Lessons from our youths

Alcohol does interesting things to people.

On Thursdays I take the commuter rail from the North Shore to the big city, and am typically one of the only poor souls traveling inbound. But it's nice and quiet, and I use that time to call my family and friends, take a quick power nap, access the free wifi (whee! public transportation!) and all that fun stuff I don't normally get a chance to do (besides accessing the internets. I do that constantly.) Last week there was one other couple on the train, seated a few seats away from my middle of the train perch (for it's the most spacious, psychologically).

So my knowledge of the french language is limited. I can say most of the bare minimum language requirements: hello, goodbye, let's go, and "je suis anana," what my older sister taught me to say before a school field trip in high school.  (Literally, "I am a pineapple." Family is the best.) Though I lack a definite fluency with the French language, there are certain nuances of any language that become apparent to even an untrained ear.  For instance, starting each sentence off with "Je suis" ("I am") is perhaps not the best way to demonstrate one's command of the French language. Apparently, this is not a deterrent for certain types of people. (Annoying people.)

"Je suis bien. Ça va?"

"Je suis fatigue. Ça va?"

(Laugh laugh laugh.)

"Je suis malade. Ça va?"

"Je suis desole."

(More raucous laughter.)

"Je suis prest."

"C'est bien!"

And so on, and so on.

For thirty whole minutes. It was sort of like listening to a parrot, but a parrot with less intelligence and way more alcohol. (But then again, I haven't met very many parrots in my life.) That was the key factor in their exchange, I discovered; the shared brown paper bag between them with, what I can only assume based on their content of their conversation, to be alcohol. It actually made me feel better to come to this realization, because I wasn't exactly grasping what was so uproariously funny about someone saying they were tired and sorry. And it's hard not to listen in when people are laughing so loudly. My curiosity got the best of me, but lesson learned. Alcohol: can make you seem pretentious and dumb, even if it's just from the point of view of that one lone girl judging you on the commuter rail.

In related news, there comes a point in any evening (or dance party, or bar mitzfah) when the most perfect end of the night drinking songs come on. Call on Me, by Eric Prydz. Don't stop believing, by Journey. Piano Man, by Billy Joel. Most anything by Cascada. Those kind of songs that have an catchy, easily learned, repetitive chorus that people can sing loud enough to forget the fact that they don't know the verse. You know, the good songs.

In college, the last call song of choice was Shout, by the Isley Brothers. It could be have been an iPod, it could have been a cover band, either way everyone kicking their heels up, throwing their hands up, throwing their heads back, and dancing. Especially towards the end of my junior year, going to a party on a warm spring weekend was sort of like attending a wedding. A wedding without the formal dress code and free cake, but with the addition of a freakish amount of twenty-somethings rhythmically flinging their bodies around like they were performing a tarentella. (I.e. an awesome wedding.)

The point I'm trying to make here, I think, is that faking French conversation while drinking during the daylight hours on a commuter rail? Pretentious. Drinking and dancing around to Shout with a ton of friends? Most awesome.

In sum (and Ale's words) just carp the diem and dance. There it is, your lesson of the week. One that we should have learned in kindergarten. Minus the drinking.