It's Friday, and I miss speaking French.

It's Friday. I am sitting here, reviewing this past week's events in my head, while I (try to) wait very patiently for an important call that could either transport me to the next chapter of my life, or be stored away as a great experience.

Either way, I am grateful for the consideration and opportunity.

Either or, I am at peace, and am ready to move on.

Isn't it funny that, the more experiences, skills, and abilities you accumulate through life, you sometimes forget about the basic talents that you excelled so greatly at, and enjoyed so much, as a child? People often compliment me on my writing, and although I am undoubtedly flattered, this always makes me a little sad afterwards, as their nice words and praises remind me of a time growing up when I used to pen silly poems that rhymed, and short stories that didn't make any sense in Vietnamese; a time when the idea and dream of becoming a writer and author was such a powerful one, that I aspiringly started on first chapters of future novels in both English and French whenever I had a free moment on my hands.

Oh, French. Today, I miss my command of the language I was immersed in from the age of four through thirteen, where the only time we were allowed to speak English was during English class. Our teachers kept telling us, Vous allez oublier le francais si vous ne parlez pas francais a chaque heure, de chaque jour.

Of course, we didn't listen. And of course, after many years of being educated in english in highschool and college -- after many years of not practicing it, shelving it away, not having any time or energy for it -- I did forget.

Oh, but I miss it. I really do. So, so much. Not because French is a love language, or because it is romantic, or sexy (even though it is all of those things, and more), but moreso because it was the first language other than the one I was born into that allowed me to capture the breadth and depth of my emotions and imagination -- the first language I could call mine, and not my parents', nor my parents' parents.

C'est vrai. My accent is (absolutely) terrible now. I (probably) write at a very elementary level. I (definitely) struggle to find words to express myself, and I fumble (way too often) to even spend time finding the right words.

Mais c'est vraiment pas une excuse. Je peux toujous commencer -- maintenant, aujourd'hui, cette fin de semaine.

I will be in New York this weekend, and I am giggling at all the opportunities I will get to pretend that I am visiting the city with my American friends, not understanding a lick of English when pesky men approach me at the bar. S'il-vous-plait, laissez-moi tranquille. Merci!