Vive la France!

Sometimes when eager Koreans approach me on the street, hopeful of practicing their English on me, I stare somewhat blankly, then answer in the most rapid French I can muster that, sorry, I don't speak English, I am only here visiting and, yes, I am from France. The eager Korean will lose a bit of their hopefulness, cock their head slightly and furrow their brow in an attempt to recall learning "je ne parle pas anglais" in their English classes. Realizing my ruse was unsuccessful in communicating the desired message, I grin sheepishly, make an "X" sign with my arms and say, "English, no." This either leads them into further confusion that a white person does not speak English and, more specifically, is not in Korea to teach English to every passerby, or, secondly, they will assume that I am Russian and am therefore a prostitute. This inevitably creates another problem, as I have no desire to sleep with Korean men. As fun as being propositioned is, I've found that it is better to discourage that assumption.

One may suspect that my French alter ego was created with the purpose of warding off talkative strangers, but that one would be wrong. The French Aubrey exists for the sole pleasure of the American Aubrey, who loves everything that is French. This adoration was not discovered until high school when I began French class with Madame Moryl, an all time favorite teacher. The first day of class included a speech on how everything sounds better when spoken in French. "Garbage can" became "le bidon de détritus." "Disease" is "la maladie." Even "to die" rolled mellifluously as "mourir." I was mesmerized. The alphabet, which has all the same letters as the English alphabet, even sounded better in French. And they had accents, like pretty decorations to dress up otherwise tame words. Yes, if France was a country that made talking sound so good, I knew it had to be a special place.

Time only deepened my admiration of everything that was French. As I began to have a rudimentary grasp of the language, conversing like an overgrown toddler with such observations as "the monkey is silly" or "there are many mice in the house," I began to become somewhat haughty . I took pleasure in turning up my nose at those in my class who butchered the language by clinging to the assumption that all languages should be yet another opportunity to reiterate that we are not of your country, we are AMERICAN, so we will talk however we please. They used pronunciation resembling a vagrant living in the hills of Arkansas and subsisting off of wild berries and gamey rabbits. "Jew mah pell David. Jeh vux uhn stile-oh." Only the truly sophisticated, I reasoned, could paint with their tongues the utter beauty of this sacred language. Thus proving my superiority over the other 14 year old Midwesterners in my class. This superiority soon spread to the entire American populace, not only those who had ever at one time taken a French class. No French phrases were exempt and I adopted a highly affected manner in pronouncing every French idiom borrowed by English speakers. "Haute couture." "Coup d'état." "Raison d'être ." "Bon appétit." I softly purred my 'r's and elevated my vowels. It is perhaps shocking that I didn't take up smoking and carrying wheels of Brie in my purse in an effort to feel more French.

My French world was nearly shattered in the move to Michigan when at my new school the French teacher seemed convinced that it was her sole responsibility to massacre the language with the American-ness she wore like a large red and white striped flag wrapped around her large frame, the stars against the blue background screaming, "We will not relent!" She opened the book in what was a laughable attempt to give instructions in French, reading loudly and shrilly. Other students sat uncomprehendingly; I soon discovered that they had little interest in learning this "irrelevant" language. Who, after all, needs to bother learning another language? Everyone else speaks English, anyway. Meanwhile, I huddled in the back corner of the room, rocking back and forth while pressing both hands firmly over my ears.

I suffered through a year of this joke of a class to discover that Rockford did not consider French important enough to be taught in the fourth year. Though I briefly considered befriending our French exchange student, he was (a) a boy and (b) popular, which were two characteristics that at that time effectively made me incapable of talking with him. I thus underwent a French fast until college. In college I resumed classes, but found that I had fallen far enough behind that the pretty words still sounded pretty, but not necessarily like words to me. That, and I decided early on that studying should not be my first priority while in school. Since a great part of learning a language is memorizing vocabulary, this proved to be a fatal combination. I lasted a year, then quit, convincing myself I needed to focus on what was relevant to my major and would just resume my French studies when I lived there someday.

My love of France was forced to become somewhat dormant, yet flared up again at such times as the wild popularity of the French film "Amelie" or the silly anti-French sentiment expressed most forcefully by Americans going to McDonalds to order "freedom fries." I continued to call them french fries with a nearly vengeful pleasure.

Then came the time when I had the opportunity to study in Russia for a month, taking a class entitled "Comparative Social Systems of Russia and the United States." Why not, I reasoned with some friends from the class, travel Europe for a bit afterward. This brought me to Paris. I floated through the city with angels serenading me on my pilgrimage to stand before all the famous landmarks of the city. La Basilique du Sacré-Cœur, Champs-Élysées, la Tour Eiffel, Notre-Dame, le Louvre. I could not conceive of heaven being any more beautiful than this. Best of all, everywhere we went I got to practice my French. Though unfortunately never able to point out silly monkies or mouse infested houses, I practically skipped with glee to ticket counters and nearly sang my orders at restaurants. I was always disappointed when my "je voudrais acheter un billet" was met with a placid, "You want a ticket? To where?" from the French clerk behind the counter. My friends tried unsuccessfully to convince me that it was better just to speak English with them; their English skills far exceeded my French abilities. I was shocked and disappointed. Truly, how profane. To suggest using English in France? I nearly abandoned them.

One evening, we met an American who was in Paris preparing for the year of university she would take in a smaller provincial town beginning that fall. Hitting it off, we all went to dinner together. Only she and I decided to explore the city afterward, my friends being too tired to walk more. The girl and I shared a similar love of France and I felt a deep affinity with her. On our walk, we soon met a nice Parisian man who offered to walk us around the city. We gladly accepted. The two of them were soon engaged in a meaningful conversation in French while I interjected with inane observations about the weather or food, the areas my speaking ability had become limited to. And yet I likely never had a better conversation in my life. Because it was in French.

In all my years of loving the country, however, I never actually knew any French people. It didn't matter. I loved them all, regardless of whether they hoped my country would break apart and, piece by piece, sink into the ocean. They could throw wine into my face and cast snobbish insults about my home or family. None of this would matter. I naturally genuflected to the greater culture. When I came back this year to Korea, however, I was told that we had a new member in the small group... and he was French. They said this without knowing of my fascination with the country and culture. Otherwise, they may have kept quiet. Directly I met him to inform him that he would be required to speak French with me. But he became my friend anyway. He even tolerates my pitiful attempts at conversation, yet quickly, I notice, switches us back to English. From time to time, possibly to keep me pacified, he compliments my ability in French. "It's really good! It's the same words over and over, but it's good." The last time that he told me my pronunciation was impressive, I grabbed his hand and professed that I would love him forever for that statement. But I lied. I will not remain friends because he compliments my French; this was merely a bonus. I will love him forever because he is French.