FRENCH WORD-A-DAY

Meet "Ollie," our olive tree, who will soon be dressed for Christmas with baubles, ribbons and warm white lights. Discover the story behind this unique Christmas tree in today's post. Voici "Ollie," notre olivier, qui sera bientôt paré pour Noël avec des boules, des rubans, et des lumières blanches chaudes. Découvrez l'histoire de cet arbre de Noël unique dans le billet d'aujourd'hui.

L'ARBRE DE NOËL = Christmas tree (m)

PRONUNCIATION: [lar-bruh duh no-el]

EXAMPLE SENTENCE:
Autrefois, l'arbre de Noël était souvent un olivier, avant que le sapin de Noël ne devienne plus populaire. (In the past, the Christmas tree was often an olive tree, before the fir tree became more popular.)

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

On our way to walk Ricci on the beach, I paused at our neighborhood library—an old, beat-up telephone booth with its own certain charm—to check out the latest arrivals. There, perched atop a heap of books, was a familiar cover: Almanach Provençal 2008. I’d bought a copy years ago for its delightful watercolors and snippets of French customs, and here it was again, like an old friend rediscovered.

Entering the crowded cabine téléphonique, I picked up the book and opened it, eager to learn a few cultural insights for the French holidays. Flipping to the first week of December, a whimsical watercolor of an unusual Christmas tree caught my eye. The caption read: “…the beautiful potted olive tree is brought inside to become this year’s Provençal Christmas tree…” (“…on rentrera dans la maison le bel olivier en pot. Ce sera cette année notre sapin de Noël provençal…”).

Studying the illustration of the arbre de noël, with its simple, delicate embellishments, I was instantly charmed. The olive tree, with its bowl-like shape, slender trunk, and blue-green branches, was more than endearing—it was rich with meaning…

The Christmas tree hasn’t always been a fir. In the Mediterranean, people once decorated olive trees for the holidays. With its evergreen leaves, the olive tree evokes Christ’s entry into Jerusalem and the nearby Mount of Olives. Its branches, a universal symbol of peace, make it a deeply meaningful choice for Christmas.

Tiens! L’olivier! What a refreshing change from the usual. And to my relief, there’d be no need to climb a ladder to fetch our artificial tree from storage. No more wrestling with wiry branches that needed unfurling or debating over who would help decorate this year.

With Max away in Montreal for his work in the wine business, Jackie leaving school and at a crossroads once again, and Jean-Marc preparing for his next adventure—soon to be making wine in Argentina—no one was around to assist. But the exotic simplicity of an olive tree felt like decoration enough. I could already picture it: a few ornaments, warm white lights, a crisp ribbon around the trunk, and a golden star to crown this uncelebrated savior of a Christmas tree.

Ça y est! This year’s tree was practically chosen. All we needed now was to find it.

At our local pépinière, a young autistic man was carefully watering some poinsettias—les étoiles de noël (“Christmas stars” in French). “Can you help us with an olivier?” I asked. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, growing nervous. After some encouragement, he led us past rows of scentless sapins, through a back door, and paused at a quiet corner. There, we saw three types of olive trees: tiny potted ones (which I imagined disappearing behind a pile of wrapped presents), tall scraggly ones (too sparse for ornaments), and, finally, a last possibility—ornamental trees, similar to bonsais but much taller. They had a tall price tag too!

One in particular stood out. Among all its neatly sculpted rameaux, one branch was bent back awkwardly toward the center. “Merci!” I said. “Je vais réfléchir.” But I had already made up my mind—this perfectly imperfect tree was parfait for our family. And, with a bit of girl math, I could almost justify the cost of this exotic olive tree taillé en nuage.

“Yes, thank you very much. You’ve been a great help,” Jean-Marc added. Only then did the young man return to his watering, standing a little taller, his confidence visibly blooming.

Another man came over to help carry the olive tree to our Jimny. Hearing his southern accent, I asked, “Do you know about the tradition of using olive trees as sapins de Noël?”

