Je ne t'oublierai jamais, silly goofy French summer camp

It is just before midnight on July 6th when my taxi drops me off at Pavillion Alphonse Marie-Parent, the student residence headquarters of Université Laval. Having scraped by on broken French in the cab ride, I am admittedly nervous about my decision to move to Québec. I take a deep breath in, remind myself that if I was brave enough to spend a month solo backpacking through Europe, then I am brave enough to be here too.

—

I joined the Explore program not because I had university credits to fulfil, but because I genuinely longed to learn French. I was never a French immersion student (I didn’t even know immersion was an option until eleventh grade) but from fourth grade until my first year of university, I was ever the keener in my French classes. Then in second year, my progress stalled because I never made it off the waitlist for my 200 level course. I took gender studies 101 instead, a course that changed the trajectory of my life. I don’t regret the way my university path unfolded - I never would have come out as bisexual or started advocating for comprehensive sexual education without it. But for seven years, I let my second language slip away from me, and that part I have always regret.

Last year, my declining language abilities came to a head at a café in Montréal. I couldn’t remember how to order my breakfast; words coming out wrong, I had a full-blown, very public panic attack. I was deeply disappointed in myself; I was in love with a Francophone I badly wanted to be bilingual for and felt I had failed us both. “Learn French for your career”, he would plead, and I would insist “But this is for you first”. Soon after, I put my name in a lottery draw for five free weeks of French immersion classes - for me, for him, and what I thought would be for us.

—

A year later, I was begrudgingly single and dreading the summer I was about to spend at French camp. I loved the language, but with an entirely Anglophone circle of loved ones, I now had no one to speak it with. Learning a language alone felt pointless. I was travel fatigued and homesick after a month on the road, kicking myself for not resting between adventures. I was also judging myself hard for my decision - most of my friends had taken this program in their early twenties, and at twenty-six, I felt behind the rest of my peers for prioritizing a language program over my career progress.

All my reservations were amplified by the summer camp atmosphere of the program: the coloured bracelets we had to wear at all times, the “cartes vertes” we would receive from our animateurs/animatrices every time we spoke French, the excursions (field trips, basically) they guided us to. “Vous êtes capable”, they would say to me when I instinctively broke into my mother tongue. Whenever they weren’t looking, I rolled my eyes like an angsty teenager; but deep down, I knew they were right. I was capable. I just needed to commit.

Living in Quebéc and committing to speaking French - not just in class or on our excursions, but in all of my day-to-day interactions - felt like the most nerve-wracking French exposure therapy that I could think of. But I knew I wanted to show my old perfectionist self that I could make mistakes and keep going. That no matter how many years had passed, I still retained more than I thought. That pushing through this could make me fall in love with learning a language for the sake of learning it again.

—

I was more capable of thriving in this environment than I was giving myself credit for. But to make the most of my summer, I had to stop trying to beat the program, and start joining it. In came an invitation from one of the girls in my class - “Shaker tonight?” she offered. Shaker was a restaurant-turned-student bar that all the early twenty-somethings partied at on Wednesday nights. I mulled over whether to go. I had class the next morning, and I felt immature for prioritizing going out over studying. But I also knew that an important part of falling in love with the French language was experiencing local Quebécois culture - so who cared if some of those experiences were a little juvenile?

“I’m in”, I texted, and met the girls on a residence balcony. We shared our life stories, and I opened up to them about the book I was writing. They promised me they would each order a copy one day. A few drinks and giggles later, we grabbed our rental vélos and biked to Shaker. Inside was an atmosphere straight out of my undergraduate days: girls toting wine bottles, smokers huddled on the patio, pop music videos projected on the walls. “Let’s dance,” I declared, leading our quad to an empty spot on the dance floor. We made friends with a trio of locals who laughed at us for not knowing any French songs. Before any of us could get into any true mischief - we all had class in six hours, after all - we snuck around the corner to a greasy pizza joint and shared our communal garlic dips in generous girl fashion.

A few days later, another girl from my class invited me to Bar Ste-Angèle, a jazz bar that would grow to become one of my favourite places in Quebéc. No matter the night, it was a vibe; moody dim lighting, musicians electrified by their passion, fairy drawings strewn around the room. Our group spoke broken Franglais to a sweet server, and though my cocktail was awful, the pictures we hyped each other up for made up for it. Walking out after a melodic set, one of my friends went back to ask for a local’s number. I gave them their space while the other girls watched obnoxiously through the window. When she got the number, we all cheered.

