To My Delight

I've just found an old notebook, tiny in dimension and filled with French vocabulary from my summer in Paris. I remember speaking French only rarely while I was there. But I must have been fascinated with the look and feel of the language, because I wrote those words over and over again, in my best handwriting, with loops and flourishes, like the lettering on a cafe sign. Interspersed with the vocabulary lists were suggestions for my own improvement ("Be classic, like the Place des Vosges") and pearls from my professor ("Karl's life advice is never to pass up food or a chance to go to the restroom. Karl says Robert Venturi doesn't use verbs - how postmodern!")

At the back of the notebook, there was a draft of a letter to my then-obsession, at home and not missing me nearly as much as I was missing him. I never did send that letter - it was dreadful, as all such letters are - and the obsession eventually faded, as I must wisely have known it would. But, to my delight, years later, I realize that I have always remembered to be classic, and to use the bathroom as frequently as is necessary, plus some. Also, as a small but somehow important bonus, I actually remember what le couteau means.