self then and there. Now, I think I need to find an English-speaking psychotherapist in Montpellier.
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