LOST: My ability to speak French. Until yesterday, I was parlez vousing with the best of them (or at least, the best Americans who only studied French in high school). Now all that’s left is “Pardon, Madame,” “Ou est la bibliothèque?” and a few other phrases I’m pretty sure are pornographic.
Why do I care? So many reasons. The French Film Festival starts next week and the subtitles might be hard to read. I entered a sweepstakes where if I’m really lucky, I’ll win a two week trip to France. There’s a cute waiter at that new French restaurant and he seems to flirt more with women who flirt back en Francais. The labels at my favorite gourmet shop are all in French and I’d like to know what I’m buying before I spend the money.
I had my French with me until two days ago when I visited the river. You know the one, it’s by that converted warehouse that’s now a boutique hotel. I must have dropped the French when I sat down on the stone bench with the gargoyles. It was so light I didn’t feel it leave. I went back later and looked everywhere for it. I found rien (hey, that’s nothing in French!).
Please, if you find my French speaking ability, send it home. Without it, je suis desole.
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