I can see their mouths move, but all the sudden what was graspable becomes a sweetly delivered gushing current of sound—which I partly blame on the fatigue and mostly on the overdose of deliciousness. I open my eyes slightly, and I know she knows I’m not understanding. Thirty-five years of practice, and there is no smiling and nodding to compensate or pretend, which will be great for my French, but right now is just another fifteen minutes at the table as she repeats herself and I frantically search my brain for words I swear I’ve never heard. Le : looks cookbook-picture worthy and the bed of les pâtes is steaming hot. My dessert of le fromage de brie, un verre de vin rosé, and ridiculously sweet green grapes is devoured with the happiness of finally doing a dinner à la française.
By the time I get tangled in my red and brown pile of pillows and blankets, my head feels like it expanded a size bigger and while it seems like it takes a while to pass out, I’d be surprised if it was more the 10 minutes—I don’t stay down long. Random French words floating around, I wake up and put on my shoes ready to go for a morning walk. Weirded out by the lack of sunlight I google the time to make sure. It is midnight. This happens again at 3 AM, and then at 5 AM. When I actually put on shorts and do some yoga on the golden rug with animal faces, it is 7:45 AM, and Martine is already hurrying me pour prendre le petit déjeuner. She doesn't want us to be late to le bureau and the tour of l'université. Come on body, it’s been three nights already…
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