The last Monday of October marked my first year anniversary in Strasbourg. As the date approached, I felt a vague dread. My main motivation for moving to France was to master the language. Anything less defeats the purpose. On the morning of my one-year anniversary in Alsace, I spotted a photocopy of the building rules in my post box. The section about noise had been passive-aggressively highlighted in orange. The sound insulation in the building is top notch.
I wondered about the identity of this resident who had neither the courage nor the courtesy to address me directly.
Later that day, thanks to a mix-up at the salon owing in no small part to my therapist being economical with the truth I paid significantly more for my treatment. First World problems, I suppose. These two seemingly unrelated incidents sum up much of my Strasbourg experience thus far and my ensuing ambiguity about it; cold reception and linguistic frustration.
I must have had more of it than I realised when I arrived. Years ago, former Francophone acquaintances reassured me that all I needed were a few months in France. Although at that period in life I was more confident, my language level was inferior to what it was on moving to Strasbourg. A year on, these upbeat predictions are far from my reality. I fear my diligence and zeal has been mistaken for innate linguistic ability.
Learning a language is necessarily a humbling experience. Being the drama queen that I am, this has contributed to a number of existential crises. I worry that I am perceived as dim.
