I’m in kindergarten, They Can’t Put Me Back

Bonjour, mes amis! It’s Douglas—phonetically pronounced Dooglaw—checking in from Paris.

Learning a language is très difficile. Now I know what it feels like to be a baby, as it relates to language, that is. I’m learning all the time. I’ve just received confirmation, that, “vous êtes une chauve-souris,” I’m bald as a bat. After looking in the mirror, damned if they aren’t right.

I finally bit the rubber bullet (no real bullets here) and signed up for my turn in the language barrel. As a natural paranoiac, I get tired of everyone talking about me as if I’m not there. I’m in class crafting a response. When out and about, I snatch words from le metro or anywhere someone is in close proximity, which is everywhere (more on that later). There’s beaucoup talk about food, wine and sex. Generally in that very order. There’s talk about other things too.

Unfortunately, I must interrupt my studies and sneak back into the U.S. for one week. I hope I’ll be able to get back out. Last time going, the plane was an empty vessel, coming back, cheek to jowl.

A Parisian friend of mine, who’s keen on Top Pot Donuts—deep fried Northwest artery hardeners—asked if I would bring him back a six pack.

I said, “Let me get this straight, you want me to smuggle pastries into France?”

I worried about the donut sniffing dogs at the airport bypassing all the kilos of coke coming into the country and heading straight for me, but agreed to jeopardise my freedom anyway.

Now I’m back and happy to report only two casualties, one ruptured old fashioned, which in a moment of weakness, I decided to put out of its misery and the entirety of my language skills. Demain est un autre jour.

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