“Say it again,” he shouts, frustrated and bitter. “Comment tu t’appelles.”

You had been excited to study abroad in Paris, expecting picnics by the Seine and strolls in the Tuileries. When you got there, you realized the impossibility of existing there sans speaking French.

It was nearly impossible to get a tutor on such short notice—every recommended one was booked. So when you finally found one, you didn’t question it and automatically hired him.

Your tutor, a struggling writer named Aurèle Varnier, lived on a third-floor walk-up in a corner of Montmartre that took you an hour to find amidst winding, thin streets. Even having budgeted extra time to get there, you’d arrived a half hour late.

As soon as you got to the apartment, littered papers, notebooks and pens on every surface, Aurèle was anything but forgiving. Now, he was teaching you basic sentences and seemed like he wanted to stab you with the fountain pen on his desk.

Rubbing his forehead, he muttered a string of swears, in French, under his breath. How would you ever make it through a semester of lessons with him?