French ain't easy
I've re-discovered this fact since returning to Paris, and pointedly today, while attempting to share a surfing anecdote en français.
As I approached the climax of the story, the part where I moon the entire sun-bathing population of Carmel after a shore-breaking wave planted my board in the sand, impaled me on it, and mutated my bikini bottoms from their posts as bum-encasers into ankle bracelets, I could feel the punchline kick slipping through my fingers as I paused, slack-jawed in mid-sentence contemplation, and searched the ceiling for appropriately sensational vocab.
Ah well. These discursive vacuums I'm finding myself in since arriving at CDG should be of no concern; apparently, it doesn't matter what you say, but how lovely it sounds when you say it.
As I approached the climax of the story, the part where I moon the entire sun-bathing population of Carmel after a shore-breaking wave planted my board in the sand, impaled me on it, and mutated my bikini bottoms from their posts as bum-encasers into ankle bracelets, I could feel the punchline kick slipping through my fingers as I paused, slack-jawed in mid-sentence contemplation, and searched the ceiling for appropriately sensational vocab.
Ah well. These discursive vacuums I'm finding myself in since arriving at CDG should be of no concern; apparently, it doesn't matter what you say, but how lovely it sounds when you say it.
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