faire la fête

vin
A hint not listed in the guide books: the best way to practice your French is over a glass of wine. Or several glasses of wine. In fact, one’s French is actually most fluent after a bottle or more. Throw in a couple of mixed drinks and it gets even better. Typically, one’s French is best right before they hit the floor.
Under the influence, words come more fluidly, and self-consciousness slips away. The people around you are too immersed in their own revelry to notice your errors, and, anyway, you are actually really, really good at French. You had no idea until just this moment, but your grammar is perfect, and your accent exceptional. The person to whom you are talking obviously agrees: his unfocussed eyes and slack jaw speak of deep absorption and possibly awe.
Suddenly, a world of possibilities is opened to you. You think that your future novels will all be written in French. They will be translated, of course, as a concession to the English-speaking world, but the meaning will be corrupted. No matter. You start to relate the plot of your latest project to the person beside you, only to discover that you are, in fact, alone. The party has gone elsewhere, and you have been left, empty glass in hand. They are probably all just jealous. Or buying more alcohol. “C’est la vie,” you mutter to yourself, “Rien, je ne regrete rien.”
By this time you are standing in front of the mirror talking to your reflection. The thought occurs to you that you should smoke more. French is the language of love and insouciance, so an appropriately European air of sensuality and dissipation is probably in order. You practice shrugging your shoulders and pursing your lips. This is harder than it sounds. You remind yourself to look more blasé.
The next morning you wake up, lying prostrate on the rug. The rest of the party apparently returned and continued on around you. You stand up, brushing cigarette ash off of your pants before retrieving your jacket where it lies, rolled into a ball beneath someone’s head. You say “au revoir” as you head out the door, but it comes out as a miserable croak. No matter. You need coffee, and step confidently up to the bar of the nearest café, requesting a “café crème, sill vouz plates.” The man behind the bar cocks his eyebrow at you, and, turning to the other customers, shrugs his shoulders and purses his lips. Merde.