He grinned, tilting his head. “Ah, mais oui! C’était d’avant, ça—before we started importing Christmas trees… and Coca-Cola.” His voice carried that unmistakable Provençal rhythm, the words rolling out like a song.

It took one more colleague to help lift the olive tree into the back of our little jeep, with Jean-Marc and me pulling vigorously from the front. But our efforts were halted when the tree got stuck halfway in. Just when it seemed we would break those cloud-shaped branches with our forcing…whoosh!…our leafy prize finally slid all the way in. There wasn’t much room left in the passenger seat, but I managed to scooch in among the fragrant branches for the short ride back.

Once home, Jean-Marc and I lugged the tree into the house. With a bit of teamwork and loads of enthusiasm, we set it above the buffet. I loved seeing my husband fuss with its positioning, a small gesture that reassured me he valued the tree as much as I did, even though it might have seemed like a spontaneous buy. Quietly, we stepped back to admire this year’s arbre de Noël. It was taller than expected, its leafy branches brushing the iron beam above. And, like so many of our previous Christmas trees, it was lopsided. But that didn’t matter—I couldn’t wait to show it off to Mom, our resident art director.

“It’s fabulous!” Jules said, époustouflée. “You must keep it here year round!”
When I shared the pépinière's warning that the olive tree wouldn’t survive inside, Mom wasn’t fazed. “After Christmas, you can put it in the garden and bring it in on weekends. Too bad it wasn’t here for your dinner party last night! Why don’t you invite everybody back?”

Just when I began fretting about more guests, Mom diffused any hostessing angst by changing the topic. “What will you name it?” she inquired. This got me smiling, for while I had resorted to using girl math to justify its purchase, Mom was already a step ahead, making our olive tree priceless by adopting it.

“Voyons voir.... Let's see... How about Olivier? It’s French for olive tree.”

“Ollie it is!” Mom declared, baptizing the newest member of our family. Like the rest of us, Ollie would soon be gussied up in a sparkly something, ready to put on her best for the upcoming souper de Noël.

That reminds me… one more tradition the Provençal Almanach mentions is le pompe à l’huile, the olive oil cake—Ollie’s favorite dessert, I’m guessing. It’s one of the Treize Desserts of a Provençal Christmas, symbolizing Christ and the Apostles. After all this time, you’d think I’d know more about that, but I have never settled down enough to grasp its meaning. Comme quoi, il n’est jamais trop tard. Perhaps I’ll start by making one this year—and leave the Apôtres for later….

🫒🫒🫒

COMMENTS
Thank you for your helpful corrections and for sharing your stories. What are your plans for the holidays? What do you like to eat? Do you put up a tree? Click here to comment.

FRENCH VOCABULARY

Click here to listen to Jean-Marc pronounce all the vocabulary below

L’arbre de Noël (m) = Christmas Tree

l'almanach provençal (m) = Provençal almanac

la cabine téléphonique = telephone booth

Tiens! L’olivier =  Hey! The Olive Tree!

Ça y est = That’s it!

la pépinière = nursery

les étoiles (f) de noël = Christmas stars, poinsettias 

l'olivier = olive tree

le sapin = fir tree

le rameau = branch

merci = thank you

je vais réfléchir = I'm going to think about it

parfait = perfect

la taille en nuage = cloud pruning

le sapin de Noël = Christmas tree

Ah, mais oui! = yes, of course

C’était d’avant, ça = that was from olden days

époustouflé(e) = amazed

voyons voir = let's see

le souper de Noël = Christmas dinner

le pompe à l'huile = olive oil cake

les Treize Desserts = Thirteen Desserts

Comme quoi, il n’est jamais trop tard = That goes to show, it’s never too late

l’Apôtre = the Apostle

A gâteau aux marrons is a flat chestnut cake. You might like this 3-ingredient dessert, recipe here. (Pictured: My mom's fish painting and some flowering rosemary on the cake)

THANKS/REMERCIEMENTS 
With heartfelt appreciation to the following readers for their thoughtful donations to this blog, along with the encouraging notes!