The following morning, I headed out on one of our program’s planned excursions, a white water rafting trip down the Jacques-Cartier River. After a lengthy safety demonstration, everyone kitted up in wetsuits and paddles and set off. Every time we rowed over a rapid, our group piled into our raft in a fit of giggles. We made stops along the way for swimming and cliff jumping. When it started pouring rain, we parked ourselves on a flat rock to eat granola bars, drink juice boxes and admire the petite grenouilles that hopped around us. When my teeth started chattering, my guide took note and wrapped me in an oversized fleece sweater for the rest of my journey. I left feeling like a little kid on a field trip in the most lighthearted of ways.

—

Midterm week marked the start of my birthday celebrations. Truth be told, I was dreading my twenty sixth birthday; I had spent the past three summers throwing larger-than-life themed parties with the Francophone; without him to grow older alongside, I felt like I didn’t have anything to celebrate. “I wish I could skip the day entirely,” I told my therapist, and made a vow to myself not to expect anything more than a medium-feeling day. Fortunately, the girls in my program had other plans for me.

I was lucky enough to share a birthday with one of my closest classmates, and we threw not one but two girls nights out together. The first brought us to jjacques, a speakeasy hidden behind a nondescript doorway in Saint-Roch. I made the mistake of biking (and getting lost on the way) there, so I was the last of my party to arrive. The girls didn’t bat an eye at my lateness and simply placed a cocktail menu in front of my plate as I settled in. One of them wore a shirt that matched mine - both definitely purchased at the Aritzia sale in the mall nearest our dorm rooms. We shared a laugh about it, then dove deep into a group conversation about collaborating on a book together (one girl would tell the story orally, I would ghost write it, and two others would design its front and back covers - see how girls get shit done!). We luxuriated our small plates of octopus and oysters and sauntered into the street to start our soirée.

We headed to Phoenix, a jaunt with two incredibly different vibes. Up top was a mostly empty dance floor, decorated by a single acoustic guitarist playing French cult classics. In the basement was a rave-y nightclub, obnoxiously flanked by shutter shades and lasers. I laughed at the juxtaposition of it all. We each grabbed a pair of shades and hit the dance floor until overstimulation got the better of us. Back on the streets of downtown Quebéc, we ran into one of the local Quebécois trio members, who led us to a club flilled with edgy, well-dressed techno lovers reminiscent of my early summer nights spent in Berlin. I was keen to stay, but the girls made an executive decision for us to head home - we had energy to conserve for our next night out, after all. I spent the bus ride back to campus chatting with our peers as they returned from their respective nights out. Quebéc was a city small enough to run into people everywhere I went; a quality that made it quickly feel like home.

—

Saturday began with a zip-lining group excursion. The girls and I boarded the mid-morning bus with anticipatory chatter about night out number two. Upon our arrival, we geared up in carabiners and harnesses, and headed out on an obstacle course tucked into Boreal forest. A huge fan of heights, I navigated the afternoon with ease, shrieking joyfully as I launched myself off of zipline platforms hundreds of metres above the river below.

The girls convened on the back of the bus to begin plotting what we would need for the night ahead: cake, candles, wine. I got myself ready (which devolved into a lengthy solo karaoke dance party), and bussed to the Hilton, cake and candles in hand. I cut to the hotel bar to kindly request a knife and brought the goods up to our room. We turned our cake into a photo prop and our hotel beds to a dance floor. As Dua Lipa’s “Don’t Start Now” played in the background, I stared at my friends in admiration, thinking, This is the epitome of girlhood, and I wouldn’t change it for the world.

The rest of the night was silly goofy fun spent at Dagobert, the infamous Quebéc club and subject of most memes posted around our animateurs’ office. The birthday girls (myself included) strutted in party hats as everyone in the club said some variation of “Joyeux anniversaire!” and “Quel âge as-tu?”. We bumped into our other friends in the program as house remixes blared and foam poured from the ceiling - the Quebécois really do know how to party. Sitting on the patio for a donair and debrief, the girls and I detailed our dating lives, declaring “We all deserve the best” before getting each other safely home in shared taxis.

