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.

I was first introduced to French in 7th grade. At that time, it was the only foreign language option offered at Oxford. (It had replaced the Latin taught when my older siblings had gone through the school, and has since been supplanted by Spanish.) Since there was no Francophone version of my first name, I became known to my language-learning peers as Jacqueline.

Pronounced ‘zhak-LEEN’ not ‘JACK-uh-lynn,’ thank you very much.

Two years of middle school French under my belt, I aced the French proficiency exam we had to take and couldn’t wait to continue my studies in high school. For the next four years, it was Madame Niederer who continued to instruct us in the finer points of all things French. My love of the language, the people and the country grew during that time, and thanks to the French Club, I also had my first opportunity to visit France.

The French Trip, as it was so creatively known, was one of those whirlwind tours where you were shuttled on and off a bus by an umbrella-carrying tour guide whose main goal in life was to shuttle you on and off the bus. Oh, and show you a few landmarks in between. But it was still awesome. A serious case of jet lag interfered with my enjoyment of Paris, I’m afraid, but oh how I loved the South of France.

It was memories of that trip, as well as a desire to read Simone de Beauvoir in the original French, which inspired me to further my language studies at good old MC, despite the fact that it wasn’t required in my course of study. (Which, considering I double majored in International Business and Economics is fairly shocking. I hope they’ve changed that by now.)

After a brief hiatus, I picked up where I’d left off with French under the tutelage of Madame Nonnie Wanger.

It was Nonnie – who I love almost as much as my own mother – who convinced me not only to minor in French, but also to participate in an intensive summer language program at L’Institute Catholique in Paris.

That’s right. A summer in Paris. It was without a doubt an experience of a lifetime.