Long ago, I was proficient in French. I remember M. Delakas, my French professor, having our advanced French class over for dinner.  I spent the evening speaking quite adequate French, although my accent left much to be desired.   

Years later, on a trip to France with Peter and Jeremy (who was then thirteen), we went to lunch somewhere near the Paris flea market, and when the bill came, Peter (who learned French chauffeuring some rich French man’s kids around for a summer) noticed it was incorrect.  His ‘Je crois qu'il y a une erreur’ to the waiter was impeccable, and our bill was adjusted.  So, I pretty much let him do the talking throughout our trip. 

In 2008, our son Seth took a journalism job in São Paulo, Brazil, and a visit to him was my ears’ first exposure to Brazilian Portuguese.  I managed to learn pão de queijo, my favorite breakfast item, but not much more. 

So why at my advanced age have I decided to learn Portuguese? Believe me, I ask myself that every day.  In my in-person class are eight people.  I believe the closest in age to me is four decades younger than I.  Even worse, I missed the first class meeting so I am scrambling to catch up.   But my marvelous trip last fall to Brazil’s Pantanal, and Seth’s recent purchase of a home in São Paulo where he spends about half of each year has given me the incentive to try.

Wish me luck.