I’ve had a long term love affair with all things French for most of my life. The history, culture, art, wine, music, architecture, perfume, cuisine, fashion, wine, bread, cheese, pastries ...

Oh, and did I mention the wine?

Basically, you name it, and if it has to do with France, I love it. Well, with the exception of their politics, penchant for adulterous leaders and proclivity for labor strikes. And actually, now that I think about it, I never really liked all that folk dancing either. (Sorry, Madame Niederer.)

I’m enamored with the French language as well. It is at once melodic and expressive and I love the way the words feel in your mouth before rolling off your tongue and spilling from your lips.

As out of practice as I am now, I do a fair amount of tripping over those lovely syllables. But I still think they’re every bit as lovely as when I could speak them with ease. Now, without a glass or two of that fabulous French wine to loosen my tongue, I’m inclined to keep my deteriorated language skills to myself. I can still understand both the written and spoken word with a fair degree of alacrity, however, so all those years of study (14 or 15 I think) aren’t entirely for naught.