When I was in high school, nearly everyone I knew took Spanish or German. Dreaming of galvanting around Europe, they spoke of all the beer they would consume hopping from train to train during a study-abroad excursion. The others spoke mostly of how knowing Spanish would come in handy in Mexico as they conned their way into foam parties over Spring Break.
Not me, however.
Those lanuages had no history. No, je ne sais quois. And more importantly, no romance, which for a 14 year-old theatre kid was of the utmost importance.
And so I chose French: "the lanugage of love," or so I thought.
My fantasies were immediately dashed on the first day when I learned that if we didn't conjucate our verbs quickly and correctly, we were bopped on the head with an enormous Evian bottle by Madame Larson.
To this day, I can't speak much French, nor have I ever been to Paris, yet as I've been enjoying the legimate arrival of spring, I've found myself gravitating to the quirky, sexy, and happy sounds of gay Paris.