The following is the first story I told to Ann after the lecture and our agreement that storytelling would be the best way for me to improve my language skills. It is first not so much because it is the best, but because is easy to tell with my limited vocabulary.
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Several years ago I was driving from Montgomery to Tuscaloosa, Alabama. I was driving my old ’92 Volkswagen Fox (the one with a dent in the fender and an odd-colored driver’s side door.) I was accompanied by my friend, who lay asleep for most of the trip. We had miserable driving weather. It was dark, overcast, and raining. It wasn’t the kind of rain that makes you pull over to the side and wait it out. It was the kind that slows traffic, stiffens your neck, and keeps your windshield wipers in turmoil. I simply hate to have the wipers going faster than they need to be. Too slow and you cannot see, too fast and you get that awful skwelk sound of rubber on dry glass.
The normally quick drive took us an additional hour driving. We entered Tuscaloosa and my heart was glad that the drive was nearly over. We were on a heavily trafficked six-lane highway. I was cruising along nicely in the middle lane. I almost always choose the middle lane when driving in cities. You have none of the break riding action you get in the right lane from people entering and leaving the highway. There is also less tailgating from locals who feel they were meant for the race track.
As I said there was a good deal of traffic out that day and we were traveling somewhere near the 40 MPH mark. Suddenly the car in front of me began to fishtail slightly. I pumped my brakes and checked my mirrors to see if I would be able to pass into another lane. No such luck. The fishtailing worsened and the car before me did a 180-degree turn! I was literally looking the driver and passenger square in the eyes.
Those eyes were like saucers, all white. Panic transferred each car like water over a burst dam. Again I darted my eyes to see if I could get out of the way, and again I was met with traffic on each side. I pumped my brakes some more hoping the wet road would not cause me to slide. After a few terrified moments of staring at the people I might die with, the car turned another 180 degrees to face the correct way.
Control was still not with them. A moment later they skidded into the right lane, barely missing another car before they came to an abrupt stop on the embankment. Traffic had slowed during this and I was able to see that the other car’s passengers were ok.
My friend slept through the entire ordeal.
themidnightcafe.org 
You should be telling this en francaise, non?
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I believe I did when I told the story to my French tutor, but I decided to tell it in English when I wrote it for the blog.
I probably knew that, haha. Here’s my story. I was born in Detroit Mi in 1951. My folks moved us to Paris in 52 where we lived until 1956. So I became fluent in both French and English. I was told that when I was angry at my Dad I would only speak to him in French as he couldn’t understand. Pretty tricky. When we moved back stateside I soon lost the French. Now, years later we live in the Champlain Islands a half hour south of Montreal. Occasionally we head up for great food and sightseeing. I have become pretty adept at butchering the French language and being misunderstood. Different French but baffling just the same. Merci!
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That’s a great story. As you can tell I had a very hard time learning any French and never learned to speak it well. My wife is fluent however and that was a great help while we were in France. She lived in Montreal for a few month before we got married. She’s always wanted to take me there, but we have yet to make it.