Drunk French Granparents Club

I missed choir practice last week since Dad was here visiting and with about 60 people in the choir, despite being the new, young, American, apparently some people don't know me yet.
As I brushed sleep from my eyes I realized I somehow managed to be lulled to sleep by one of my flatmates singing along to Micheal Jackson on the other side of our very thin walls. It was 8 o'clock, I still hadn't eaten dinner, and I probably needed to change into different clothes besides the sweatpants that I "cleaned" (also known as licked) the spilled yogurt off of last week. In a hazy amble I ate a spoonful or two of peanut butter and made some toast. I have an awkward assortment of food left before I leave on Friday and there wasn't time for my usual standby of spaghetti.
I arrived at the practice room, only a few minutes late. However, I couldn't hear singing from within. Instead I found the room with two banquet tables and people milling about. I asked someone where the heck the choir practice was and was met with "here!" A celebration dinner before Christmas break. Well, how fitting because I was going to need Christ's help. French meals are incredibly stressful for me. I've made lunches in the cafeteria at school managable by figuring out who are the talkers, sitting by them and letting them do all the work. Sometimes they'll ask a question, but usually they blab away through the hour leaving me blissfully free of having to make a huge ass of myself in front of everyone with my grammar mistakes which take 5 minutes to formulate in the first place.
So crap. what the hell was I going to do. Sylvain wasn't at this "practice" apparently, so I had no fallback there and I didn't know anyone else. Both women who have rather taken me under their wings at the choir (Nadine and Jackie I believe), came to my rescue. It was apparently a bring your own plate affair as well. A paper plate and plastic cutlery were found for me, I scrounged up some food and sat down with Jackie, hoping to blend in with the wall until whenever I could gracefully leave. However this meal was different than most. They asked me questions, of course the usual basics. (Je m'appelle Anna. Je viens des Etats-Unis, pres du New York. Je suis l'assistant d'anglais au lycee lebrun. Je pars le fin d'avril. ) And conversations headed other directions. Considering I'm the youngest member of the choir by about 25 years (I was asked whose child I was when I came in and someone didn't recognize me), conversations turned to children and grandchildren. As the wine flowed, jokes were made, politicians criticized and more laughs engulfed the table. A man turned to me, "Do you know Montiange? Ummm, no (I also thought he was talking about mountains, having been listening to the conversation on the other side of me) Voltaire? A little. Montesquieu? Some." And that's where the conversation ended. Not in a terrible "you dumb American" trap I felt myself walking into, the conversation just turned. Which is good that it did because I could have actually talked about Montiange's "Of Cannibals" a lot easier than Montesquieu. I realized the beauty of the choir and the elevated average age. Run out of conversation topics? Ask about their kids. And how much they hate Sarkozy.
The Drunk French Grandparents Club aka choir is a beautiful thing. They actually want to talk to you, despite grammar mistakes and impending departure. But if you have nothing to say then there are 59 other people who will certainly jump in with something else.
The evening ending with some spontaneous Christmas and choir songs, some in French and some in English. Yes, it's choir, but I couldn't help the feeling that I was at staff banquet for Glen Spey, with the long tables and slightly out of synch singing. And I was happy I stayed. I was homesick and I still wished I had something to add to the conversation, but I was glad I stayed.