Last night I went out with friends who both have accents. One is from Brazil, and one is from Lebanon. Why is it that everything you say when you have a sexy lilt to your voice sounds more interesting, wittier? Why did I have to be born in boring old Connecticut? Why weren’t my parents people of intrigue, moving us around the globe for their very important work, and providing me with the opportunity to develop an accent? Also, I should mention that these two friends are both gorgeous, so you know, the accent is just the icing on the gosh darn cupcake.
Isn’t the fluidity and beauty of a foreign inflection lovely? Think Hugh Grant narrating “About a Boy.” Think Keira Knightly and Emma Thompson in “Love Actually.” Think Penelope Cruz in ANYTHING. I have some good friends who are Swedish, and I could listen to them talk all night long. They could read me the phone book with a night cap of Chemistry 101 and I would get a dreamy look in my eye.
By the way, although I am a big Project Runway fan, I hate Heidi Klum’s accent. This is one that makes me feel like I’ve just eaten a big bowl of anchovies (which, accidentally, I ate mixed with some Kale last night, and still can’t kill the taste in my mouth. (There’s a flavor I could nuke from existence and wouldn’t miss.) Ah, but the beauty of a French accent, wafting down the streets of Paris, the sexiness of an Italian’s words, those, THOSE are chocolate to my ears.
So, today is the accent, oh gratitude. Not mine, mind you, which is NOT charming or pretty in any way. Good thing I can write!