“Fuck” sounds like Fük or “Foook” if said by a sixteen year old French exchange student.
Last year I exclaimed, “never again,” but I’ve come to realize that no one ever really listens to me, so here we are, one more time committed to scholastic international relations. We have a French exchange student staying with us for two and a half weeks.
It’s not that I don’t like the students that come to visit, although our last one said “fuck” or “foook” all the time. Yeah, that kid was a little rebel rouser as my grandfather used to say.
Our current student is actually great. He’s a year younger and it’s his first time in the United States. He’s curious, he asks questions, and tells us about the differences in Parisian culture. He’s away from his family, living in a house he’s never been to, and we speak a completely different language. It takes a certain kind of bravery to push past what you know, what’s comfortable, and to have that at fifteen is really brilliant.
I’ve said it before, languages are fascinating, like keys to unknown places, experiences and people. Language differences make you work, and even though it is exhausting some times to make conversation, or figure out if he likes anything we are feeding him for breakfast, I’m glad we did it. I will not be sharing that with Michael though because that would make him right and I’ve had enough of that.
We will be in Paris at the end of March and the tables will be turned. I love, love, love being in a foreign city, being the outsider. There’s something so freeing about not fitting in.
Oh, and I keep asking him to say Marion Cotillard’s name with his accent because everything, I mean everything, sounds better in French. Well, maybe not foook, our version has more punch.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Bonsoir.
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