Let me recount for you, an incident that perfectly describes
my first week in France.
It is seven in the evening, the sun is still shining
brightly and keeping the air a balmy 75 degrees, the wind rustles through the
cherry trees and the pollen is attacking my face full force. As is customary
for family dinners in France, we are gathered around an outdoor table to have a
drink and snack just before dinner. Strawberry beers are opened and the family
is lounging around, laughing and conversing in an incoherent stream of nasally
vowel sounds.
I sit, gripping my tissue ready to once again wipe and blow
my nose, when a beer is opened. Previously shaken, the beer acts as beer does
and overflows over the bottle onto the table.
Looking directly into my eyes, as if eye contact can surpass
language barriers (let me tell you, it cannot) something is yelled in French.
The far end of the table is lifted up pushing the spilled beer into a central
location, keeping it from falling to the ground to only become an ant colony. I
believe it is my duty to lift up my end of the table if the beer comes drifting
my direction.
Apparently, I was wrong.
My role in that situation was to lift the table to pour the
beer off the end, which I later discovered after the initial frenzy quieted
down.
Nick, comical soul that he is, described the whole scenario
briefly; “Jessica! Do something in French!”
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