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The teacher marched in, deeply tanned from a recent vacation, and rattled off a series of administrative announcements.I've spent some time in Normandy, and I took a monthlong French class last summer in New York.
The first Anna hailed from an industrial town outside of Warsaw and had front teeth the size of tombstones. I thought that everyone loved the mosquito, but here, in front of all the world, you claim to detest him.
She worked as a seamstress, enjoyed quiet times with friends, and hated the mosquito. How is it that we've been blessed with someone as unique and original as you?
Turnoffs: Insincerity and guys who come on too strong!!!
" The two Polish women surely had clear notions of what they liked and disliked, but, like the rest of us, they were limited in terms of vocabulary, and this made them appear less than sophisticated.
The second Anna learned from the first and claimed to love sunshine and detest lies.
It sounded like a translation of one of those Playmate of the Month data sheets, the answers always written in the same loopy handwriting: "Turn-ons: Mom's famous five-alarm chili!
My school is the Alliance Française, and on the first day of class, I arrived early, watching as the returning students greeted one another in the school lobby.
Vacations were recounted, and questions were raised concerning mutual friends with names like Kang and Vlatnya.
It was a short list, but still I managed to mispronounce IBM and afford the wrong gender to both the floor waxer and the typewriter. "Even a fiuscrzsws tociwegixp knows that a typewriter is feminine." I absorbed as much of her abuse as I could understand, thinking, but not saying, that I find it ridiculous to assign a gender to an inanimate object incapable of disrobing and making an occasional fool of itself.
Her reaction led me to believe that these mistakes were capital crimes in the country of France. Why refer to Lady Flesh Wound or Good Sir Dishrag when these things could never deliver in the sack?