Ron F.
Jackie C.
Diane H.
Linda H.
Louise H.
Diane C.C.
Carmen C.
Suzanne D.

Happy holidays! —Diane

Thank you for sharing your French experience with all of us who follow you. --Ron

Grateful for your inspirational writings, and all my trips to France that bring me joy! Merci! --Linda

I always look forward to reading your journal! Merci for the lovely family story and the delectable ambiance and flavor of French culture!!! Happy Holidays! —Jackie

Thank you for enriching my life by sharing yours. You and your family are in my prayers always. You are a blessing. Keep writing : ) —Carmen

Ricci galloping on the beach

Le Bon Temps ("The Good Times")—the name of this local brasserie captures the spirit of why my son loves La Ciotat so much. Now, he's committing to a new home and a new chapter. In today's story, read about this exciting milestone. Below: a dreamy night view from Max and Ana's apartment.

TODAY'S WORD: La Crémaillère 

: housewarming party; housewarming

PRONUNCIATION: [kray-myeh-air]

EXAMPLE SENTENCE:
"Ce n’était qu’un coup de clé ce soir-là, la véritable crémaillère viendra plus tard."
"It was just a key-turning celebration that evening; the real housewarming party would come later."

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

1er Coup de Clé: On vous attend ce soir à 20 h pour notre premier coup de clé dans notre nouvel appartement.

The WhatsApp message read: “First Turn of the Key: We’re expecting you tonight at 8 PM for our first turn of the key in our new apartment.”

This was more than just an invitation—it was a milestone for Max and Ana. After several years together, this young couple had taken the next big step: buying a nest to call their own. For Jean-Marc and me, it was deeply moving to witness this commitment, a tangible sign of their journey and their shared dreams.

We were excited to see their new home, nestled just a few kilometers from Max’s previous apartment, closer to the foothills of La Ciotat and the famous, winding Route des Crêtes. This scenic road, flanked by purple bruyère fading to deep amber as the months grow colder, offered a hint of the charm in the new chapter Max and Ana were beginning.

Huddled in front of an open fenêtre, ice-cold air chilling our faces, we listened to Max as he continued our tour of the couple’s new digs.

"Here in the chambre d’amis, you can see the green hills in the distance—during the day, that is."

Looking out into the night sky, the scene was poetic: a full moon peeking through the clouds and the neighborhood below illuminated like a painting. A dark green pin parasol hinted at where we were in France—here near the Mediterranean Sea. “You can see it from the balcony," my son added. For Max, just like for his father, the sea, with its nearby islands to sail to, its prickly oursins to catch and savor, and its familiar maritime scent was an essential part of his habitat, given he was born near the coast and its rocky calanques. If, some 29 years ago, his first scent had been the rose petals his grandmother picked for him outside the maternity clinic, the next thing to tickle his nostrils was the salty sea air in Marseille!

"It's wonderful," I said. "The place has good bones!" Looking around, the walls were bare, exposing wiring, holes, and other secrets hidden behind the furniture the previous owners removed before their déménagement. From the looks of it, Max and Ana had a sizable renovation ahead of them, but from the sparkle in their eyes as they showed us around it was clear they were up for the challenge. Même pas peur! as the natives say.

Ana shared her plans for the following day: "Je vais attaquer le papier peint." While Max returned to work, Ana would be single-handedly removing all the wallpaper—in the dark (as the electric shutters would be completely closed and locked after tonight’s party, owing to the electricity being temporarily shut off).

The echo of our voices in the empty apartment, the pitter-patter of scratchy dog paws, and the tap tap tapping of our heels gave the space a lively, festive feel. But I couldn’t help wondering if the neighbor downstairs could hear it all. Would they complain about the noisy celebration? I hoped this spirited start wouldn’t get things off on the wrong foot with les voisins.

Thankfully, the younger generation doesn’t worry as much as I do. Everything fascinates them, especially human potential. "The woman above us, on the 4th floor is 92 years old," Max shared, raising his glass for the toast. "There’s no elevator, and she climbs the stairs at least once a day whether or not she has errands to run."

