Philippe Dupeyroux, who is French but has lived 15 years in Québéc (and yet has not tasted poutine because he says the idea of it is "indécent") says "tabarnac!" every 5 minutes, which is more often than I have heard from the 2 Québécois amongst us, Benoît and Yannick, put together. But now that he has been here two weeks, he is starting to sound french again, apparently.
When Benoît and Yannick get into a conversation I seem to no longer understand any french. This is dangerous because Benoît and I have numerous conversations in the piece in which we try to have an authentic conversation that comes out of the moment. Yesterday, he said something about ça prend la longue durée. I said, quoi? du riz? He started laughing. I said, ah, de rire!, knowing full well, that that was not at all what he said. But we were both having an hysterical fit and were connected, anyhow, in a conversation in which the words did not matter and there was no subject.
The other night I spent 3 hours on the phone with my amie ML. Almost as much as the joy of rediscovering each other was also the joy of falling into a language that I hadn't spoken for 4 years or more. The rhythms, the accents, the many languages that populate the conversation. I felt my body relax into a sense of home that was not of geography but of sound.