When You’re Tired of Speaking French, Go to Jim’s
Swirl, swirl, swig. My head hung down, I looked deep into my merlot. The late summer sun gave way to the lovely, lonely yellowish cast of street lamps. I sat hunched over, with my elbows on my knees, my fluted glass resting in my fingertips. I was still at the terrasse, and still drinking wine. Most people who noticed me, if anyone, surely thought I’d had one goblet too many. But I wasn’t drunk, I was tired.
I’m so fricking tired of not understanding anything! At best I vaguely get the gist of what’s being said. Especially if spoken at the usual Paris speed, which is to say, reallyfastyouthinktheyweren’tbreathing fast. And if it’s past 8 at night – whew, forget about it. It takes so much energy. I’m so frustrated by not being able to say simple things to strangers without great effort, or to tell my friends a story, or tell them a joke without having to explain why it’s funny. Gr. Sigh. Continue reading “When You’re Tired of Speaking French, Go to Jim’s”
