In My Quest to Remain Tri-Lingual...

One of my life goals is to be able to speak the Romance languages. As it is, to date, I speak three languages, two of which are Romance languages: English, Spanish and French. Even if I never meet the goal of learning Italian, Portuguese and Romanian, I'd like to retain my tri-lingual talent instead of having it bite the dust.

Thanks to living in a Latino-megalopolis like Miami, I am confident that my Spanish-speaking abilities remain fluent and the only things that I truly need to brush up on are where to place accent marks on syllables and how to conjugate verbs with "vosotros" instead of "nosotros" and remember that "vos" is equivalent to "usted." Perhaps, as a means to make my Spanish more authentic, I should consider changing my relatively standard American accent to sound more Cuban when I speak in English.

Hm. Maybe not.

As for my French language skills...well, much like my cartooning skills, they've diminished. More specifically, my ability to carry a conversation fluently has atrophied.

I came about this realization when I discovered my new cell phone's capacity to record. Like any curious individual faced with technology, I tried it out the recording function and spoke to my phone in French.

A few words in and I was at a loss of vocabulary. I found myself grasping in the back of my memory to remember basic words like enregistrer (to record) and avoir quitté (to have left). No one in my area speaks French so it shouldn't have come as a total surprise to me. And yet, my little francophile self was very, very alarmed by the egregious change.

I am certain that my reading and oral comprehension have remained on a similar level and that, thanks to the recording, my pronunciation hasn't worsened; that in itself is an achievement when I consider that fact that I live in an area that is predominantly non-French-speaking.

Still, I am not one to give up without a fight. If I needed to raise my level to my former francophone glory, then so be it. I began to re-watch some of my favorite, albeit depressive, French movies to refine my oral comprehension...

...which had the inevitable side-effect of tugging at my heartstrings and warping my general worldview. 

Getting a bit fed up with having my tear ducts drained every time I re-watched Au Revoir Les Enfants and Les Choristes and wondering why the best French films never had particularly happy endings, I decided to embark on another pedagogic strategy. With the help of French Trainer Barb (who is totally different from regular Trainer Barb), I delved into a different strategy of coaxing the hidden vocabulary by stating basic sentences that described the things I saw.

If I made a mistake, French Trainer Barb would waste no time in correcting me.

*Ah, ah, ah. The "douchebag" insult doesn't exist in French. One would say "a cretin" or "an idiot" instead.

*In fact, the French word for "douchebag" is (literally) "a vaginal pear." (I am so not making this up.)

French Trainer Barb also recommended that I listen to great French music, like Daft Punk.



Yes, listening to Daft Punk and watching movies in a foreign language are a couple of  methods of maintaining fluency; reading is also a good one. However, the best way of performing the upkeep would be to, of course, face a real world situation in which I face the throngs of needing to fend for myself in a foreign country, a.k.a., immersion. A good example of immersion would be to return to France and thrust myself once again into a French-speaking world.

Which is exactly what I am going to do.

Last month, I got an e-mail that had been filtered into my Spam box. It was from a French high school principal who had kept my résumé when I had sent it to his school in early 2011. He offered me a job to teach both English and Spanish full-time for the upcoming school year in the Loire Valley. He wanted to schedule an interview with me via Skype, if I was interested.

I said I was interested. I had the heart-stopping interview on Skype. And I got the job.

After more than a year of being unemployed, someone out there in Croissant-and-Baguette Land realized that I was a valuable two-for-one deal that shouldn't be passed up. It could not have come at a better time, too.

For all intents and purposes, I am, technically, employed. I have signed the job contract and the Direction Départementale du Travail, de l'Emploi et de la Formation Professionnelle  (DDTEFP) have given me their blessing and given my contract a literal seal of approval. The French consulate in Miami processed the visa application and I am now the proud owner of a shiny sticker (the third one in my current passport). All that's left for me to do is to pack a 50-pound suitcase and board a couple of planes on Wednesday, the first one connecting to Boston before heading over to CDG-Roissy.

Now that I am employed with a French job, that means that once I have integrated with French life, I will have to inevitably deal with being buried under a mountain of photocopies, applications, photocopies, signed pages, photocopies and passport-sized photographs. I'm also running out of passport-sized photos for my applications. I knew that the Famous French Paperwork and I would become BFFs soon enough.

And in case any of you are wondering: yes, I am a bit nervous about this prospect of teaching both English and Spanish full-time. In fact, I'm also stricken by the paralyzing thoughts of "what the Hell have you gotten yourself into/you have no idea what the eff you're doing."

Yet amid my worries and temporary feelings of insecurity, I am far more excited by the fact that I was the best (possibly only) candidate for the job and I gladly welcome a chance to have my life go in another direction. In France, no less! I can only imagine the eye candy that will be captured on my little Canon camera throughout the next year. So, dear readers, expect future posts featuring croissants, baguettes, cheeses, châteaux, wines and horses.

Yes, that's right. I said horses. Lots and lots of horses.

Here's a cartoon of a horse.

