BONJOUR, MONTRÉAL!

Well, here’s a surprise [Quelle surprise!]:

 

I’m moving to Québec. 

 

It seems I must. If I want to find love, or at least go out for a coffee with a guy who decides my profile pic is decent enough for him to be seen in public with—the bar keeps getting lower—I must pack my things and find an apartment in Beloeil or Vaudreuil-Dorion or Prévost. These are the places where the guys are. 

 

Guys who (presumably) aren’t married.

 

Guys who are my age-ish.

 

Guys whom Silver Singles has decided are my matches. One-third of my sixty-three matches thus far live in La Belle Province. Only eleven live within a two-hour drive of me. (To clarify, I live 4,550 kilometres from Montréal and 4,800 kilometres from Québec City.) 

 

Au revoir, Vancouver.

 

I don’t speak French. It may be reputed to be the language of love, but I have a hunch it’s a barrier when one is not doing love-y things. How many times am I allowed to say, “Ooh la la,” before a guy shows me la sortie? 

 

I realize that most French-speaking residents of Québec can also communicate fluently in English, but there’s a measure of respect that comes with speaking the language that is the mother tongue for a majority of citizens in the particular province where you live. Plus, I want to be able to eavesdrop on what my guy is saying about me on the phone or across the table to his friends and Maman. 

 

The sad thing is that I’ve spent many years purportedly learning French. My level plateaued in ninth grade. (This comes after only beginning French studies in sixth grade.) My family moved to Texas during the summer before I started grade ten where most students learned Spanish as their foreign language. My level of French was “advanced” by East Texas standards. This was not high praise in a place where English sometimes seemed to be a foreign language. My father required us to act as interpreters whenever a server took our order at a restaurant. (He’s since adapted to the drawl, even adopted some of it.) My classmates thought my Canadian “accent” was British. Needless to say, I was never going to read Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables in its original language. (At 1,462 pages, it’s doubtful I’ll read the English translation either.)

 

I’ve been learning French on Duolingo. I’m on a 930-day streak. That’s something, right? 

 

Apparently not much. I recently decided I need to take an intensive French course, something more immersive than twenty-item exercises from a green owl (une chouette verte). I took an online test through Vancouver’s Alliance Française and then attempted to engage in a brief conversation on Zoom with an instructor. My French level was assessed as B1 which basically means I can use my skills to order poutine, complain about the weather and identify the colors on the Pride flag. It also means that if someone actually attempts to engage me in a real conversation in French, I’ll put my head down and cry. 

 

Maybe Frenchmen in Québec find communication issues and crying attractive. Maybe my go-to “ooh la la” will never cease to be amusing and sexy in a Je ne sais quoi kind of way.

 

Pierre: Regardez. Un bus.

Moi:    Ooh la la!

Pierre: Aimez-vous les beignets?

Moi:    Ooh la la!

Pierre: Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?

Moi:    Ooh la la!

 

Maybe I should have moved to Montréal long ago!

Ah, but then again, maybe not. Maybe Silver Singles will just have to do better in the matchmaking biz.