Mealtimes proved to be the greatest challenge and finally my ultimate undoing. I was particularly uncomfortable at these sessions, acutely aware that the college cafeteria had hardly been proper training grounds for impressing a future mother-in-law with my savoir-faire in the realm of French dining etiquette. It did little good to watch Dominique and follow his example. It took no time at all for the casual observer to note the definite attitude of teenage rebellion toward his bourgeois mother in this regard.

Having been raised all my life in the fear of the jab with a fork for having my elbows on the table, how was I to know it is only polite in France to eat with both hands above the table, the arms resting against the table edge just below the elbow? Similarly, how was I to know that when one asks you to pass the salt, you are only well-educated in France if you pass the salt and the pepper together (politely ignoring the fact that only one was asked for!)? No one in French class ever told me that when I said, "I would like the meat" in French, this would mean I wanted ALL the meat; and instead, one must say, "I would like some meat"!

Little did I know, when I purposefully and neatly folded my napkin next to my plate after dinner (they still use cloth ones, you see) this is meant to give an unspoken signal to the hostess that I thoroughly enjoyed the meal and will return tomorrow! You are supposed to simply lay your napkin gently on the table, UNFOLDED! I thought I was successfully complimenting Dominique's mother when I told her the dessert was very good. I was later told this actually meant that nothing else in the meal was good, but at least the dessert was! It took me YEARS to learn the subtle differences between all these things!

In the meantime, there I was struggling between mouthfuls, trying to answer all the questions about what it's like to live in America and, worst of all, sitting right beside Dominique's father! That's right. For some strange reason, Dominique's mother deemed it proper for Dominique to be seated on one side of the table (next to her), and I was seated directly across the table from her (next to "Papa"). As I approached the table for the first evening meal with Dominique's family and realized where I would be sitting, every inch of me was in a severe state of panic!

They were, however, a gracious and kind family and every effort was made to help me feel comfortable. This only led to my undoing during the fateful dinner to which I alluded earlier. You see, their kindness succeeded in luring me to attempt to speak more openly and freely as the week wore on (even though I had to speak completely in French, for no one in the family spoke any English at all). But the result was that my guard dropped slowly over the course of the week, and I started to act more naturally. This proved fatal.

At first glance, you will surely say I'm over-reacting. The incident involved a most commonplace "faux pas," even in terms of French dining etiquette. I dropped my fork on the floor.

"Now what's so horrible about that?" you ask. Nothing. But, it is not all. You see, as I reached down to pick up my fork, I let loose a barrage of French words I had learned from Dominique and his friends which I had innocently thought meant things like: "Shucks, daggone it, phooey, darn it!"