—

Sunday was a solo day. I took my vélo downtown, making a pit stop in Montcalm along the way. The sweet baristas at Olive Café told me I spoke French very well, which made my heart melt. I went vintage shopping and bought myself an iconic red lace jumpsuit in preparation for Osheaga the following weekend. I dedicated the rest of the afternoon to writing, the ritual that fills my cup most. I fuelled up for the afternoon with drinks and snacks at de Terroir Café and Carrotte Joyeuse Épicerie Santé, then settled into a seat at Bibliothéque Claire-Martin and wrote until close. On my vélo ride home, I played a little game with myself, challenging myself to pull over and take a photo every time I saw something beautiful. I had to pull over four times.

Monday brought me to Montréal for a whirlwind visit. I caught the bus after class to reconnect with a friend I hadn’t seen in years but never stopped feeling close to. I was incredibly nervous to practice my French with him (a native speaker), but he pushed gently past my nerves and pointed out that my ability to pick up the language after a seven year hiatus was something to be proud of. We caught up on our lives and lovers, and he didn’t flinch when I teared up sharing my hard chapters. When the server surprised me with a candle-adorned passionfruit pavlova (something he told them to bring out when I wasn’t looking), I nearly cried tears of joy. He got me back to my bus and stayed awake until I got home to my dorm room safely; a much needed reminder of the caring circle that surrounds me.

—

The celebrations continued through to Tuesday, my actual birthday. That morning, I let myself sleep in and brought cupcakes to share with my classmates; something special for my summer baby inner child who never got the opportunity to growing up. In the afternoon came a canoe expedition, another planned excursion with the program. My group paddled down the Saint-Charles River, admiring Hurons and gushing in French about our favourite books along the way. When we got to shore, I showed one of the animatrices my website and mentioned that I’d written a new post about turning another year older. She ducked away to whisper something to the other animateurs, and I instantly knew what was coming next.

“BONNE FÉTE TAYLEUUUUUUR” sang a chorus of people around me, followed by “Chanson Quebecoise d'Anniversaires”, a birthday-ified version of the Quebécois anthem “Gens du Pays”. I smiled big while eating my birthday cake (a two-bite brownie). We loaded back into our canoe and paddled toward a perfect summer backdrop; sun glimmering golden on the water, cicadas humming in the distance. My group got deep into a discussion about “fréquentations”, arriving at the same conclusion all girls do - we deserve better than “u up?” texts and being left on read for days.

Getting off the bus, I got ready and bussed downtown to catch the last jazz set at Bar Ste-Angèle with my girls. I knew better than to order a lousy cocktail this time, and sat in a booth soaking in the music instead. When the other girls finished theirs, we got the check and headed toward home. None of us were dressed properly to ride a vélo - we were all in skirts and heels, not helmets - but we did it anyways. We got honked at but not pulled over, which we declared a success. “Bonne nuit!” I sang out as we parked our vélos in their charging stations. “À bientôt!” they called back, waving as we walked back to our respective residence buildings.

I felt sad that my birthday was drawing to a close, something that surprised me considering the complicated feelings I’d been holding in its anticipation. I checked my phone and mailbox, surprised with an outpouring of love from friends and family all over the world. Some had eagerly texted me before midnight. Some wrote me paragraphs to tell me what my writing meant to them. Others called and sent voice memos because a text didn’t feel big enough to celebrate me. One recorded a video with their dog and mom to show me I was a part of their family. And my own, very Anglophone family wrote me a card in French to tell me how proud they were of my language journey.

The Francophone did not text me. I cried about that. And still, I went to sleep with a full heart, reminded that I was deeply loved and worth a celebration all my own.

—

Week four was marked by Soirée chic, my program’s prom night equivalent. I put on a long black dress, my hair up in a bow, and headed to the bleachers with a bottle of orange wine in tow. A group of us had “girl dinner” together: charcuterie and cherries, mostly. We spent the evening talking about the places we came from and what we planned to do with our newfound language skills next.

