A is for Apple

Stop the press and buckle your seat belts. As I write this I have recently become a *gulp* qualified English as a Foreign Language teacher.

Now let me be frank. I have always greatly admired and been in awe of people who can speak more than one language fluently, but it has only recently struck me just how lucky I am that my native language is English.

Not being one of the bilingual set despite being a mad keen traveller, I decided teaching English during my year of craziness would be the best way for me to earn a crust of bread in France - yes I'm aware a more intelligent person would have relocated to a country where they speak the language - but I have 2 words in return for you: wine and cheese!

In simple terms I can look forward to spending about 20 hours each week attempting to teach the ridiculousness of the English language - both written and spoken to equally unwitting students.
And my god, if I had to attempt to comprehend the why's and wherefores of some of the inane rules English has I would slam the book shut and never open it again.

 But I can sympathise with my students due to my own wrestling with learning French. Throughout my travels I have always attempted to learn how to say at least 'hello', 'goodbye', 'please' and 'thank you' in the language of wherever I am, often resulting after a few weeks in a weird mish-mash of words bouncing around my head which tends to jumble up after a wine or two. But after a month here my few carefully learned French phrases aren't really cutting it and I am facing the prospect of actually knuckling down and learning French - something easier said than done as it turns out.

Hard at work in the classroom.

In complete contrast with the gruff reputation of Parisian's refusing to speak English it's actually becoming a common occurrence that The Boy's and my French questions and responses are greeted with amused giggles and English responses; in particular from the owner of my local brasserie who after three weeks of daily visits now greets my entrance into the cafe with the announcement of my regular order in English. Not quite what I expected but it does give me the warm and fuzzies. And there is always the saving grace of the friendly waiter at the same cafe who teaches both The Boy and I how to correctly ask for things and puts up with my halting French, complimenting me when it improves slowly.

But there are also days when I can have entire conversations in French or recognise the majority of words in the newspaper headlines on the news stands and I skip home, light hearted and singing inside.
There is the beginning of the faintest glimmer of light at the end of a very long tunnel.