I’ve been reading the Count of Monte Cristo as of late. I
can’t get enough of the story. I love the book, the audio book, and the movie
(though it doesn’t follow the book too much.) I love the descriptions Dumas uses
and the flowering language that, despite its translation into English, displays
the dominant French method of exaggeration. I marvel at the language and smile
at places and words representing my beloved France.
This morning, having been thoroughly inspired by thoughts
and recollections of last night’s reading, I portrayed a bit of comedy, rousing
my coworkers with an old French accent and expressions of that language I don’t
use but on rare occasions. I was entertaining myself for the most part, for I
detest working on Sundays and when the occasion finds me in this métier, I find
every opportunity to make the day feel different.
That said, a coworker later approached me and asked if I
would take a call from a dear woman speaking French. I eagerly snatched up the
telephone and requested the call. Oh, my folly. No sooner had I spoke, when I
found myself conversing with a dear woman who, from her accent, demonstrated
the thick tone from a southerner. Meaning, someone from the south of France. I
stumbled remarkably in my efforts, proving to this woman and myself that I was
not fluent in the slightest degree that I had expected. I apologized to her,
for my mind was willing to recall the words in French, but my tongue could not adequately
produce the phrases required for smooth communication. Still, we managed the
call and I resolved her issue.
Upon ending the call, I was pleased to discover that she was
indeed from near Marseilles, the very place where Edmond Dantes began his story
in the Count of Monte Cristo. I grinned upon learning this. Yes, I have lost my
once exceptional skill in that fantastic language; however, I had an experience
that brightened my day. A fantastic taste of the place about where I currently
inquire within the pages of a book. And that is a wonderful thing.
Happy reading.
~Jamie