Prom night itself was a bust; I caught the last hour of terrible music on a mostly empty dance floor. My favourite animatrice was there; we shut the event down together, laughing in Franglais about the ridiculousness of our silly goofy summer French camp. Bust aside, watching the sun set over a football field before going dancing was the embodiment of a high school movie I never got to star in but always wanted to. If bringing cupcakes to class was for my inner child, then Soirée chic fulfilled the desires of my inner teenager.

—

Saturday morning brought with it a cidery tour, another one of the program’s planned excursions. Whoever planned for it to be at ten in the morning was playing a cruel joke on us, I think; every cider we tried tasted sickly sweet. However, the grounds of Cidrerie Verger Bilodeau, a tiny quaint barn nestled on the back of a sprawling orchard, more than made up for it. I could see rolling hills in the distance that reminded me of my own, back home in Riding Mountain. Wandering toward them, I noticed one of the guys in the program doing the same. We chatted about our respective career paths in French and the cultures we belonged to in English. As I began sharing about Anishinaabe ceremonies, I saw my first ashkibagoog of the summer, fluttering on swaying milkweed. Ashkibagoog, a symbol of my ancestors. “Boozhoo, nookomis!” I greeted her, giggling. I explained their significance to my family, and he told me my history was beautiful. “How can I learn more about your culture?” he asked. I told him to hit the Powow trail and watch us dance.

—

The rest of my afternoon in Île d'Orléans was split between eating ice cream and visiting Parc de la Chute-Montmorency. I was heading to Montréal again that afternoon, and one of the girls was kind enough to provide me a comprehensive list of recommendations from her perspective as a local. The Montmorency waterfalls and flora around them were beautiful, albeit buzzing with tourists. I had just long enough to snap some photographs before calling an Uber to my next adventure.

Montréal was one of the highlights of my summer. I was lucky to stay with a friend I reconnected with during my time in Barcelona, and she showed me all the best places. We ate at Bar Bara, danced at Bar Baby and thrifted at Marché Underground. Our Osheaga day was spent watching Tyla, Hozier and Sza in awe and sneaking into VIP sections we had no business being in. On Monday morning, we strolled through the fruit stalls of Marché Atwater and admired the flowers of Daisy Peterson Sweeney Park, where two older women told us that the positive energy of our spirit guides were emanating around us (a little woo-woo for me, but I appreciated the sentiment nonetheless). It started raining shortly after that, which could onlly mean one thing: indulging in comfort carbs from St-Viateur Bagels. Belly and heart full, I caught the bus back to Quebéc for my last week of the program.

—

Tuesday was a solo day packed with all my favourite things: vintage shops, cute cafés, art exhibits. Café Pekoe was a dream with its tall ceilings, sublime matcha and great gay barista vibes. Limoilou was super cute, adorned with neon picnic tables, spiral staircases and grand murals. I drooled at the interior of José Fleuriste, a hanging plant store with an iconic red and checker aesthetic. After buying my afternoon caffeine (an almond cherry iced latte from Café Saint-Henri), I made my way to Nina Pizza for a solo dinner date; there was something deeply gratifying about knowing my French was better than that of the local beside me. In the evening, I wandered the McNicholl exhibit of the Musée National des Beaux-Arts de Québec to ponder the feminist subtext of women’s art in the early twentieth century. The museum was filled with other moving artworks too: commentaries on capitalism and climate change, Expo 67 relics, a residential school embroidery piece so powerful it brought me to tears. My creative cup full, I caught the bus home - I had to fit in studying at some point.

—

Thursday night marked the silliest, goofiest memory of them all: our program talent show. For weeks, our professor made us practice the song “La Bohème”, which we sang in unison to an audience of two hundred program participants. Did we have any raw talent? No. But we had stage presence, and that’s all that mattered. When we won the competition for garnering the most cartes vertes, we erupted into cheers and a group huddle on stage. It was then that it hit me: I would really, really miss this place.

Friday was our last day of class, which we spent staging improv sketches in small groups. Every single one was cringeworthy; but as our professor reminded us, our colloquial French interactions in the future would all be improvised, so we may as well get used to it. That night, I trekked through a rainstorm to attend my last party of the program. I, like most people, arrived so dripping wet that I had to borrow clothes from the host. The girls and I had (a digital camera-documented) fashion show in our oversized borrowed sweatpants and laughed our way through rounds of Flip Cup (often interrupted by impromptu dancing). I went home early to get a decent sleep for my final exam, but smiled at the younger twenty-somethings, whose night would carry on without me into the early morning.

