David spent last week skiing in the Alps, while I remained here in Nîmes. I was never a fan of winter sports (or any sport, really), but I did break my upper arm last year by engaging in the extremely risky activity of walking during winter, so skiing would probably result in a head injury and a broken hip. Best to avoid it.

 

 

I don’t drive here in France, because French drivers, roundabouts, and roads retro-fitted into ancient towns never intended for motor vehicles terrify me. Fear seems to be the driving force in my life, and has been so for a long time. Fear of risks and the unknown led me to study nursing (straightforward, with very black-and-white rules of engagement) instead of English (exciting, fun, and what I actually wanted to study) in university. Fear of what the bank would do to me if I defaulted on student loans kept me in a job for which I still believe I am not suited. Fear of boredom keeps me dreaming of big, expensive, unattainable goals.

 

 

With all that fear filling me up and claiming me, it’s a wonder I can actually make it out of the house once in a while whether at home in Ottawa, or here on vacation. Fear might keep me from driving here, but thankfully it’s not enough to keep me from using the trains, so I was able to do a couple of day trips last week to Montpellier and to Avignon.

I don’t know if it’s fatigue or if I’ve deluded myself into believing I understand French, but I have found the last several days here to be frustrating in that I cannot seem to understand people anymore. They seem to understand me when I address them in French, but I can’t say the same for when someone speaks to me. Interestingly, David and I were having lunch at La Table du 2 after mass yesterday, and when our server first approached our table and introduced himself, I understood very little of what he said. I did ask, in French, a couple of questions about the menu, which the nice young man answered without asking, “comment?” or “pardon?”, or worse, addressing me in English.

 

 

When he left us for a few more minutes to decide on our order, I asked David, “when did Latin become the language of the south of France?” He admitted that he understood nothing of what our nice server said either, and said, with a shrug, that it was because of dialect and accent. And then… he moved on.

This conversation opened my eyes to a fundamental difference that I suspected existed between men and women, but that I hadn’t fully appreciated until that moment. While David attributed (probably accurately) his difficulty in understanding many of the people he has met on this trip to accents and regional differences in dialect, I have taken it personally and blamed myself; I have decided that I have a language defect. In other words, David the boy has assessed the situation and resolved that there are external factors out of his control that have influenced his ability to understand people. Over in this corner, Minerva the girl has assessed the exact same situation and resolved that I am defective and delusional and personally responsible for having some challenges with communication.

This realization for me was like the Rosetta Stone of male-female communication. Is it possible that what I thought was “fear” my whole life was actually just the gender expectations and assignments of the society that shaped me? Are boys taught to have self-confidence, while girls are taught to have self-doubt?

I am laughing but also wondering where I go now to claim a do-over, an exit, or a refund.

Thanks for reading!