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L’île de France

Friends,
Traveling to Paris as a non-French speaker, was a stark reminder of my reliance on language to do most everything. The “oh, crap” moment came before the ink was dry on my CDG passport stamp.The test: getting a metro ticket. After five minutes of fumbling through incomprehensible prompts, I was given a reprieve by the Union Jack icon that let me navigate my purchase in a language I could understand (albeit with the sporadic extraneous vowel and ‘s’ trying to pass for a ‘z’). I now know how helpless it can feel to be illiterate.

There’s a sense of being on the verge of comprehension, unable to cross the threshold, which aggravates when you’re surrounded by words you can almost make out. “Danger de mort” jumps out at me on a Metro sign I try to read. Following these dire instructions feels relevant in a city where so many were decapitated. A city where just this week a prime minister was ousted. Perhaps avoiding death can act as motivation to learn.

What few new words I did pick up were not those I would have expected. Words like quai, sortie and gare (street, exit and station). When I finally built up the courage to use a phrase I prepared, Parisians were ever so quick to repeat that word I butchered with the proper pronunciation (and an air of condescension reminiscent of a Southern “bless your heart”, if you know what I mean). Heaven forbid I try to order some beignets in French.

Despite my shortcomings, the experience was amazing. Impressive monuments, cozy cafes and a couple of palace museums that demonstrate what too much of a good thing actually looks like.

Au revoir to Paris and a happy Friday to all!​


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