I nearly can’t believe two years have passed since our last trip to France. We didn’t go last year, for several reasons. I think the big reason, though, is that we were trying to be conservative with our money. We had our old house in the market and had no idea, in the wretched housing market, how long it would take to sell (it sold in August). We were moving to a new city. Cedric just hired his first full time employee and signed a new contract on office space. There were too many unknowns to risk the thousands of dollars the trip would have cost.

Waiting another year would be out of the question, and thankfully, it seems we are on more solid ground this year. That is to say that the immediate future is less foggy than it was at this point last year.

So we’re going. We all miss France.

I also know the language barrier will certainly cause some problems. I haven’t spoken French regularly for at least five years. It takes no time for the ability to speak a foreign language to degrade. Literally, a month without being immersed in the language takes a toll on proficiency. For me, the real issue is that I understand everything that I hear in French. For some reason, my comprehension of the language has never suffered. I can watch a movie in French, or hear a side conversation, and my sub-conscious has no trouble sorting and applying meaning to the words. But my ability to say things spontaneously, by contrast, has severely suffered. It is incredibly frustrating.

A memory surfaced in my mind the other day. I recalled being at a restaurant in Belle-Ile with my husband, infant son, and mother-in-law. The waitress arrives at our table, and immediately whisks away the wine glass in my place setting.

She says “Mademoiselle doesn’t drink wine I imagine!”

I am too dumbfounded to speak, especially considering that the legal drinking age in France must be 16 years old (without fact checking). Since I could not spontaneously point out that I had passed the legal drinking age nearly a decade ago, I raised my eyebrows at her, and I decided to let it go. Alright, no wine for me! But then, perhaps giving consideration to the eye brows that now met my hair line, the woman reappeared at our table.

This time she says “Are you the young mother?”

It is possible I managed a “oui.”

And then, she gives me a truly disapproving look. “A very, very young mother.”

And again, I am too unnerved to respond. Wit and sarcasm simply won’t come to me. Hell, not even a sincere “No Madame you misjudge” comes to mind.

I spoke to Cedric the other day about how unfortunate it was that I still remembered and was pained by this experience. Of course, he knew what I should have said to her.

“My poor dear, are you still working – on your feet all day? You must have passed the retirement age many years ago!”

I don’t think she ever did give me back the wine glass.