|(Photo Credit: Thomas Claveirole)|
There’s nothing I’d like to do more today than dip hunks of a crispy-crusted fresh baguette into a bubbling cheese fondue and wash it all down with a full-bodied red wine.
, you ask?
I don’t know. It could be because I’m busy at work getting estimates for translating a user manual from English to French, chatting with women named Simone and Mathilde and using phrases I haven’t uttered since taking French 101 as an elective my freshman year of college. While probably not wowed by my accent, they were no doubt impressed with my ability to ask, “Where is the train station?” and “How much is the room?” – even if they were a tad out of context.
Or, maybe it’s because we took the boys to see “Hugo” again last night (just one more time on the big screen). Seeing the sweeping panoramic vistas of the Parisian skyline, the interior of the train station brimming with flower carts, boulangeries selling freshly-made croissants and coffee shops, in which patrons are serenaded by skilled instrumentalists, had me clawing for my copy of Madame Bovary faster than you can say, “Je préfère être à Paris.”
Perhaps one day when I’m shoving a cart full of groceries though the parking lot in broad daylight, trying to remember where I parked and fretting over the fact that I’m about to let yet another day go by without working on my book, something magical will happen.
As I stand stranded in a sea of mini-vans and SUVs, a zippy Citroën will appear out of nowhere and pull up right in front of me. F. Scott Fitzgerald himself will open the door and wave me over to let me know that he just read my manuscript and thinks it’s the bees knees. He’ll then pull me into the suddenly expansive backseat, in between he and Zelda, inviting me to attend a Parisian party with them. She’ll hand me a gin and tonic and we’ll trash talk Hemingway’s attempt at literary grandeur all the way there.
It could happen.
In the meantime, I’ve got the “French Kiss” soundtrack on continuous play, blaring from the CD player speakers stacked on top of my refrigerator since eight this morning. By noon, I expect that my youngest will be able to do a mean air trumpet to Louis Armstrong’s solo on “La Vie en Rose”. And later, me and my enfants might just pop in Ratatouille, then wash down some grilled cheese sandwiches with sparkling grape juice.
C’est la vie…