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The trials and tribulations of learning a language in mid-life.

I have spent the past few weeks listening obsessively to CoffeeBreak French hoping that I’ll have a language breakthrough. I’ve logged countless miles walking around our neighborhood muttering phrases like “J’ai faim,” “Je voudrais un café au lait” and “Je voudrais un verre de vin blanc s'il te plaît.” If nothing else, I must master ordering food and wine in French, otherwise, what’s the point?

The charming hosts of CoffeeBreak French, Max and Mark (and his lilting Scottish accent), make learning fun. They cover useful phrases and situations and also do these great "person on the street" conversations where they ask real people questions and then explain their answers. It's all very entertaining and it seems to be sinking in somehow. 

I’ve probably learned more during the 20-minute podcasts than I did during eight weeks of Zoom classes with a traditional language school. I’m not knocking this particular place, it’s just that my learning style seems better suited to active, in-context learning.

I don’t do well sitting still in a class, virtual or otherwise, and memorizing verb tenses or hearing about situations that I’ll likely never encounter. I must be free to roam the streets of Arlington and to screw up verb conjugation in private.

Learning another language in mid-life is not for the faint of heart but it’s necessary if we’re going to give this whole living in France thing a real go. My prospects, however, aren’t great.

I have a long and checkered history of learning (or not learning) French. In high school, I was a mediocre student, distracted by unrequited crushes on boys named Brandon and Peter, and your standard issue teenage girl drama. Monsieur Vas, my 10th grade French teacher, was a surly man with bad skin who had no patience for misbehaving teenage girls. While he solemnly conjugated verbs on the blackboard, I sat in the back of class giggling and passing notes with my best friend Amy. We were obnoxious and disruptive, and poor Monsieur Vas was constantly telling us to “soyez silencieux”-- be quiet.

One day, I fell off my chair during an uncontrollable laughing fit and landed with a thud on the floor. Monsieur Vas turned bright red and lobbed a large eraser at me, barely missing Amy. Still giggling, we were sent off to the Principal's office and given a stern warning that we were “this close” to being sent to detention. I barely passed the class and promptly forgot everything I learned.

Needless to say, re-learning French in my 50s has been a struggle.

I started with Duo Lingo several years ago and my vocabulary improved, but I knew I needed something more intense. That’s how I ended up taking a beginner class with the language school. The teacher was very nice but had a dry, traditional teaching style that gave me flashbacks to Monsieur Vas.

The entire class was in French, including instructions and explanations, and I found the first few classes so frustrating that I nearly quit. Jason kept encouraging me and I couldn’t bear to disappoint him, so I forged ahead, consoling myself with a nice cold can of Fresca or two (and once, a gummy—big mistake) during class. And yes, I did sneak a peek at Google Translate here and there, but so be it.

I’ve considered taking the easy way out, much like David Sedaris did in his essay “In the Waiting Room,” in which he gives up French class and instead starts using “D’accord” (okay) in response to everything. This, of course, lands him in hot water on more than a few occasions. I’ve been practicing common phrases like “D’accord,” “Tout a fait,” “Alors” and “On y va” that will hopefully make me seem less clueless.

Jason is light years ahead of me in French, and unlike me, he is and was a very good student. He even minored in French in college. During our last trip to France, he struck up many conversations with the locals: The elegant 90-something woman having lunch next to us at a restaurant in Albi, the sales clerk at a Ralph Lauren in Bordeaux where he bought his beloved orange corduroys, an elderly couple walking their dog in St. Emilion. They were all more than happy to chat with him and I could tell it made him feel good.

During those conversations, I could understand words and phrases here and there but mostly I’d simply nod and smile like an idiot. I usually get the gist, unless they veer into complex topics, during which time I simply drift off and daydream about what I’d have for my next meal. But it is getting easier, and I suspect that soon, I’ll be able to not make a total ass of myself while ordering at a cafe or boulangerie. Pas de bébé