FRENCH WORD-A-DAY

At Simon & Schuster's headquarters along Avenue of the Americas in New York.

In French language software: TeLL me More French
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un rédacteur (ray-dak-ter) noun, masculine
   an editor

A female editor is called "une rédactrice" (ray-dak-treece)

The "hills" of New York taken with this Canon

Here is New York. Perceptive, funny, and nostalgic, E.B. White's stroll around Manhattan remains the quintessential love letter to the city, written by one of America's foremost literary figures. The New York Times has named Here is New York one of the ten best books ever written about the metropolis, and The New Yorker calls it "the wittiest essay, and one of the most perceptive, ever done on the city.

vallonné,e (val-oh-nay) adjective
  undulating, hilly

Also: vallon = small valley

Je chante pour mon vallon en souhaitant que dans chaque vallon un coq en fasse autant. / I sing for my small valley in hopes that in each small valley a cockerel will do as much. --Edmond Rostand

Listen to the above quote, in French: Download vallon.wav
.

The four days that I spent in New York City are but a balmy blur. Looking back, I try to focus on so many landmarks come to life: The Statue of Liberty, Central Park, Starbucks, Times Square, Chelsea, Starbucks, the patineurs* at Rockefeller Center, Starbucks, Grand Central Station, TriBeCa, Starbucks....

Considering the pre-flight stress (of leaving the tweens and Jean-Marc safely behind), it was a revelation to find myself floating through the voyage, from the seaside airport in Nice, to the traffic near Jamaica, down to the bowels of SoHo.

From the time I arrived in JFK to meet my sister (who flew in from Arizona) and belle-mère* from Seattle, to join a few friends, time went by like a gentle current weaving its way through a pulsing metropolis, carrying us along for a splendid ride.

Apart from the famous landmarks, what stood out and downright struck was the warmth of New Yorkers. Thanks and have a great day. Can I help you? Here ma'am, you dropped this. Would you like me to take your picture? Have you seen Grand Central? Been to the Morgan Library? We listened as New Yorkers guided us through their city and all but held our hands in the process. One power walking business woman stopped dead in her tracks, caught her breath and offered, "Did you need help finding something?" She turned on her heel and added, "Oh, I'm going that way. You can follow me." I couldn't help but wonder if New Yorkers were always this nice, or if such "looking out for one another" is born of a tragedy shared.

On the Circle Line sightseeing boat ride, a jubilant tour guide tells us that the word Manhattan comes from the Indian term "mannah" (island) and the Algonquian suffix for hills ("hatin"). That would make Manhattan "Island of hills."

I don't remember any hills in New York City, but an unmistakable hilly feeling, a high that comes from traveling away from one's static life, to the dynamic and diverse, from being open-minded while in a foreign land. (Or maybe that hilly high feeling had something to do with all that Starbucks undulating through me).

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References: un patineur (une patineuse) = ice skater; la belle-mère (f) = stepmother

Related Words:
  la vallée = valley
  le vallonnement (m) = undulation, hills and valleys


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Visions of France (DVD). For dazzling views of historic Provence, and The Riviera.

More French temptations here.

Taxis (and their shiny pare-brises) in New York City, where I traded country life for cosmopolitan over the weekend.

Read French language magazines ....for a fun way to improve your français.

le pare-brise (par-breez) noun, masculine
  windshield, windscreen

Des fois t'es le pare-brise, des fois t'es le moucheron.
Sometimes you are the windshield, sometimes you are the bug. -- Mark Knopfler

Listen to Jean-Marc recite the above quote (play clip twice, as it skips): Download pare-brise2.wav
.

At Terminal 2 in Nice, a French stewardess in a sleek queue de cheval* makes an announcement over the loudspeaker to the group waiting at gate 22:
"Boarding for flight 83 to New York is about to begin. Please remain seated and wait until your row is called."

Almost as soon as the microphone clicks off, the passengers casually crowd to the comptoir* where we proceed to queue up in one non-linear cluster, passports and boarding passes in hand.

When a handful of first class passengers has disappeared down the ramp, boarding comes to an abrupt halt and another message pipes in over the loudspeaker....
"Due to a technical issue, we will need to stop boarding at this time."

During the wait that ensues, my eyes travel over the international voyagers, looking to pick up a good tip or two for a future overseas flight. I see a lot of compact carry-ons and regret overpacking (my own tote bulges and the zipper tabs, broken off long ago, have been replaced by sandwich bag twisties). I observe so many pairs of sensible shoes and loose-fitting clothing (and pat myself on the back for not wearing my new jeans--easily a size too small--and the three-inch high-heeled boots. I'd heard about a woman made barefoot after passing through an airport security check. Removing her boots for the x-ray machine, she was unable to reboot after her feet had swollen from hours of international travel).

