The Interview - Part II

One of the Rotarians in particular seemed to be in charge of the interview. He happened to look a bit like Mr. Cunningham from “Happy Days”, and reminded me of one of my favorite episodes when Mr. Cunningham dons his “Grand Poobah” hat in preparation for a Leopard Lodge meeting.

The Grand Poobah, as I couldn’t help but think of him now, glanced down at my file again, his forehead creasing like an accordion. This was a bit worrisome, as there was nothing in there that should have been any cause for surprise or concern.

“Can you share with us your reasons for picking Belgium as your host country?” The Grand Poobah looked up at me, but seemed preoccupied.

I took a deep breath, as I knew the answer which I had already trotted out at a myriad of previous interviews bordered on the verbose. “It is very important to me to learn a foreign language during my year away, and I feel that as a Canadian it is very important that I learn French, so that's why I chose Belgium. French is our nation’s second language, after all, and as I am planning on pursuing a career in International Law, becoming fluent in French would be a great advantage."

“What if you’re posted to the other part of Belgium? The part that speaks…um…” Caught in the trap of his question, the Grand Poobah looked to his colleagues for help. It was not in the offing.

"You mean the Flemish part?” I prompted.

He tried to look as though he’d known the answer all along and had just been testing me. “That’s it.” He nodded. “The Flemish part.”

Luckily I’d been coached by the Incomings not to be swayed on my choice of host country. Walk the fine line between being diplomatic and being a pushover, they counseled. Or you could end up being sent to Timbuktu.

“I’d certainly be happy to have the opportunity to learn any second language,” I answered. “But French would of course be my first choice, and would without a doubt be the most useful for my future career on my return to Canada.”

The whir of the fan filled the room as my words were absorbed.

Another one of the Polyester Pants picked up my file. “So learning French is very important to you?”

“Yes, very important.”

There was no need to tell them about how I had dropped French the year before because it was the bane of my existence and was dragging down my whole GPA, or for them to learn about how I had bounded out of my final French exam, shouting to my gaggle of girlfriends in the quad, Thank God! I am NEVER going to have to speak French again in my life!

Really what I wanted was to be sent somewhere in Continental Europe, and the only choices proposed to us Rotary students were Germany and Belgium. I had never liked the Teutonic type of man and vastly preferred wine to beer, so Belgium fit the bill. The irony of having to pretend to love the French language was not lost on me, but I had a very well-developed sense of expediency.

“What about France?” The Grand Poobah said.

“What?” My polite façade slipped.

“France,” he repeated, studying my file.

“I thought the Rotary didn’t do exchanges with France anymore.”

Rumour had it that some poor Rotary student had showed up at the airport in Paris and waited for hours, but no-one came to meet him. Apparently between the time he left Canada and the time he arrived on French soil all of his host families had changed their minds about wanting him; he ended up with no place to stay and was put on the plane back home the next day. As far as the North American Rotarians were concerned, this was the final straw.

I could hardly blame them. Their French counterparts had proved themselves to be capricious, and the last thing I wanted was for my year abroad to be in the hands of a nattily dressed, womanizing French Rotarian who drove a flashy sports car in which he may or may not pick me up at the airport, depending on his mood. I vastly preferred the staid Polyester Pant variety of Rotarian, who could always be counted on to follow through with their promises.

I contemplated the horror of having to come back home with my tail between my legs and my dreams of a year abroad in dust before anything had even begun. No way. I wasn't going to let them sway me into goign to France. There was no way I would risk such humiliation.

To be continued...