If
you know me at all (and by that, I mean if you’ve ever been present during one
of my sexual innuendos or are familiar with my fascination with the French language…because
to know these things is to, essentially, know me), you shouldn’t be surprised
that I selected the book Vanina Marsot’s Foreign Tongue for purely titular reasons.
By the time the buzz words “Paris,” “delectable pastries,” and “translating,”
jumped off the back of the book, I was already halfway through my library card transaction.
Turns
out, I was pleasantly surprised at how much substance this book has, especially
given the central plot. Anna, a sensible
30-something PR writer from LA, suffers a broken heart and, on an impulsive
whim, decides to run away to Paris to live in her aunt’s apartment until she
can find repair her battered emotions.
(And let me quickly insert here that if every American girl had the
means to whisk herself away to a foreign country and indulge in buttery
croissants and beautifully unattached men every time she got dumped…well, let’s
just say there would be absolutely no hope for American men!) During her stay she’s employed as an English translator
for—brace yourselves—an erotic French novel (and yes, you will be privy to the
text she had to interpret, should you choose to embark). Add to this the prospect of the exotic yet
sensitive Olivier, who quickly becomes Anne’s love interest, and I thought I
had all the makings of my official trashy summer read.
And
not to say that I didn’t indulge a bit myself in selecting this book (especially
given the more sobering one I read prior to it). But because this is basically a Harlequin
dipped in French culture, I learned a lot about their views on love, and I’ve
got to say (and forgive me for sounding cliché here) that I understand now why they're considered such experts on it.
Without giving away too many juicy details of this delightful read
(which I would recommend you enjoy at a coffee shop with—what else?—some
chocolate dipped madeleines!), I will try to sum up their philosophy in one quote,
a word of advice given to Anna from one of her French girl friends:
“I
think, dans la vie, en général, you should be romantic, even impetuous,
about falling in love, and pragmatic about getting over it, and not l’envers…This idea of caution, it’s
stupid. As if you can control it.”
I
don’t know about you, but the slightest idea of romance is like injecting my
brain with about 30 of those five-hour energy shots. But really, there should be little to no
thinking required when it comes to love.
In addition to learning how to talk dirty to someone in French, I’ll
take that lesson away from this book as well.
Here’s to hoping that someday, both will come in handy.
