My father wrote his long twisted memoirs in French. Even though, until the end, his French was the equivalent of my English now: Acceptable, but limited. Anyway, who would have read his writings in Slovenian before his death. I wonder if he nurtured with French the relationship I have with English. A language without the embedded trauma of the first one. I keep being surprised by my internal monologue being in English, even when I imagine having conversations with French friends. Even here in Tahiti where people speak a mix of Tahitian and local French, I often realize that that I am rehearsing upcoming interaction… in English. Yes, I rehearse interaction. I am still not good at real time discussion, except when I am really good at it.