At Starbucks, the
guy ahead of me asked “Vous êtes Française?” and me, toadish look
on my face, because I'm not always charming, n'est çe pas, replied,
“Non.”
“Then, part of the French American School?”
“No,”
I said, wearily. After just having had an argument with Laurent, I
was totally not wanting to play “let's speak French.” Not that I
ever enjoy that game much.
“And you speak
French with your daughter, why?”
I relented. “Her father is
French.” Comprehension dawned.
I even asked a follow up, “And
you?”
“French. I teach at Brown.”
Honestly, I didn't care, but I liked him, felt bad that he'd had an interaction with such a crabby human.
“French. I teach at Brown.”
Honestly, I didn't care, but I liked him, felt bad that he'd had an interaction with such a crabby human.
Homework Question: how on Earth
does an artist and writer have a successful life without applying
some social grease?
Welcome to my
tutorial on how not to get along...