When I was in high school, I took just enough French to be able to convince myself that I know French (insert chuckle here).

I took four years of it.  I tested out at a college level.  I still think in French from time to time and I have spoken with my sister occasionally in French.  Actually, I am usually embarrassed when I chat with her because she is much better than I am.  In truth, I know my French sucks.

And yet every once in a while, it pops up that I do know at least a little bit.   For some reason, my blog server seems to think I know French.


I’m not sure if you can see that or not.  It tells me when that particular blog was posted.  “Il y a 2 mois” is what it says.  Or, in English, “2 months ago.”  Why my blog server decided that I all of a sudden spoke French is still unknown to me, but it is nice that I can understand what it says.

There are moments like that in my life.  If someone is speaking basic French in a movie, I can understand it.  I often wonder if those around me understand it, too.  I mean, if it’s so simple that I can understand it, others must be able to, as well, right?  It turns out – not always.  I do know a little more French than many Americans.

I’ve also found that if there is rudimentary Spanish written somewhere, I can translate it (Romantic languages are all very similar, and if you can understand one, you have a good chance of understanding another).  With the basic knowledge, I can often translate some basic written Latin, which is really fun.

Can you tell I love languages?  I’d love to take a Spanish class and be able to eavesdrop on those who wouldn’t assume I know it.


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