Pawn to Berkeley

I'm heading back to my native land.

This means I will take a plane.

I hate flying. Hate. Hate. Hate. By day, I am a rational human being. By plane, I am a gibbering mass of unintelligibility that vaguely resembles something that might have once had a semblance of a rational character. Not a semblance! But a semblance of a semblance. It's that bad. I've stuffed my brain full of facts on the safety of aviation but it doesn't help. I cry inside for the duration of the flight. When it gets really bad, I hide in the airplane bathroom: being in the enclosed space helps me to imagine that I'm actually *on a train*. Choo choo! ... Aren't drugs supposed to help with this?

WELL, once I get back to Berkeley, I will be taking a course in French. I've had some French classes before, but not enough to really cement the language in my consciousness. I emailed a local French institute with the details of my French studies and they responded saying they thought that the intermediate level would be suitable - and they attached the courses and dates - but that they would (essentially) like to conduct a placement test via phone. So I phoned. I conversed in mangled French for about 5 minutes and then this happened:

Teacher: Hm...I think the Wednesday class would suit you best.
Me: Oh...that class...doesn't appear to be in the intermediate section. (Thinking she's bumping me down to the beginner level.)
Teacher: No. It's in the advanced...you converse so readily.
Me: THAT'S ADVANCED?!?
Teacher: ...I didn't want to tell you. *laughing*

Good gracious, are our language skills so bad or...am I just that good? I tend to think our language skills are just that bad and now, in addition to grade inflation, we have level inflation as well. 'cause, honey, I ain't that good.