I always loved the French language. Its melodic rhythms and complicated verb connotations excited me.

I was distraught when French AP was canceled my senior year of high school due to lack of student interest, but I consoled myself with the thought that college French would be better anyway.

I purposely refused to study for the placement exam, thinking that the early French classes would be enriching refresher courses. I looked forward to study-abroad and a possible French minor.

Penn ruined French for me before class even started.

French 121 met every day, dashing my hopes for a class-free Friday and complicating my already daunting schedule. I suffered through the mind-numbing workbook assignments and ludicrous class activities of the entry-level course.

For my final project, I spent hours upon hours struggling to make a travel slideshow that did little to teach me the language but much to create within me an intense abhorrence of the iMovie program. I eagerly awaited the more advanced French 130. I had high hopes.

These hopes were dashed almost instantaneously when it was announced that throughout the semester we would be acting as characters living in an apartment building.

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