By the way, in France, what Americans call the 5th floor is referred to as the 4th floor. In the UK and other countries, where the ground floor is followed by the first floor, this system will feel more familiar. In France, the ground level is called the rez-de-chaussée (ground floor), making the first floor the one above it. It’s helpful to know this quirky system when navigating French buildings—or climbing stairs!

I could just picture the sprightly nonagenarian and her daily aller-retour on the central staircase. I love these examples of gumption and fortitude, whether from the venerable like the 92-year-old upstairs, or the young, like Ana, who can’t wait to make a dent in this renovation with a sledgehammer.

Making our way back through the hallway, we found a lively crémaillère underway. My brother-in-law Jacques and Ana were back in the kitchen, discussing which wall would come down, as well as drywall options—something Jacques specializes in.

In the living room, surrounded by the young couple's closest friends, ma belle-sœur Cécile and I helped ourselves to Ana's quiche maison. There were no chairs and the only furniture was a fold-out plastic table where the buffet, including une tarte aux pommes, several boxed pizzas, and some homemade bread was set. Noticing a few small gifts on the table, I wished I’d brought more than bread and toilet paper (le PQ seemed like a good idea, given the lack of supplies this first night). But this was really only a premier coup de clé, just hours after la signature chez le notaire, and not an official crémaillère. There would be plenty of time to find just the right cadeau—perhaps a lovely tapis to soften all the echoing. For now, though, it was enough to stand in this new space, surrounded by family, friends, the scent of homemade pie in the air, and the clickety-clack of dogs' paws marking their approval as little Izzy the beagle and Loca the French bulldog/Jack Russel bounded through the apartment.

Toasting to Max and Ana’s new beginning, it felt magical how a simple set of keys could unlock so much more than a door. It had opened a new chapter—a place for laughter, shared meals, and the dreams these two tourtereaux continue to build together in their new nest between the sea and still-blossoming hills above.

⚜️⚜️⚜️

Purple bruyère, or heather, fading to amber this time of year

In Max's previous apartment, Ana with flowers and Loca, the French bulldog/Jack Russell mix

In the heart of town, just across from the Tourist Office, colorful buildings echo the rich hues of autumn leaves, while the real estate office entices passersby with apartments and houses for sale or for rent.

COMMENTS
Your messages, corrections, and shared stories are much appreciated. Click here to leave a comment.

FRENCH VOCABULARY

Audio File: Listen to Jean-Marc pronouce the French words in this story

la crémaillère = housewarming party
la Route des Crêtes = Crest road
la bruyère = heather
la fenêtre = window
la chambre d'amis = guestroom
le pin parasol = umbrella pine
l'oursin (m) = sea urchin
le déménagement = the house move
même pas peur = not even scared (a playful or defiant expression to show bravery)
Je vais attaquer le papier peint = I’m going to tackle the wallpaper
le/la voisin(e) = neighbor
un aller-retour = round trip 
la belle-soeur = sister-in-law
la quiche maison = homemade quiche
la tarte aux pommes = apple tart
le PQ (papier toilette) = toilet paper
le premier coup de clef = first turn of the key
la signature chez le notaire = the signing at the notary’s office
le cadeau = gift
le tapis = rug 
les tourtereaux = lovebirds

*In France, the ground floor is considered "0," so the "4th floor" is actually the 5th floor in American and English numbering systems.

THANKS/REMERCIEMENTS
With sincere appreciation to the following readers for their continued support over the years:

Michèle J. 
Bill and Mary E.

⚜️⚜️⚜️

Beautiful, innocent Italy, where seemingly nothing could go wrong. Do you ever let down your guard when traveling to charming places? Read about our iffy airport transfer after midnight in today's update...

Stay connected with me on Instagram or Facebook or LinkedIn. It’s a great way to keep in touch, especially when this blog takes a break or faces technical hiccups. I’d hate to lose contact with you!

TODAY'S WORD: LOUCHE

 : suspicious, shady, sketchy

PRONUNCIATION: [loosh]

EXAMPLE SENTENCE
Cette situation est vraiment louche, pensais-je en suivant le conducteur dans l'obscurité.
(This situation is really shady, I thought as I followed the driver into the darkness.)

