Parlez-vous français? [Open]

[Natalia LeBlanc]

Three years she had been a citizen of the United States, and still she didn’t quite understand Americans at all. That’s why Natalia loved them so much, she supposed. Her mother always ragged on Americans when she was growing up, so she guessed that might have added to her love for the Américains fous, as they were so lovingly called. Sketchpad securely in hand and her pens and pencils stashed in her bag, the woman padded thoughtfully down the hall, a dreamy smile on her face. She really was taking a liking to this place. She’d been hired three months previously, and she hadn’t actually started teaching her own class quite yet. As she was still quite new, she had been helping Mr. Anderson, one of the arts teachers on campus, with his classroom, just to see how the Americans taught their lessons. Natalia was very excited that she’d start her own class come next Monday; it was late in the semester, but she already had a few prospective students eager to transfer into her classes. Everything was set up; she’d bought all her supplies, everything was tidy and new. Now, it was just down to the countdown.

Brushing golden strands from her eyes, Natalia walked into the staff lounge, placing her sketchpad down on an empty table. Nobody was really here at the moment, but she didn’t really mind. Silence wasn’t all that bad, though noise was infinitely better. Her eyes fell on the coffee machine with a wicked twinkle. That beverage was one she’d gotten addicted to in her first year of living in New York. At first, she had to admit the stuff was revolting-it was bitter, and she tended to like sweet things. After the discovery of putting sugar and cream in it, it got infinitely better. And of course, Starbucks was a savior. She just couldn’t resist stopping in for a cup every now and then. She walked over and started the machine, waiting patiently for the coffee to make itself as she looked out the window.

It was a pleasant day in April, overall. The air was brisk outside, as she’d noticed as she’d walked here from her little apartment down in Pilot Ridge. She didn’t have a car. Natalia didn’t really feel like she needed one. Walking was better for the body, and she just loved the fresh air on her skin. Adjusting the scarf twined around her neck, she grinned as the coffee maker dinged, pulling out a cup from the cupboard and pouring herself a mug full, mixing in plenty of cream and sugar. Returning to her table, she plopped down into a seat, looking graceful despite the rather unsophisticated movement. One long drink of coffee and a burnt tongue later, Natalia flipped to a clean page, taking out her beloved pencil. It was just a general charcoal pencil, but it was her favorite, and she just didn’t let anyone touch it. That was one big pet peeve of the French woman’s; no one touched her drawing supplies. No one. She was very possessive of those little things. Tapping the eraser against her lips, she thought for a moment before letting the inspiration flow, charcoal etching blackness across the clean paper as she let go, becoming absorbed in her work.

Translation: Crazy Americans
OoC: Sorry for the crappiness, still trying to get into character with her.