Living in another country is like traveling back in time. Not to another era, but another age. Childhood. We speak in syncopated sentences with super-simple vocabulary, while children rollerblading in the park sound as if they’re discussing the Euro crisis or Deconstructionism or maybe the meaning of life, more quickly and multi-syllablically than seems possible.
We start to read picture books. It’s odd that our daughter, who just finished The Book Thief and Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein in English, doesn’t know all the words of Kiko Le Chien in French. Stranger still, neither do we.
Here we are, reading about that silly dog who wants to skateboard in the park. “Can’t you read?” the park gardien asks Kiko, pointing to a sign that says dogs must be on leash. Of course I can’t read, Kiko thinks. I’m a dog!
Of course we can’t read everything in French yet. We’re Americans.
But here we are, sprawled on the sofa with a plucky pooch, tucking away all our experience and education, all our preconceptions about how we’re supposed to act and what we’re supposed to know. Here we are, seeing the world with kindergarten eyes, laughing at Kiko, and ourselves.