For the longest while, Emilia stood in front of the Centre Danse du Marais. It wasn’t her dream school, but it was still amazing to be standing there, in Paris, France, in front of the place that would be her home for the summer. Emi felt bad to have left her family so suddenly, but she hadn’t expected to get into the ballet school. She’d sent an application for the dance intensive and had been sent a request to submit a video audition, and voila! She’d been accepted into the summer intensive programme.
It was a small step to achieve her dream of one day being a principal dancer at the Opéra national de Paris, but it was a step nonetheless. Emi had once fluently spoken French, but that was so long ago. Sure, she’d taken classes, but it wasn’t often that she spoke conversational French. Stepping through the doors of the Centre Danse du Marais was like walking into the Twilight Zone. It seemed like everyone was talking gibberish around her, but she soon realised that it was the nervousness getting the best of her and she switched the focus of her brain. She approached the front desk with a friendly smile, contrary to the not-so-friendly face waiting to greet her. The woman look like some had played a really bad prank on her just before she came to work. “Bonjour,” said Emi. She was about to say more but the woman interrupted. “Puis-je vous aider?” “Uhm…” Emi quickly removed the documents from the large envelope she held in her hand. It was her acceptance letter. She nervously handed it to the woman. “Papiers?” Emi grabbed her wallet from her bag and struggled for a moment to get her ID card out. She handed it to the woman and tried to keep from nervously bouncing on her feet. Moments later, she was directed to a classroom. A very large classroom filled with students who seemed way too good to be there. Emi’s jaw dropped. She was still busy staring when someone nudged her. “Ça va? On dirait que tu as vu un fantôme.” “Huh? Uhm…” Emi looked at the girl and rubbed her head, trying to recall her French. Just as she was about to reply, the girl chuckled. “English?” Her own English was accented. “Sorry. I’m Anne-Laure. You look like you can use a friend.” Emi’s body language physically relaxed. She smiled, a little embarrassed. “Hi Anne-Laure. I’m Emilia. My French is usually better but I’m really nervous.” “C'est bon. We’ll work on it.” The very Asian-looking girl grabbed her arm and already started dragging her, babbling on about where the lockers were and such. Emi was curious about the girl. Maybe if they really did become friends, Emi would figure out a polite way to ask her why she looked Asian, had a French name and spoke the language perfectly. She wondered if she was as much of a puzzle to the girl as she girl was to her. Only time would tell, she figured.
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Emilia at a glanceNames: Emilia Paris van Loon Archives
April 2017
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