Yes, I wish to speak French. Again. For there was a time when I could mutter through a rough conversation in this lovely language.
But that was years ago.
I’ve since forgotten most of what I learned in my seven years of French studies. [That’s right. S-E-V-E-N.] I sat in French classes for seven years—two years in junior high (a French primer, of sorts), four years in high school, and one year in college—week-in, week-out, I was in the midst of this language. Fluent I was not, but I could read it well enough to comprehend the meaning and put together my thoughts together well enough to form simple sentences.
Now it has been many years, and French has faded from my accessible memory. It’s got me curious . . . how far down is it stuffed? How long would it take for me to access this bank of knowledge? Is this like riding a bike—I just need to get brave, gain my bearings, and start pedaling?
Well, I want to find out. And the best part is that my sister’s history with the French language mirrors mine. We have decided that once her youngest starts kindergarten in the fall, we will share the investment in a language-learning program and dig in together. That’s why I’ve added a twice-per-week French review to my MMM3 goals—this serves as my training wheels before braving the big-girl ride.
There is no end-goal for refreshing our language studies, resurrecting our French accents, and unpacking our long-stowed vocabulary and verb conjugations—except that it would be fun and good for our brains. Perhaps when we are old and gray we can meet weekly for tea to practice our conversational French; the two of us can chatter away in French, while her kids and grandkids marvel at their eccentric elders. Maybe we can travel to France and drink coffee at a sidewalk café and eat lots of bread and cheese.
And I think that’s reason enough.
[Post Title Disclaimer: I used an online language translator to arrive at this title because I could not remember the verb “to wish.” If it is utterly incorrect, please let me know!]