Three semesters after her first fateful French class in a chic school in Florentine, Ori J. Lenkinski is once again in love with learning

By Ori J. Lenkinski

A little over a year ago, I received an email from my sister about a new French school that was set to open in Florentine. I have had an on-and-off affair with the language since the ninth grade, when I decided that my ballet background would be a real leg-up with the linguistics. Naturally, four years of high school French brought me to the lukewarm speaking level set aside for four-year-olds and people with overwhelming learning disabilities. I blame my teacher. After 13 years of Hebrew studies at the same academic institution, I found myself similarly stunned like a small rodent in headlights every time someone asked me a question in an Israeli accent.  Again, I blame my teachers.

There was something about that email that made me pack up my long forgotten school supplies and head down to the “hip” part of town.

Three semesters have gone by since that first, fateful class. What was once a masochistic two hours of humiliation, stuttering and blushing a color I try to avoid has become three hours I look forward to all week. It has truly reinstated my love for learning.

Maybe it’s the relaxed atmosphere, the gorgeous space in which we meet or the charisma that Ariel Olmert, a.k.a. Le Professeur, is rife with, but The Bathtub French School is the kind of alternative learning center I feel I have dreamed of my whole life, and certainly the chicest educational haven in Tel Aviv.

In the beginning, my group, the absolute beginners, was like a cage full of baby chicks. We were shocked and sweaty, able to speak only in little chirps of words we had gleaned from our varied surroundings. Le Professeur must have wanted to slam his head against the chalkboard most of the time. We sucked. But he and we, a group of ten or so folks just trying to get a clue, stuck to it. We used our proverbial elbow grease and now, we can hold a fairly steady conversation, one that includes past, future and present tenses.

There are still plenty of pregnant pauses, filled with pleading looks around the table and patchwork sentences, but at least for me, learning to deal with these helpless moments is just as much part of learning a language as vocabulary. In fact, I remember when I learned Hebrew, the second I admitted to myself that I was going to make a fool of myself most of the time, my speaking improved dramatically. So it is with French. Knowing I stink has freed me to stink a little less.

Often, while regaling my husband with tales of our etymological adventures, my husband asks if we are studying for real or just hanging out. It’s true that our group has turned into a kind of mah-jongg club. At the start of each class, it takes us a few minutes to clear out our petite personal conversations before we can get down to business. We drag our five-minute break out to 12, fussing with the kettle and playing with the two house animals: one little orange cat and a stout but charming pooch.

Of the 10 students in attendance last semester, seven were present on that first day when we couldn’t get it together to answer when Le Professeur asked, “Vous etes Israeliens?” The ages of my classmates range from early twenties to mother-of-a-married-man (mind you, that mom is no old lady; she dresses better than most fashionistas I know). There are actors, filmmakers, university students and one pastry chef who occasionally treats us to biscotti or freshly baked bread.

What Le Professeur teaches us extends far beyond what you’ll find at the Institut Francais or Berlitz, and by that I mean swear words, slang and how not to sound like you stepped off the set of Dangerous Liaisons. Though I worry that my limited understanding of the nuances of French conversation may potentially ensnare me in cuss-word blunders, it’s well worth the risk.

The following video shows how our class celebrated graduation:

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hzUM2Q1RGbM[/youtube]