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.