Generally speaking, the classes are pretty relaxed (sometimes we learn grammar and sometimes we just talk about delicious cheeses), but at the end of last year I decided to register for the DELF exam. DELF stands for Diplôme d'études en langue française and it's a diploma for non-native speakers of French offered by France's Ministry of Education. It's offered at various proficiency levels and I registered for level B2, which France describes in the following way:

One of the reasons why I registered for this particular level is that it will soon become the minimum level of language proficiency required to become a French citizen. Currently you need the equivalent of B1, but starting January 1, 2026, I understand it will jump up to B2. I, of course, don't know if I will ever need this, move to France, and/or seek to become a citizen, but it became a goal. I told myself that I wanted the diploma that proves one's French is good enough to be an actual citizen. I guess it was a way to conquer my childhood insecurities.

So I'm happy to report that I ended up taking the exam in early March and that last week I received my passing grade. I scored just under 90%. (My weakest section was the handwritten essay.) After I got the news, I came home to the below book sitting on the kitchen counter with a bow and thoughtful handwritten note from Bianca — in French I would add — congratulating me on achieving this goal. One of the first things I said was, "wait, when did you buy this? How did you get it so quickly?" And she responded with, "I ordered it a long time ago, because I knew you'd pass."

The book is called Paris Haussmann and it's a comprehensive look at Haussmann's 19th century plans for the city. It covers every scale, from the city's boulevards (morphological scale) down to individual floor plans for each building type (typological scale). It's a truly extraordinary book and it's also highly relevant to one of the things that Globizen is focused on right now, which is the building of infill housing on Toronto's major streets. The urban context isn't exactly the same, of course, but there's a lot to be learned from this human-scaled building type. So even if you aren't trying to overcome some childhood insecurity related to the French, I highly recommend you check out this book.

Cover photo via Pavillon de l'arsenal

I grew up going to a French school. For a significant portion of my early education, I had every single class -- except English class -- in French. But to be honest, I never really loved it. I had started midway through elementary school and so I always felt like my French was never quite good enough.

I was behind relative to my classmates. I needed special tutoring to get caught up (while my classmates were off learning a third language). And so I used to constantly beg my mom to take me out of French school and put me in a, you know, regular English school. I know this was tough for my mom, but her response was always steadfast: "You'll thank me when you're older."

At the time, I couldn't possibly imagine her ever being correct with this statement. But it turns out, she was. Today, I'm grateful to be able to travel to a place like Paris and kind of speak the language. (I say kind of because, hey, it's been a long time since high school!)

And I'm grateful that when I go into Mabel's Bakery across from Junction House that I can order a coffee and a croissant in French. (Most of the people there are from France. Try it for yourself. They're lovely humans.)

In fact, I enjoy it so much that I recently decided to enroll in a French class at Alliance Française here in Toronto. (Fresh $80 textbook pictured above.) Obviously the 9-year-old version of myself would be completely shocked with this absurd decision. But I guess this is just what happens when you've been indoctrinated from a young age.

Or maybe I just really want to build something in France one day.

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