I clearly need more practice at drawing them on Microsoft Paint.

Barb the French Bean

P.S.

To anyone who is currently down in the dumps in life, I beg of you to hold out a little longer. As cheesy at it sounds, things will turn around for the better when you least expect them to do so. In the meantime, keep your chin up and remain hopeful at seeing a brighter moment in your future.

P.P.S.

I'M GOING BACK TO FRANCE! AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Jobs I Wish I Could Do

I have spent the past four months achieving nothing of great importance. The idle hiatus of not having a proper job has caused me to seriously re-evaluate what I want to do with my life and has confronted me with the reality of my situation.

As it is, I am a college graduate who possesses a B.A. in Literature with a minor in French; this makes me twice as likely to remain unemployed. Should I go back to college to take out a Masters, I would need to aim for a career that will at least provide me with a stable source of sufficient income.

I won't sugarcoat it: I've felt completely useless at times. Despite having previous work experience, despite having an admirable level of intelligence, despite being fluent in three languages, I just fear that I will never find a job which will fully grant me a much needed financial peace.

Then again, I suspect that my failure is also tied to my unrealistic expectations of life. I've always considered myself to be a dreamer whose head spends far too much time cruising the vast skies and studying the composition of masses of fluffy suspended things. It's this imagination that will unfortunately create an impediment for me to secure a respectable career.

I'm at a crossroads in my life. I am young but I but I don't know what to do with my youth. I wander aimlessly. I occasionally stumble on a notion of what appears to be a brilliant idea only to divert once again. I linger at the threshold of adulthood while still clinging to my past puerile expectations of following my heart. Perhaps in a few years, I will find some balance to this. This might include finding a husband who, with my help, will have enough money to support the French brats we might hypothetically spawn.

Still, a girl can dream about what she would like to do...


1. Singer

Why not? I had a pleasant melodious voice when I was a kid.

Oh. There is a reason why I use the past tense. The melodious quality is gone. I now sound like a creature of what would result from a frog if it mated with a cat, and that creature possesses a relentless sore throat. Yet somehow the manner in which my voice resonates as I sing in the shower makes me believe that I could still do this job.

(You have my permission to mock my cartoon's lack of boobs.)

I picture myself of being a mixture of Shakira, Lady Gaga and Carly Simon. I've even thought of my stage name: BAB$! The Dollar sign and the exclamation mark will be necessary when magazine journalists clamour for the interviews they want to publish. I would have tons of adoring fans who fund my hot-ticket sold-out shows. My face and name would be glued on every printable surface available.

And I mean every surface...

Yet in these days, a mega-star singer has to be a multi-faceted entrepreneur. A singer has to not only belt out songs on command but also design and sell their own clothing line, make guest appearances on T.V. shows, endorse soft drinks, sign their hair to a contract, write autobiographical books, start a perfume line and sell their own brand of computers.

I just want to be a singer, not remove the jobs that other people could do more efficiently. Besides, I'm far too lazy to do all of that.

2. Paleontologist

When I was young, I dreamed of going out in the desert and digging up dinosaur bones. Perhaps I would even find a new species and name it after myself!


Except, growing up, I hit a couple of hitches that stopped my paleontologist goal in its tracks: I hate the heat, and I tan easily.

3. Reality T.V. Show Host

Screw being a contestant who willing humiliates himself in front of millions of captive viewers. I'll be the host so I can at least give the impression that I am the sane one among the crowd of 20-something contestants who are fighting to not be kicked off the show.

4. Astronomer

Not to be confused with astrologer (Aries: You will find the true love of your life, and he will be too stupid to keep you. You'll marry someone else).

If it weren't for all the math involved, I would happily sit behind a telescope at NASA and gaze up at the sea of stars dotting across the celestial universe.

5. Politician

Ha, ha. Yeah, right.

6. Ice Cream Taster

Sure, I'd gain 2,500 pounds a couple of pounds but, COME ON. The job title is self-explanatory!

7. Novelist

Hey, if Stephanie Meyers can achieve fame buy milking people's hard-earned money with her human/vampire/werewolf love triangle, how hard could it be?

Lately, however, I've noticed that my English skillz (yes, with a Z) have diminished under my eyes. I look at the old essays I crafted during my high school years and I'm thoroughly shocked that I was even capable of composing something of that verbose caliber. I admit it: ever since I crossed my high school doors for the last time, the once-avid reader has disintegrated into an uncultured being I hardly recognize.

With much alarm, I've noticed that my level of vocabulary has lowered as I constantly reach the dictionary to verify the definition of a word I used to know only a few years ago. Hours of mindless gazing at the flickering T.V. screen have undeniably proven to be detrimental to my educational well-being. I'm afraid that one morning I shall awake to discover that I no longer possess mastery of my native tongue and can no longer effectively communicate to convey messages to other native speakers.



What the hell happened? Am I dumbing down? Or has my poetic ability merely hidden itself in the cavernous areas of my mind? Is it just lurking, waiting for a moment where it will pounce upon its next hapless victim?


