On seeking validation in random, meaningless French

Ever since I moved to Montreal two years ago, my personal worth has been inexorably tied to my French-life. It’s not a new story. The early 20s move to a new city, the people, the opportunity, the allure of a life with as much French as all the dubbed college movies you watched in your awkward teens, (Le Van Wilder, Maison Animaux, etc), when you were lucky to get any French at all. There’s a glamour to all the French. You grow up believing that how much you French is the benchmark of success for a young adult. More than that though, there’s a sense that these are the Frenchiest years of your life. That after you move away and grow up you aren’t going to have the chance to French with someone you meet in the library.

There’s a pressure to French. I look around and see everyone Frenching and no matter how many times I French it feels like everyone is Frenching more than me, better than me. Hardest of all is dealing with the failures. I meet her eyes and force what I hope is a confident ease into my ‘bonjour’. She smiles and asks me something, but I’m nervous, staring at her lips and everything seems to run together. I hesitate, mouth open, scrambling, and it’s over. The interest that flit behind her eyes a moment ago gone. She asks me again, but this time it’s “do you need a bag for that?” and it is so hollow. I walk away clutching the good cheese I splurged on. My mouth is dry, and tastes vaguely of sap. The man behind me, six inches taller, dark haired, olive skinned and sporting a manly three day stubble devoid of the bald patches that earned me the unoriginal nickname of “patches”, begins to speak to the cashier. His voice is like whole-kernel pepper being slow cracked over mom’s steaming baked casserole, like a Franco-FDR delivering a personal fireside chat. I don’t even notice when the plastic wrap bursts in my left hand; they’re Frenching the shit out of each other. Hours later I lay my head down to rest, but even after washing again and again I can smell the brie through my pillow and I remember and remember and remember.