My final exam was easy, thankfully. I didn’t know what to do with myself when it ended - I couldn’t believe the program was coming to an end. I made my way to the Animateurs’ office for the last time, filling up my mug with free coffee and hugging my newfound friends. “À la prochaine,” we all insisted, none of us ready to commit to a final goodbye. That night, I went to Chez Tao with one of my closest friends from the program, someone I got so deep with that we both teared up at the table. Grappling with where I would work and live after this, she reminded me that going home was nothing to be ashamed of - that sometimes, it is exactly the thing we need.

I spent my final full day biking the little city I had grown to love, stopping to enjoy its beautiful scenery along the way. My closest friend and I were the last of our cohort to leave Quebéc; having the extra day to process was something we both needed. We went on a long walk and mused about what would come next.

As I hugged her, she said, “I think I’m ready to go now”.

“Me too,” I replied, squeezing her tight. This chapter had gifted me everything I needed from it, and could now come to a close. Knowing that, I set off again: to Montréal, to Ottawa, and finally, back home.

—

Looking back, I’m so grateful I had a group of vibrant younger girlfriends to pull me out of my trepidatious shell and into the fold of their silly goofy adventures. Together, we did it all: hiking, biking, rafting, canoeing, dancing. With their support, I released my grip on being a grade A student, and let myself buzz with genuine excitement and enthusiasm in class. I took myself on solo dates to practice colloquial French in shops and restaurants. I earned my cartes vertes, and wore my silly little bracelet religiously, and even made friends with some of the animatrices. By weeks four and five, I was actually excited to partake in prom and the talent show. And by the end? I was crushed to leave. 

I still rehearse my coffee orders in French before I say them. I still feel sheepish speaking around my fluent friends. I still have a long way to go before I can say I’m completely bilingual. But I am proud of myself for putting myself out there, over and over, and growing ever more comfortable laughing at my mistakes along the way. 

I’m glad I didn’t rush to grow up this summer, because everything meant for me found me when I was ready. I still have an entirely Anglophone circle of loved ones, but that will change when I start my next French class later this fall. The homesickness and travel fatigue that plagued me at the start of July dissipated as soon as I made it home to Winnipeg. As for the career I was so worried about? I sorted out my next job within two weeks of the program ending.

When I began tending to my playful inner child and allowing myself to live in the present moment, the other pieces fell seamlessly into place. Maybe that, more than French grammar, was the lesson I needed to learn this summer.

Learning French still carries grief with it, and I am sad not to share my reinvigorated love for my second language with the Francophone I thought I would spend my life with. I don’t know when we’ll speak again, but whenever we do, I know I’ll be proud to tell him how far I’ve come - both in learning French and letting go of my anxiety around it. And should he ever ask why I decided to pursue French after he left me, I’ll tell him he was right:

C’était toujours pour moi d’abord.

—

Translations:

Je ne t'oublierai jamais - I will never forget you.

Cartes vertes - Green cards.

Animateurs/Animatrices - Animators/entertainers (in my case, camp counsellors).

Vous êtes capable - You are capable.

Vélo - Bicycle.

Petite grenouilles - Little frogs.

Soirée - Evening or party (both, in this context).

Joyeux anniversaire - Happy birthday.

Quel âge as-tu? - How old are you?

Épicerie Santé - Health food store.

Bibliothéque - Library.

Bonne fête - Happy birthday.

Chanson Quebecoise d'Anniversaires - Québec birthday song.

Gens du Pays - “People of the country”. The unofficial national anthem of Québec.

Fréquentation - Someone you see frequently but aren’t dating (think situationship).

Bonne nuit - Goodnight.

À bientôt - See you soon.

Soirée Chic - “A chic evening” (in this case, prom).

Cidrerie - Cidery.

Ashkibagoog - Monarch butterfly. *Anishinaabemowin

Boozhoo - Hello (Formal). *Anishinaabemowin

Nookomis - Grandmother. *Anishinaabemowin

À la prochaine - Until next time.

C’était toujours pour moi d’abord - It was always for me first.