Last Friday, my dear laptop got taken away, forcing me to adopt a completely new lifestyle. Got used to checking mail just three times a day, picked up a book after six months (I actually read three novels over the weekend) and ended up going to the department on a Saturday to study.
So there I was, in the computer room of my department at 2 in the afternoon after a barbecue at a friend’s place, trying to study the method of conjugate gradients to minimize an n-d function; and I fell asleep. Yes, I fell asleep at the desk and started dreaming of strange things. What I dreamed of, I do not know; all I know is that I woke up with a start and said, I am going to the guillotine. And I was smiling.
Now, now, what would put such masochistic (sadistic?) ideas into my head? Why the guillotine? Or should I say, la guillotine? pourquoi?
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One of my three conquests this weekend was The Master and Margarita, a Russian novel. The book has a rather suave and charming Satan, who (hold your breath) speaks French.
It all fit together in an instant. The source of all sorrow in my life was French, I thought.
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My close friends know that my obsession with the French language actually predates related newly-acquired tastes such as wine, cheese and ah well, so on 
In fact, French (and France) has played many roles in my (seriously wanting) love life since the summer of ‘99: it’s been an excuse for much happiness and a site for revelations, a feast and a dirge. Sample this: some poignant (and also immaturely funny) words I wrote in my first blog ever on a sad (and landmark) evening in December 2003.
There are no signs, no rings that come back to you. Paris is just a hotel. Paris is just a laundry. Paris is just a city. Paris is a lot of things. But Paris is not a sign. Pairs are pairs . Things (and people) don’t always fall into neat little pairs.
Yet, I keep going back to French even though I keep trying to quit. (Well, I could also describe Diet Coke similarly). And now, the latest source of distress in my life is a French conversation class I am taking.
The first class:
Instructor (in French): What did you do for Spring Break?
Me (Beaming): I am going to France in June.
There are few (about five maybe, let’s leave those to another blog post) moments in my life that I have felt as stupid. I spent the next five days brushing up on all the French I had ever learnt, almost falling sick in the process. Have you tried saying ‘r’ the French way? Try it a hundred times and every pore in your throat and every inch of your tongue will be begging for amnesty.
Anyway, I had to make a presentation on French politics for today’s class. The problem with learning a language at this age is that your vocabulary can hardly do justice to your thoughts and you end up tripping and falling over the extra intellectual rope that you have. Yesterday was a mad scramble to get in touch with every French-speaking friend to do what Babelfish could not: give translations that make sense. Managed to put together some really corny slides at midnight and the stage was set for a minor disaster.
I decided to write this post before my French class, but didn’t have time to write it. And how things change in a few hours! The presentation went really well, I actually understood what people were saying and well, managed to say some spontaneous sentences right. Just when I was about to give up, I am hooked again. My tryst with French is not over yet.
