Oh, to be Prince Caspian, afloat upon the waves …

Here’s an interesting meditation. One of the things that has occurred to me is the difference between coming to a place like France and going somewhere, like, say, to India. In some ways, coming here is more difficult. What I mean is, if you go somewhere like India, you’re just so absurdly different. Your clothes, the color of your skin, the manner in which you comport yourself. Every facet of your existence confirms your separation. If you go to France, on the other hand, well … you look just like everybody else. Okay, fine; you’re probably less painfully fashionable. You wear too much North Face and bootcut denim for a native, and you probably don’t knot your scarf properly. But it’s one of the issues I think we all have with life here – that it’s too close to the same.

The same but not the same.

If you’re in India, you take your difference as read. Franchement, as the francais love to say. You know your life is going to be less than facile. Of course one doesn’t speak the language. Of course everything looks / tastes / smells / sounds bizarre. Of course one feels the continual buffoon.

It would be cool if I could learn French to Schoolhouse Rock. Right? A squat little cartoon Napoleon in a tricornered hat and epaulets, with his hand tucked between the gold buttons of his coat (although I don’t know if he would ride a huge white horse or a donkey in the cartoon version), who would teach me, through a catchy and cunning song about some glorious victory, when to use the imparfait and when the passe compose. Or a troop of charming student revolutionaries who would take me on a tour of Paris to illustrate the difference between quel and lequel, or celui-ci and celui-la, or the impenetrable prepositional mélange that is dans, en, a, de, pour, and par. (Throw in vers, envers, and the difference between sur, au-dessus de, sous, and au-dessous de, add some champignons, and you have a recipe for a French aneurism.)

I’m sure my grammar teacher (who is without exception the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in person and who, I am convinced, never says anything that isn’t accurate) would not agree with me, but French prepositions prove that there are some things about languages that work just because they do. It’s the same thing we’d say about English – uh, I’m not sure why you say it that way. It just sounds right.