Pont-crossing

Breakthrough. Cet apres-midi, after a walk through the river-side outdoor market and a small picnic lunch, some classmates and I crossed a footbridge. As the day was gray, but less cold, and we were jolly and on a bridge, the thing to do was take a photo together. We asked a passing duo to do the favor.

As it happened, the female half of the pair, Mercedez, was from Spain, here visiting her friend Tomas.

Upon learning that Mercedez came from Madrid, I got excited. I'd spent my first two days in Lyon inserting Castellano-Spanish words into my attempts at communication in French. [My brain: Sorry. You can't find the French word. Would you like to resort to default foreign language?] So at this juncture, I'm sure I lit up. Golly wizard! I thought. Someone I can converse with, sans hesitations and free of oohms! [Oohm is the thing I say when I want to buy time. 'Oohm.' With a bit of 'nase.' It sounds very French, I tell myself. Totally legitimate.]

To convey my delight vocally to Mercedez, I burst out - Ah cool! I lived in Madrid. I like it very much! -

But the words that I thought would spill forth like Spanish Extra Virgin Olive Oil instead tumbled out in Euro-interlingual chaos. Spanish cheese or French ham. [A strange complementary mix: okay, but not quite as good.] To Mercedez, I said the equivalent of - Oh, tres cool! Je was la during une semester. Il liked it tres bien!

Phew.

Reader, you're confused. It's cool; I was confused too. At first. But here's my point, and maybe a note of comfort for anyone who wants to learn to speak a new foreign language in their early 20s: as Mercedez and I shared a more fluid conversation, I was thrilled to realize that my default foreign language has finally been upset! I wasn't falling back on Spanish, or even English as easily; I've become accustomed to working to find the French!

This seems to mean I can't resort to Spanish anymore, and I have to be intentional about switching accents and vocabulary. It means things won't be so simple. But it also means that French is a contender.

Some of this beautiful language is sticking. It stuck to my shoe, as we left Mercedez and Tomas and crossed to the other end of the footbridge.