Sink or swim

Taking a French immersion class is not for the faint of heart.

The book that strikes fear in the hearts of French language students worldwide.

Jason and I started our two-week French immersion program at the Université de Bourgogne last week. It was my first time on a university campus as a student in 35 years. That’s a long freakin’ time, people!

Although I’ve taken several online Alliance Française classes and am a Duolingo regular, my last in-person French class was in high school with Monsieur Vas, a miserable man who regularly threw chalk and erasers at me and my friends. Needless to say, I did not learn much, and I hoped this time would be different.

On the first day of the Cief summer session, we went to orientation in a big lecture hall filled with mostly college students from around the world, plus a couple of olds including us, a nun from Germany, and a nice lady from Armenia.

Stefan, a gregarious chain-smoking French professor, explained how the program worked, gave us a quick overview of Dijon’s history, and shared a few fun facts about Dijon. It’s not only famous for its mustard, but it’s also the birthplace of the Kir aperitif (white wine with crème de cassis—also invented here), and it was an important seat of power until the late 15th century.

Stefan also half-joked that we should never mention Bordeaux wine while we were here, or we’d be shunned by the locals. Apparently, there’s a big rivalry, but all I can say is I have yet to have a bad glass of wine in either city.

He was fun, enthusiastic, and had a rad Bauhaus tattoo. It was an auspicious beginning (nothing at all like my time with Monsieur Vas), and I started to look forward to this whole French language immersion adventure.

After the lecture, we took an assessment test to determine which level we belonged in. It got progressively more difficult, and I eventually gave up and went off to find the Secretariat office to get our official student ID cards. About 30 minutes later, Jason emerged victorious from the building, and we went off in search of déjuner.

Since it’s France, dining at the university cafeteria is a very civilized affair. You line up quietly with your tray, and the lunch monsieurs and madames serve you an entreé du jour made with environmentally friendly local ingredients like organic Emmental cheese and eggs laid by chickens living their best lives “en plein air.”

For three euros(!), you get a main dish, vegetables, a starch, bread (bien sur), and a dessert or fruit. The food wasn’t going to win any Michelin stars, but the price was hard to beat.

After another presentation, we took the tram to Place Darcy to pick up our bus/tram passes, then back to our quirky “Napoleon III style” Airbnb in a historic mansion dating back to the 16th century.

The next morning, we got to school at the ungodly hour of 8:30 am and went to the secretariat’s office to see how we’d done on the assessment. It was like getting called back—or not—for a role in a high school musical. Jason, the star, sauntered off to his C1 class with the great Stefan, and I, a second-tier chorus member, went off with the A2/B1s.

You should know that Jason in “student” mode is much like “French Jason” but even peppier. The man cannot get enough of verb conjugation, obscure French phrases, and IYKYK slang terms like “chapeau!” and whatever else the cool kids are saying on French TikTok. He lives for the Bescherelle and charming les chaussettes off elderly French ladies.

When I walked into the classroom, every unwrinkled face turned toward me expectantly. “Don’t worry, I’m not the professor,” I said. Relieved, they went back to tapping on their iPhones. Nothing keeps you humble quite like being a middle-aged woman in a room full of people who think the iPod is a quirky vintage collectible.

A few minutes later, our real professor strolled in and for the next three hours, she lectured us in French, made us interview (in French) the person seated next to us (in my case, a fresh-faced 20-year-old from California who kept telling me she was so hungover she might throw up), and reprimanded us for whispering in English. Comment dit-on “firehose” en Française?

On day two, we practiced French numbers. It was a bloodbath, at least for me. Anything higher than 40, and my mind went blank. After class, Jason and I stood outside the classroom, and my teacher pulled him aside, “You must help her practice numbers, oui?” she said right in front of me like I was a naughty 10-year-old.

That night, Jason patiently quizzed me from our tiny Airbnb bed. “Cinq! Vingt! Soixante! Again! Again! What’s 145,566? What’s 215,789? Now start from 20 and go up to 60. Again!”

By the third day, it was abundantly clear to me and Madame A. that I was in over my head. She had called me up to the chalkboard to conjugate être in the present tense (I KNOW, I KNOW!), and I failed miserably. It was, to put it mildly, mortifying. At this rate, I’d never make it past talking like some kind of sad French Tarzan. “Moi Sacha, Vous Jane?”

During une pause (a break), Madame A. kindly asked if I’d feel more comfortable in the A1 class. “You can stay, of course, but I don’t want you to feel stressed out. I want you to succeed.”

I was relieved both because I felt like a fruit fly in a glass of rosé—confused, flailing, and not entirely welcome— and also because I wasn’t that keen on her to begin with. She seemed disorganized and impatient, not qualities I want in someone teaching me the present or passé composé.

And so, tomorrow, after a gorgeous and leisurely three-day weekend (thank you Whit Monday), I will go to my new A1 class and remind myself that I haven’t failed, I have made the wiser choice, one that only une femme d'un certain âge would make.

But that’s not all

Last week was exhausting, with three and four hours of French immersion classes every day, but it wasn’t all work.

We spent our free time exploring Dijon’s charming cobblestone and pedestrian-friendly centre ville…

Sitting at cafes and taking in the sights….

Place de la Libération, just steps from our first Airbnb

Going to un apéro with a group of lovely expats who live here…

…and eating gougères as big as our heads from Aux délices de la chouette, a wonderful Dijon boulangerie.

A bientôt, mes amis (see, I’ve learned something!)