Webby

Growing up in Sweden, the rules were simple, unspoken, and absolute: to be sharp, to be modern, to be cool, you spoke English. It wasn’t just a subject in school; it was the atmosphere we breathed. I carried that confidence with me for decades, feeling perfectly equipped for the world because I had mastered its global language.

Then, I arrived in Quebec.

I was nearly fifty, and I arrived with the unshakable, ingrained Swedish belief that if you just tried hard enough, you could navigate anywhere. Even before I moved, while Gerry was trying to explain the reality of a French-speaking province, I remember thinking, “Well, if I get stuck, I’ll just find a teenager!” In my innocence, I was certain that the youth, wired into the Internet age, would be fluent in English.

I was wrong.

Quebec didn’t care about my English. I remember the first time someone looked at me, genuinely baffled, and blurted out, “Don’t you speak FRENCH?!?!!”
The tone wasn’t just a question; it was an accusation of planetary displacement. In that moment, the world didn’t just tilt—it shattered. I felt like an alien in my own skin. I was living in a strange, muted, English-speaking bubble, watching the vibrant, Francophone life of the province happen just outside the glass, waiting for the day I’d finally be invited in.