French Lessons

The other day I decided that I needed to improve my French. It is, after all, what a lady of breeding does when searching for a husband. In fact, this limitation is the only piece missing from the puzzle, as I am already quite an accomplished debutante: I am a masterful flower arranger and an expert cook. I sparkle in conversation and can play Beethoven sonatas on the piano.... I even have my own personalized stationary (understated yet elegant - with my name printed on medium weight cream coloured vellum. No monogram though... that would be a bit much).

While I do have infinite time to devote to this pursuit at the moment, I do not have infinite resources,so that rules out the larger schools like Berlitz. However, I do want quality instruction, and so I viewed it as positively providential that I happened to come across an advertisement for private lessons at an establishment named "Le Petit Sorbonne". The name appealed to the snob in me, and the price...well it couldn't be beat.

My teacher, Nicolas, is so kind. He is from Montpellier - in the south - and there is a touch of the Spaniard in his dark complexion and liquid eyes. He has traveled the world and lived in 52 countries. The only reason he moved here is because he has never lived in North America. He told me that he loves Vancouver, but he believes that the women here are the most frigid in the world. I blushed. He says it is because of English Canada's puritan culture, and he thinks that we Vancouverites don't know how to enjoy life. As I took a swig from my decaf-skinny-sugarfree latte and observed the hordes of people rushing about to their various exercise classes in Lululemon yoga pants, I could see his point.

Oh, how wonderful it was to talk with a French person... I have always loved France - its "laughing awareness" (as Julia Child says) -- its insouciance, its joie de vivre. My mother thinks that in a previous life I was an absolutist king giving edicts from Versailles. I told her that I must have gotten my perceived hauteur from her, because as far as I remembered, she ruled the household by what seemed to be Divine Right. In fact, she even insisted on a simplified version of the "lever" ritual in which the monarch would be attended by the nobility of the court as they awoke. It was my responsibility to convey to my mother her morning coffee at precisely 8:00. In my house, as at Versailles, the bedrooms were quite far from the kitchen, so I had to ensure that I moved quickly lest the coffee become cold. I also had to make sure I walked silently and did not spill. One did not want to raise the ire. Once I delivered the coffee, I would gently wake my mother and wait for further instructions.

It should be noted that Louis XIV invented elaborate court ceremonial to ensure that the nobility stayed under his control. Before the Sun King, the nobles lived on their own estates and were free to plot against the king, which they did. By building Versailles and making it so irresistible, Louis ensured that his nobles would live in a gilded cage: free to pursue pleasure, but completely dependent on him for
everything...in attendance...waiting with bated breath for any sign of favour.

Vanity Fair

They say that January is the busiest month for gyms. Of course, I have no statistical evidence to back this up, but I can venture to say that I speak correctly based on my first hand experiences at the West End Community Fitness Centre these last few days. The sight of legions of flabbily fearsome Vancouverites gyrating wildly to remove all bodily evidence of holiday gluttonies is something to behold before dying - if only for the comic relief. I say that it is a sight because when I went there, I took one look at the exercise room yesterday and promptly returned home... there were no machines to be had, and I did not feel like waiting.

However, I fear that I will have to return sooner than later, as I went for a costume fitting the other day for the upcoming opera, and I discovered (to my horror) that I will be dressed in harem pants AND NOTHING ELSE. The opera is called "The Italian Girl in Algiers" and is almost comically outdated, sexist, racist and out of touch with the realities of the 21st century. That is to say, it is typical of the genre.
Much of the opera takes place in a spa, where a chorus of eunuchs dressed as slave girls laments the fate of women... Interspersed among them are male "customers" who need attending (that would be me). I would have felt much more comfortable being a slave girl - I wouldn't really have to act, and the costume drapes so much better. But, I feel that playing a man will be more of an acting challenge and will therefore expand my range as an artist. It will also motivate me to stick to my embryonic fitness regime.

Failing that, I can just ask the makeup department to add a bit of contouring...
After all, as my brother (who is far more fit than I am ) says "Jews just don't have 6 packs".