The Language Blok

In France, I'm stupid.

It's not that all the French have unusually high IQs (I know, I teach about 200 young ones), it's that I have a need for constant repetition which requires the utmost patience in anyone who dares have, or finds themselves forced into, a conversation with me. (By the way, my definition of "conversation" here is the most basic -- "brief oral interchange" might be better suited to the context.) In order to spare my fellow humans their breath, sanity and time (ever so dear to Parisians, as it so often goes in cities I suppose), I often rely on my newly acquired skills of divining meaning solely through facial expressions and the one or two words I manage to pick out from a flow of incomprehensible French. I've become quite good at this, as well as making myself seem much more knowledgeable than I actually am by invoking a well-timed sympathetic smile, humorous grimace, or stern-but-just-slightly-amused stare (that for the misbehaving 12-year-olds) based on my afore-mentioned divinations. This usually works, but within the now-muddled barrage of thoughts that is my mind, I sometimes find myself distracted by previous parts of the conversation, still trying to figure out if my brief response (one of a select, well-practiced few I carry around to, again, feign comprehension and a minor intelligence) to the unsuspecting speaker's question/desire for affirmation was appropriate. Unfortunately this distraction occasionally results in my inability to open a door, tear out a piece of notebook paper, or spell basic English words.

So have pity on us poor non-native speakers. We are capable of memorizing the cell phone number we've had for over six months, we just can't make ourselves look smart and recall the number quite at the same time.