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

Jean-Marc and I had been looking forward to celebrating our 30th anniversary for months. This belated trip to Italy, with its promise of rest, renewal, et de bons repas, seemed like the perfect way to mark the occasion. But as we landed in Bari just past midnight, the excitement was quickly replaced by a chill in the air and an unsettling obscurité.

It was cold and dark as we stood at the airport taxi stand among a crowd of travelers. Just like with the French, there was no rhyme or reason to the queue. After a few moments, Jean-Marc cleared his throat and asked the couple next to us, “Have you been waiting long?”

Just as we began to question the apparent lack of taxis, a man stepped out from the shadows and approached us. Something about him seemed louche, his voice low and measured as he asked, “Need a ride?”

“How much will it cost?” Jean-Marc ventured. And just like that, we, along with the other couple, followed the stranger. The young woman ahead of me carried a backpack. I followed, carting my valise, while our partners trailed behind. We continued to the end of the sidewalk, beyond the airport’s railway station. As we got further and further from the terminal, I turned to whisper to the young man, “This is kind of strange, isn’t it?” He merely shrugged. With no Uber service available in Bari, what other choice did we have for getting to the town center after midnight?

When we arrived at the rental car lot, I felt a moment of relief. Surely, one of those official cars must be ours. Hélas, our driver quickly bypassed the rentals, heading instead toward a chain-link fence and out of the airport grounds, casting frequent glances over his shoulder to ensure we were following.

The young woman slowed her steps. “Look, this is... I don’t...” she began.

“I don’t like this either!” I hissed to Jean-Marc, my nerves prickling.

“It’s around the corner,” the driver piped in, urging us forward. Incredibly, we followed, like sheep heading to an uncertain fate. If I went along, it was because I trusted my husband. But that didn’t mean he always made the safest decisions… Years ago, during a hike along the rocky seaside he suggested a shortcut along the train tracks through a narrow tunnel. This dark path we were on now felt just as chilling. When would the ominous “train” appear and crush us?

The silence of the night, the scraping, churning wheels of our suitcases became the soundtrack to a Hitchcock scene.  The so-called driver appeared nervous. My mind reeled when he suddenly spoke. “Where are you going?”

Yes, that was my question!

“The Boston Hotel,” Jean-Marc answered before the stranger could read my thoughts.

“Uh, we're going to an Airbnb,” the young man replied.

A fleeting, guilty thought crossed my mind: I hoped we would be dropped off first. I didn’t want to be The Last Stop. The Terminus. The Terminated…

C’est chelou! This is bizarre! Just where was this “cab”? After what seemed like a mile, we turned into a dark alley. There it was: a battered station wagon the French refer to as un break—as in a prison break. There was no taxi dome light on the roof, no company logo on the doors, no meter inside—not even a GPS. And there was virtually no room for all our suitcases. Something screamed SKETCHY. 

Before we could ask questions, the stranger hoisted the young woman’s suitcase onto one of the seats. “OK, ok. Let’s go.” I quickly got in, picking up the suitcase and placing it on my lap.

“I'm not doing this!” the young woman declared, grabbing her luggage. I watched as what might be our only witnesses in this kidnapping took off.

Quit overreacting! Sheesh. You've watched too many scary episodes of Dateline. I tried to brush off my fears. But still, the thought did cross my mind—what if this wasn’t quite as it seemed? What if we were about to be trafficked? Then again, I couldn’t imagine us being the prime targets. I mean, who would go through the trouble of kidnapping a couple of middle-aged tourists? 

Thinking about it now, it seems strange that Jean-Marc got into the front seat. Perhaps he felt more in control? As the car disappeared into the night, I fumbled for my phone, needing to turn the data back on to verify we were on our way to the Boston Hotel and not to some barren field on the outskirts of the city.

Come on, come on! I tried to locate the data button. Settings... Cellular... Roaming… There! I  typed in “Boston Hotel,” and the blue line appeared like a lifeline. Slightly relieved, I remained on guard. Just because the driver began chatting about tourist attractions didn’t mean he wasn’t planning something sinister.

