So I ended up bailing on my French conversation meet up plan for tonight.  I actually even showed up at the cafe, but my worst fears were confirmed, albeit in a different way than anticipated.

It all began with a notice for a rather unambitious sounding friendly group of French speakers who want to get together, speak French, and improve their efforts.  I signed up.  Then came the email announcing that there were so many of us that we should move from the originally scheduled cafe location to an outside patio bar next door to accommodate our numbers.  Alcohol and French sounded like a great idea to me.  Twenty two emails later from a really whiney group of people, who argued it was too hot, too difficult, and much better at the little tiny cafe raised some red flags for me.  In fact, the one woman who insisted there was a heat wave currently happening (news to me – since when does 84 make it a heat wave?) so we should meet up at some indoor atrium…which to me is code for ‘mall.’  That sounds like the ultimate in fun, right?  Me and thirty other French speakers conversing in an atrium full of people looking to beat the heat.   Sign me up…hah!

Next came the fifteen emails about what topics we should discuss in French along with corresponding links to different French news articles.  Included in that barrage was an article about the French cracking down on drunk driving, but no, our host, who is an actual native speaker, said the article was more about politics than drunk driving.  There ensued a lively debate on whether the article was about drunk driving or politics; to which I might add 1) the rest of us are non-native speakers – really you want to argue with the one guy who is legit? 2) isn’t it very French to hold up one issue when you are really talking about another? (sorry to my French friends, but it’s true) and 3) why does this one legit Frenchie want to put up with us?

So I was getting nervous about this meet up.  Then, I show up.  Instead of the 33 respondents, there are 3 very smug married couples chatting intimately over a 4-top table.  And, it’s loud.  I don’t think I want to deal with this.  So, I check out and head to the subway stop.

Upon my return home, the host of the group has emailed… it’s now forty-five minutes past the start of this thing… and he is on his way.  Why I am remotely surprised is beyond me, because he is being truly French and fashionably late.  I no longer regret my decision, and instead of an over priced cup of tea, I am enjoying a rather tart chardonnay and writing to you all.

As ever,

K. Quinn