Girl in the Black Beret

Le Français.

Posted in Uncategorized by la vie de emie on December 14, 2009

Shall we begin with me emphasizing my love for the french language, culture, mannerisms, fashion and Paris itself.  It can be interpreted as a guilty pleasure I suppose, because no one truly knows to the extent it fills my heart with joy.  Besides my rather european- esque style, my ability to read and communicate in french quite well, and the large print of the eiffel towel that hangs above my bed, I hold these feelings in semi captivity.

As an English major, I always been told to write in my voice.  However, amongst the poetic and seemingly well-structured sentences I can create, I tend to by mistake add foreign phrases.  It is quite silly in fact.  Threaded in my thoughts and feelings are random French phrases.  Anyway, what is someone’s ‘voice,’ is it just their inner-consciousness? Je ne sais pas.  Such as how I think. Perhaps it is my subconscious reminding me that at one point in life I became engulfed by the Parisian culture and romanticism of their language.  Ten years of the French language and all I have to show for it are the bits and pieces that exist only in my mind at the most peculiar moments.  Last night I played a game of Scrabble with my family and I kept only coming up with french words. It was getting to the point of ridiculousness because I would have been a high scorer, if only my mother wasn’t a slave to the official rules.

The French. What is it about their sweet words that sound as if a poem is being rehearsed from their lips, or their innate ability to look ‘chic’ on a constant basis even if they haven’t showered in days? Their style gives the impression that it took them five minutes to put it together, yet looks effortlessly fabulous.

Sitting here in this corner coffee shop in a little historic village in New England, with the light jazz soothing my ears and the scent of cinnamon coffee beans at the tip of my nose, I find solace.  I can close my eyes and let the surrounding senses rouse inside of me. I let my mind drift to the quaint cafes of Paris’ Latin Quarter and butterflies fill my stomach.  The kind of unsettling feeling where I anticipate my someday return to the twinkling city with its winding Rues, and the otherwise forgotten realization that in this point in time, it is quite unattainable. Either way, my unwavering optimism leads me to shun the inability to accomplish anything in life. For now, I will visit it in my dreams.

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