Out of a trio of possibilities, I chose to study French when I was 13 years old. I took to it quickly and kept at it till college where I burned out after freshman year. Later I was called to serve a mission for my church in Bordeaux, France, so I recommitted. Afterwards I returned to college, took a few courses, and called it quits again. But it keeps coming back. Every few seasons I find myself in a situation where I'm using it again, and Tbilisi has been an intense season.
We chose to enroll our girls in the French school, and I chose to work there for the duration of our time in Georgia. With my children now speaking fluent French as well, I realize: I'm in it for the long haul. No more luxury of burning out or quitting, this French thing will be in my life now. Forever.
And, with nothing close to resolve, I feel ambivalence toward the language and everything connected to it.
This, oddly, is what I discovered on our family's long-anticipated trip to France.
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| In her third year of French education, well nigh time to have a go. |
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| We tried to fit in. |
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| Then settled on the tourist thing, |
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| which seemed to fit us better. |
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| We rented a dreamy abode, which immediately inspired everyone to wax artistic. |
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| Eldest daughter's rendering of father as artist. |
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| And we settled in to our place, |
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| by the sea. |
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