Ooh la-literature!

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.