Lucky Break

Everyone thinks I'm crazy for doing what I'm doing. When I first
told my mom of my grand plan to fly to France, she seemed pretty
excited about it, and I savored that initial reaction because I knew it
wouldn't last. I was right. As soon as she realized I was serious, her
eyes did that thing where they widen and show a full centimeter of
white eyeball around the perimeter of each iris. That can't be healthy.
I'll bet she never dreamed I'd actually stick with this one until it
was really accomplished. It's typical that I'd choose to follow through
with this, as opposed to something slightly less expensive and more
practical, such as piano lessons or culinary school.
Initially, I'd thought that she'd be supportive of my decision,
considering her French background. It seems like a parent would want
her daughter to return to her roots, but apparently that isn't always
the case. Maybe she knows something I don't about her people. Maybe
it's a little too late to worry about that now, as I sit here with my
knees jammed into the seat in front of me, and an empty pack of some
woman's peanuts resting against my foot.
Judging by her watch, I'd say we have about 2 more hours until
landing, which is certainly my favorite part of any plane trip.
Excluding, of course, the periods of highly turbulent activity and the
times when this terribly thoughtful woman chooses to grace my nostrils
with the lovely garlic scent of her recently digested spaghetti dinner.
It's probably best to just settle back, close my eyes, take off these
stupid headphones, and get a little shut-eye before facing the mass of
sophisticated strangers I'm sure to encounter as soon as I set foot
outside the airport. It's good that I'm at least familiar with the
French term for "stupid American," so I'll know when I'm being
summoned.
I wonder if 3 semesters of classes were enough to get me through this
little adventure in one piece. It was only 6 weeks ago, but a lot can
be forgotten in a month and a half. Heck, I forgot an entire 4 year's
worth of Spanish within one uneventful summer, and Spanish was simple.
You can't get away from Spanish. There's that emaciated little dog
thing who's always running around spouting catch phrases, and there are
all those weather people who talk incessantly of el Nino, and I've
known how to count to ten in Spanish since before I could dress myself
properly, thanks to Maria and Luis teaching Elmo so very patiently
every day for the past 17 years. French is too complicated. You can't
just learn to speak it like the natives there. At least, I can't. When
they speak, it flows together prettily, all soft and blended and
graceful. They know what they're doing. When I try, I might as well
have marbles stuffed in my mouth, for all the hacking and spitting that
goes on. I can't even fake it.
Although I have to say, should I stumble upon an audition for the new,
and completely identical to the motion picture, rendition of Amelie,
that I will blow them away. I've never understood why I'm supposed to
feel some sort of embarrassment over the fact that I have the entire
movie memorized. It's one of those talents that might possibly come in
handy someday. It helped me to learn French, did it not? It inspired me
to travel halfway across the world for no justifiable reason, did it
not? Obviously, this is a movie with some power and is not to be messed
with.
It physically hurts me to imagine the dire road my life would
certainly have led me down, had I not completed that innocent
assignment in my Storymaking class just a few short years ago. I'd
probably be leading some boring existence, complete with a regular,
high-paying, sit down job in some skyscraper in New York City. I'd be
happily married to the poor guy I left last week, and pushing little
Johnny-Boy in the cart past the sugary cereal aisle as we speak, just
like I've done every Sunday afternoon for the past 7 months. Who knows
what kind of humdrum existence I would've cornered myself into if I
hadn't been instructed to enter that video store and blindly pull a
foreign film from that glorious metal shelf?
I know the very first thing I'll do when I get to my hotel room. I'm
going to write that professor, and I'm going to tell her exactly how
much that one assignment changed my life. I'm sure she'd love to know.
Who wouldn't want to take responsibility for such a successful evasion
of life's normally inevitable monotony? When I finish with that, I
can't forget to send little Johnny-Boy one of those miniature
chocolates they're supposed to sell here. Just in case he wants
something to remember his mommy by.