From the backseat, I studied his profile. You might say he was good-looking, in a Ted Bundy kind of way—pas vilain ce vilain. But you can’t judge a book by its cover. I sank deeper into my projected horror story as the two men in front talked like tomorrow was certain. Would it be?

“What are your plans?” the driver asked. Jean-Marc mentioned we would be heading back to the airport to pick up our rental car, to which the driver casually replied, “Will you need a ride?”

There was a pause. My husband wasn’t seriously considering that, was he?

Bright city lights came into view. We were only a few kilometers away. And then… the driver missed the turn-off. Qu’est-ce qui se passe? My pulse quickened, but at the next corner, we were back on track. Finally, there it was—the brightly lit Boston Hotel sign. What a funny name for a hotel in Southern Italy. Nevermind! It might as well have been an American flag or the Statue of Liberty. I let out a long, shaky sigh, as if being repatriated from a battlezone, a war in my mind.

As we handed over our passports to the hotel clerk, Jean-Marc glanced at me with an amused smile that said, Tu vois. Tout s’est bien passé. I managed a laugh, a mix of relief and disbelief.

As for our driver, he no longer looked like a criminal in my mind, but a father or son or brother—a family man working a graveyard shift to make ends meet. While this was probably closer to the truth, it doesn’t mean I’ll ever step into an unmarked cab again, in a foreign city, after dark. 

We went on to enjoy 5 days in Italy, inlcuding the town of Trani.

FRENCH VOCABULARY

Soundfile: Click to hear Jean-Marc pronounce the French terms below

louche = shady, suspicious
de = some
bon= good
le repas = meal(s)
l'obscurité = darkness
la queue = line
la valise = suitcase
hélas = alas
chelou = bizarre, shady 
le break = station wagon
pas vilain ce vilain = not bad for a bad guy
qu’est-ce qui se passe = what is happening
Tu vois = you see
Tout s’est bien passé = everything went well

Chelou is a fun example of verlan, a type of French slang that plays with syllables by reversing them. The word louche (shady or suspicious) becomes chelou when flipped, giving it a modern, informal twist. Verlan is popular in casual conversation, especially among younger speakers.

The French term break for station wagons comes from the 19th-century English "brake," a large carriage used for breaking in horses or hunting. The French adapted the term for cars with a similar shape and capacity, designed to carry luggage or equipment.

COMMENTS
Thank you for your messages and corrections, which are much appreciated! Click here to leave a comment.

In Ostuni, Italy

REMERCIEMENTS/THANKS
Mille mercis to readers sending in a blog donation for the first time, and to my returning patrons listed below. Your support keeps the wheels of this digital journal turning, and I am truly grateful!

John J.
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Virginia G.
Michelle M.

Merci, Kristi, for all your warm & thoughtful glimpses of life in France. —Virginia 

Thank you for your lovely stories and photos of your life in France. I have enjoyed your website for many years. Merci beaucoup! —Mary

Over the years I have really enjoyed your blog…I feel I am back in France. Thank you for the memories. —Michelle

Love your column, blog and books. I am sort of "on and off", just read your last post. Photos are truly captivating...always! Appreciate dearly your work. —Jolanta

Near the Castellana Grotte

A memorable moment from Jean-Marc's recent tour in Châteauneuf-du-Pape, revisiting the beautiful Château Maucoil. We were warmly welcomed by the gracious owner, Bernard (second from left), and his son. From left to right: Robin, Bernard, me, Paula, Jean-Marc, Steve, and Antonia. A heartfelt thank you to this wonderful group from Tucson, Arizona, for joining us on our Provence Wine Tour!

Closing this edition with one more photo from Italy, perfectly in tune with our anniversary theme. "You’re always celebrating your anniversary," my daughter teased recently. Well, there’s a reason! We were married twice in 1994—first in the Town Hall in July and then in the church in September (we meant to have our second honeymoon then, but postponed it to November.)

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