For my dad.

My dad's been reading my blog, and I get the impression that he's concerned I've forgotten how to laugh.  Never.  From whence does the aforementioned resilience come? ; )  I do in fact have quite a sense of humor, but it's...special, to be euphemistic.

It just so happens that I tend to feel that I write tragedy better than comedy, or at the very least, that I am not a highly motivated writer, and so I write only when I feel decidedly moved to do so, and this rarely happens when I'm laughing.

Nevertheless (Néanmoins - my French teacher was so impressed when I used this transition.) I've given it a go this morning.  Just because.  I don't love it.  Truly.  More thoughtful introspective posts to come, because that is why I write, and to tell you the naked truth, I don't really give a damn if you like it or not.  I don't write for you, I write for me.  When I write, I remember where I am.

But in light of this, perhaps you are right, and once in a while, it's good to acknowledge the ever present comedy lurking inside all of our tragedies.  Wes Anderson style. 

Voila:
 

I showed up to the local 'French Table' conversation group with nothing to lose. A rainy Friday night, at an old dive bar, complete with a marquee short a few lightbulbs. I liked it already.

When I walked in, I asked the maître d if he knew of a French conversation group that met there. He motioned to the bar, so I headed in that direction, but saw no one. Alas. I sat down, alone, and commenced looking at the wine list. At this point, sheets of rain slamming against the windows and a tough and leathery female bartender staring at me impatiently, I became acutely aware that I was perched on a barstool in a back room sparsely populated with a few others, all of whom outnumbered my years by at least a couple of decades, and I started to feel a wee bit unsure of myself.

But as those of of us who pay attention know, life almost always throws out a lifeline at precisely that moment- the one in which one finds herself in the middle of the ocean, having skipped swimming lessons. It's a neat trick. 

From a table across the room, with a balloon tied to one chair, a woman smiles at me and calls out. “Voudriez-vous parler Français?” Yes. Oui. Oui, oui, oui. I jump off my barstool- exaggerating the shortage of years that keeps me from fitting in, gaze gratefully at her, my lifeline, with a regard I'm almost certain makes her laugh inside, and head to the table.

Fast forward thirty minutes. I have managed to seat myself smack dab in the center of our motley crew. On my left, in the chair with the balloon, is a mousy looking, but charming woman who is preparing to move back to Amsterdam next Tuesday. She is the inventor of the 'Tipsy Tree,' a product she describes as a collapsible Christmas tree to be put over the top of a wine bottle. The patent is pending, but she is very concerned because others have already copied it. No joke. When she finds out I am an herbalist, we talk about herbal treatments for hot flashes, and she explains to me that pot is the best. She is drinking a strawberry daiquiri, and for that reason alone, I find her frivolity marvelous.

On my right is a muscled black man, with intense eyes and an intimidating jaw line. He writes crime novels, and he is drinking a scotch. I miss the start of the conversation where he is describing his first book, because I am learning about Tipsy Trees, but by the time I've turned back to it, he is on to a graphic description of a crime scene in which someone's head is smashed in against a sidewalk. I try to nod, appearing interested and intelligent, but I'm fairly certain my expression betrays me.

All of this, mind you, is happening in French, and it is this that matters. The evening was wonderful. I listened to, I conversed with, I marveled at real people, speaking real French. For better or worse, these people will be my partners in the months to come. C'est la vie.  And comme d'habitude, I love it.