Post by Eloisa James, New York Times bestselling author. Her latest book, Paris in Love, is available wherever books are sold.
Eloisa James | Credit: Bryan Derballa
It takes a certain type of witlessness to blithely set off for a year in Paris without speaking the language. Oh, I’ve spoken French at various points in my life, but for me the language is like the miniskirt: an item I relegated to the past, and think of with affection but detachment. In short, when my husband and I decided to sell our house and cars and escape to Paris for a year, children in tow, I chose not to brush up on my French, counting on a big smile to get me through most situations.
We had a wonderful year (hence my memoir, Paris in Love), but much of it was oddly devoid of words. We almost never turned on the television, and The International Herald Tribune often seemed to be sold out. I stopped browsing in bookshops, and I couldn’t understand what people were gossiping about in cafés. In short, the kind of casual learning that one absorbs from simply being in a place fell away, replaced by solitary (and silent) long walks.
As something of an antidote to silence, I developed a passion for French pop music. My son Luca was in 9th grade during our year in Paris (he is fluent and grew more so as he met young French ladies). He began downloading French pop music from iTunes: everything from Yann Tiersen’s C’était ici to Vincent Delerm’s Les piqûres d’araignée. For my part, I became fascinated by classic American rock music re-recorded in French. One day I was in a store and heard a French version of Bob Dylan’s “Blowin’ in the Wind.” It turns out there have been many covers; the one I was chasing was Richard Anthony’s 1964 “Écoute dans le vent” (despite his Anglo name, he’s an Egyptian-born Frenchman).
In the video I found online, Anthony stands in a black sweater, his hands nonchalantly pushed into his pockets, and sings while behind him musicians in narrow-lapelled suits and ties strum their guitars. His voice is lyrical, even peaceful. And here’s where I would point to language—and its cultural milieu—as deeply important. Dylan belted out that song as a protest against the American idea of manhood and its celebration of violence and war; he was singing in 1963 and ’64, when our military involvement in Vietnam was escalating rapidly.
Much though I love Anthony’s version, he turned a protest song into supper club music…it makes you wonder if he even understood the lyrics. So it was really only in listening to French music that I felt true regret about not re-learning French. I watched the city intently while writing Paris in Love; I spend most of the memoir recording its beauties.
But what I couldn’t record, or understand, was its everyday music: like the miniskirt, now reserved for my next life. The one in which I will be fluent.
Author Eloisa James talks about living in Paris.
