"You see, but you do not observe. The distinction is clear." - Sherlock Holmes in Arthur Conan Doyle's "A Scandal In Bohemia"

My ear for languages is not strong, which means that, in the French-speaking area I find myself, I have two choices;

Firstly, I can attempt to train my ears, to dissect the rolling and flowing vowels and softly-said consonants. Scanning, searching, aching for familar nouns or verbs and aurally squint intently listening for tenses, pronouns and conjunctions. This I do when in lectures, meetings or group discussions.

For once in my life, I say almost nothing.

The brain bends and I'm soon exhausted with mental effort as I try to convert spoken sounds to the written words with which I'm more accustomed, attaching unpronounced letters to establish a notion of linguistic sense. Soon, the words overpower me and the conversation merges and blurs as I lose the thread, then the needle itself, as the sewing machine turns to a quiet hum and I am lost in thought about the last phrase I interpreted.

Secondly, I can observe. In meetings, it is the responses of others, the sideways glances or brightening of eyes just before a punchline. Gestures, microscopic, indicating grandé or petité, hauté or en basse. Movements of the mouth, as if to speak, before the biting of the lip, or the twitch of the hand. The pauses to ensure a point is made, quick looks at the superior for affirmation.

For this, my ears numb. Eyes wide, watching the mouth of the speaker, the eyes all around, the flickers of faces. Lips, teeth, brow, shoulders all interacting in a symphony of message. The Philharmonic Orchestra as interpreted on mute, crescendo and decrescendo as estimated by bow speed or drumming intensity.

In the street, kids yell to eachother, in adolescent franco-anglo-moroccan hybrid, complete with german and english expletives. But they're smiling at eachother as the football game continues. Only the sworn-at is sluggish, and only for a minute or three.

I still say nothing, mute, observing. Still too scared to venture the smallest of sentences, Australian accent hampering my attempts of self expression. In three weeks, I will be in clinic, en Français. Presently, I can read the language, understand scraps and meet and greet with a few phrases of politeness.

I see and I understand. I can express myself and my thoughts to but a few. A far cry from the mother tongue of ready-made puns, expression and linguistic subtelties. I want to learn this language; a challenge to be sure. To express, to pun, to navigate novels. To navigate streets. To be understood at the supermarket when I ask where the sultanas are.

Lunch today, with a four able anglophones, left me comfortable, relaxed. At the end of the outing my registrar says;

"From tomorrow, you speak French."

Here goes.