Meh. Who knows? Rather than sulking, I'll spend the next few days engulfing myself in the world of Jane Eyre. At least that will be more productive to my I.Q. points than worrying about a job.


Barb the French Bean

Yeah. It's That Bad.

WARNING: This post features a highly earwormable song. Proceed with extreme caution.

On Tuesday night, I watched the intellectually stimulating America's Got Talent. I never imagined that I would soon come to regret that decision.

One of the auditioners, a rather charming woman named Sponjetta Parrish, claimed to be a songwriter and performed something that she had composed. It turns out that she is not such an exceptional singer, nor that her song, "Studio," has the most profound lyrics; the buzzers inevitably sounded. Yet what I loved about her appearance was how the host, Nick Cannon, came to the rescue and started dancing to the song. The audience that first booed started laughing and dancing, encouraging the poor chanteuse. The judges were still unimpressed, however. But what counted was that Sponjetta was a good sport. That clip has been engraved forever into my brain.




You think that the moment would end there, right?

WRONG.

For the past day, "Studio" has been playing incessantly on repeat in my head. To make matters worse, it's only the line "I'll be in my studio, studio" that has caught on. Every activity that I've done has been punctuated by those words.

EVERY. SINGLE. DAMN. THING. I. DO.

Damn it, Howie Mandel. You were right. The song will stay stuck in my head for a very long time, and I hate that.

Lesson learned: I will read more books.

Barb the French Bean

Disclaimer: As the post states, Sponjetta Parrish is responsible for writing this song. (You don't think I wrote THAT, did you???) Oh, and the video isn't mine.

The Bus Wants Me to Go Deaf

Everyday, whether it is in the morning or at night, I try to walk from 45 minutes to one full hour. This activity comes from the desires to shed a few pounds, to improve my overall mental well-being and to get me out of the house. Yet I must walk at certain times of the day.

If it is during the morning, I have to do it no later than 6:15; by 7:15, the day becomes unpleasantly warm and muggy. To walk during the day would be absolutely crazy. I fear melting on sidewalk and 1st degree burns on my skin. If it is at night, I should wait until 7:20, when the sun starts to go down.

I also follow a specific plan. Please take a moment to study the map below:

As you can see, my house is located in proximity to a school. Using the stop sign as a marker, I do 6 to 8 counterclockwise laps around this school. Each lap takes between 7 to 9 minutes, depending on my speed. To help keep me motivated, I carry a refreshing bottle of cold water while I jam to upbeat music on my MP3.



Even though I find it challenging to wake up in time, I prefer to walk in the mornings. I cross paths with the same friendly elderly lady. No one who owns a dog in my town likes to take it out this early (a major plus since I have a strong aversion to large dogs). My favorite part is watching the sun rise across the firmament. One hour of steady marching energizes me for the rest of the day. As I walk in time to my music, I have a sense of empowerment and felicity, a veritable natural high.

Yet something remains unavoidable and that is extraneous noise. I conciously try to keep the music's volume at a reasonably healthy level, yet every couple of laps or so, my thumb aims at the round dial and gently turns it clockwise to increase the sound. This happens when I reach the busy intersection where the bus stop is located. The cars (yes, even at 6:00 a.m.) drown the music that is already thumping against my eardrums.

The Bus is the worst culprit. Despite arriving every once in a blue, it always manages to coincidentally come to a squealing halt the second I turn the corner near the stop. The Bus screeches in agony at the thought of collecting a handful of passengers from my neighborhood.

*thumb rapidly turns the dial*

*music becomes progressively louder and louder*

Today, by the way, happens to be "Take Public Transport to Work" day. Ha, ha, ha...take that, Bus.

I simply despise being taken out of my "comfort zone," and that includes the level of music. Usually, the rest of my walk goes uninterrupted. My white sneakers strike against the sidewalk in cadence. My arms punch in a shifting motion. My ponytail swings with each step. I sometimes feel the urge to dispel sudden bursts of energy by trotting in time to a song. My pulse quickens. So does my breath. My lungs inhale. Exhale. My whole body accords with the motion I feel in my heart. No one can bottle and sell a sensation like that.

After a couple of laps, I once again come across another occasion that puts my auditive health in peril: the Garbage Truck. A school collects a lot of refuse. I realize that the Garbage Truck executes its necessary duty, but it carries out this function with as much noise as possible. Just after passing next to the busy street of the Bus, its partner-in-crime plots to silence my music.

I can't help it. I seek the circular dial like a deranged addict. I'm sure that one of these days, my MP3 will develop a warning level for me:

I figure that at this rate, 1 hour per day x 365 = deafness in under a year...

Is it a conspiracy? Are these large vehicles intentionally trying to impede me from continuing my exercise regimen? Do they expect me to give up? If it is, then I will not let them have their ways. I shall be the one who triumphs!

Barb the French Bean

Disclaimer: I obviously did not compose the lyrics to the songs mentioned in this post. Please don't sue my behind.