An Afternoon With the French Language Club

As I walk out of the , having just spent the afternoon with the French Language Group, Helene stands outside talking on her cell phone.

A smile spreads across my face as I utter, “Au revoir.”

The cause of the smile however, is more a result of the 91-year old Helene’s quick wave goodbye, immediately getting back to her apparently humorous conversation. I’m then reminded of the contemporary adage, “Age ain’t nothing but a number” and realize that never has it applied more to a specific situation than it did to my Monday afternoon.

The French Language Club meets every Monday at 2 p.m., but besides their meeting time, nothing is predictable about this group of seniors.

My initial thought was that I would be meeting a quiet group of elderly people, sitting in a room drinking tea cross-legged, eating crackers.

But once I walk into the room, French club members sitting around a rectangular table, that preconceived notion is instantaneously squashed. French and English greetings and questions begin flying in my direction at remarkable speed.

“Do you speak any French?”

“None whatsoever,” I say, and my answer it followed by some giggles from the group as they continue to speak in a tongue I can’t understand.

I try to sit in the corner, away from the table, and allow them to engage in their weekly routines, which I thought consisted of serious conversations concerning politics and issues in Belmont. However, I’m forced to pull up my chair at the corner of the table, as all attention and smiles aimed at me.

From that point on, I find myself in the midst of developing several new friendships.

After Monday’s group of about 15 spent three minutes disagreeing on how long the group had been in existence, as well as questioning my French experience, I begin to receive my formal introductions.

The woman closest to me, effectively serving as my guide through the meeting, is Therese. As different members walk up to me, peep at my computer screen to see what I’m writing, and flag down my attention from across the table, Therese points to faces and utters names.

Club members speak in French and continuously say, “I forgot you don’t speak French.” Therese puts a comforting hand on my arm, as if to say, “I know this is overwhelming,” and translates nearly every comment.

We’re becoming quick companions.

Shortly after, Helene makes her way to our corner of the table and begins to teach me French phrases, along with Therese.

I ask, “How do I say, ‘I am a journalist?”

“Je suis un journaliste,” answers Therese, making sure my spelling is correct.

“Tout le monde parle trop,” says Helene, as I look up with a confused look on my face.

“That means, ‘Everyone is talking too much,’” says Helene laughing.

I would give Helene a majority of the credit for helping me loosen up. She’s leaning over my shoulder to the point where we are nearly cheek-to-cheek, but she does not care. She wants to see what I’m writing.

As a writer, I’m usually averse to allowing others to see the product before it’s finished. But in this case, I could not care less.

No way I can say no to Helene.

I figure that while I’m here, I will ask the group about the essential phrases that could benefit me some day in an argument with my significant other.

“How do you say you’re sorry?”

“Je regrette,” answers Helene and Therese.

I ask about ‘goodbye’ and ‘hello’ and a few others, and the friendships continue to sprout, along with the laughs.

One French Club member gets up from her seat, walks over to me, leans down and says, “There it is!”

She kneels down and picks up her lipstick from under my chair. On her way up, she says, “Don’t worry, I’m not trying to get fresh with you.”

That’s Ginette, the self-proclaimed singer and joke-teller of the group.

At this point, every comment from Ginette, Helene, and nearly every other member have me laughing out loud.

Bernard is the computer whiz of the group. Everyone in the room raves about Bernard’s skills with the computer.

I begin to ask how to spell everyone’s name and as I type the names, Bernard is looking for more than just the correct spelling.

“You have to put the accents,” says Bernard, turning the computer towards him.

“Wait, is this a Mac? I don’t do Macs.”

Bernard shakes his hands and walks back to the other side of the table.

I begin to type the names and Helene claims I misspell ‘Bernard.’ Michele objects and Helene insists.

“I know how to spell it, he’s my husband,” says Michele.

I’m really busting up at this point.

But as I’m listening to the lighthearted conversation and fun-poking between the group members, I can’t help but see what the group is really about. They may not be the most serious bunch, but they are serious about the friendships they have created with one another.

I learn that they refer to themselves as a social group. Weekly, they share stories of their weekends, French movies they’ve seen, tell jokes, eat and cook together, and also spend time in each other’s homes.

I learn that there are members of the group from Canada, France, Greece, Iraq, New Zealand, Egypt, Italy, Chile, Algeria, El Salvador and Serbia.

I learn that the group began with about six and is now over 20. And according to Ginette, “If a holiday falls on Monday, we come on Tuesday. We can’t stay apart for two weeks.”

Some members are from Daly City, some are from San Mateo, and some are from other places across the Peninsula.

But on Monday, the group of seniors convenes at the same place. They come to speak in French, mixed with a bit of English, and continue to work on the friendships that mean the most to them, such as Therese and Ginette, who have known each other for over 30 years.

“Tout le monde parle trop,” said Helene, joking of the group member’s propensity to chatter constantly.

“Mais nous sommes ici pour cela,” says Ginette with a smile.

“But that’s what we’re here for.”