There is a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the runway and the mid-morning sun is burning past the glass, causing passengers to remove their heavy coats and extra layering. While the travelers are quick to chat about the heat, I notice how nonchalant everyone seems to be about the technical issue which isn't mentioned. It is true that the French are known for their technical prowess, I reason (witness the Concorde). Of course I shouldn't worry, I tell myself.

Just when I begin to relax, the American standing next to me gasps:
"I can't believe what I just saw!" she says, pointing to our airplane outside.
"What?" I ask.
"One of the technicians just poured a bottle of water over the windshield!"
Dumbstruck, our silence is broken when a lady stroking a French poodle rolls her eyes and reacts, blasé as ever, to the window repair. "Très high tech," she quips.

While the woman's humor put us at ease, I wish I could say we laughed all the way to New York, but the truth is my faith in the pare-brise prowess of the French was only restored when we safely touched ground at JFK.*

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References: la queue de cheval (f) = ponytail; le comptoir (m) = counter; JFK = John F. Kennedy (International Airport)

Trivia
On pare-brises across France, you'll find a small green stamp or "vignette automobile"-- evidence that the motorist has paid the annual tax for the vehicle in question. Car owners are obliged to buy and display the special fiscal sticker on the window of each vehicle in circulation.


Related Words & Expressions:
  dégivrer le pare-brise = to defrost the windshield
  windshield wiper = un essuie-glace
  windscreen washer = un lave-glace

In GIFTS:
Clef de Paris Clock

Flowers - Sunflower Radiance Bouquet

Songs in French for Children

The ever-French wire egg basket

SmartFrench CD-ROM --"the smart way to learn French"

Our medieval village is a great place to badauder.

In Gifts: Kind of like a pricey Vespa, only less-pa. Check out this mini electric scooter.

badaud,e (ba-doh, ba-dohd) noun
  1. a gossipy idler, rubberneck, onlooker, gawker 2. stroller (flâneur)

Synonym: un gobe-mouche (literally "a swallows flies," or "fly swallower," from the image of a gaper standing with his/her mouth wide open--a sure target for les mouches!)

The term badaud comes from the Provencal "badar." (The French definition being to "rester bouche bée" or "to stand open-mouthed, in astonishment").

                                                                
Badaudage--you know, "rubbernecking." There's a lot of this sort of activity going on around here at the moment, what with our house being wide open and sur le marché.*

From my office window, I watch the passers-by, who bend their backs and crane their cous* and seem to stop and spy. Stretch your neck this way, I whisper, to see the lavender patch that Jean-Marc has just tucked in for the winter. Look over there, and notice several rows of grapevines just below the wall of sleeping jasmine. Regardez,* beside the line of roses braving the cold November air, just beyond the sage-green shutters to where a would-be novelist blackens white pages in her showroom/study.

My Larousse* dictionary defines "badaud" as a "promeneur* whose curiosity is easily seduced by a spectacle" (read: the bright red FOR SALE sign weighing on our gate).

The French call the open-mouthed gapers "fly swallowers" and the term brings a smile. A little humor, even at another's expense, is proving helpful at this, an uprooting time in my life.

Speaking of humor, if you, too, are looking for a good laugh (and a walking, breathing example of badaud), watch for me tomorrow at the mouth of the Hudson. There I'll be, in gray and green* with a gaping mine,* head hung back, mouth ajar, tonsils kissing the sky--my own curiosity easily seduced by a great Big Apple.

Which reminds me--I hope there are no flies in New York City this time of year....

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In Gifts:
Au Bon Marché Rusted-Tin Clock

Apothicaire de Marseille Scented Candle from the South of France

CHANCE For Women By CHANEL eau de toilette

A glimpse of our "home sweet home": the front porch.

French With Michel Thomas: The Fastest Way to Learn a Language


vendre (von-dre) verb
  to sell

Proverb:
Ce n'est pas acheter qui instruit, mais vendre. It is not buying that educates, but selling.

                                                                        
I watched my husband carry a can of blood red paint over to the kitchen table. Be careful not to spill, I thought, bridling my tongue before the words tumbled out.

I stared as he set down the hand painted board which read "à LOUER," for RENT. The upside, I told myself, was that I'll no longer panic about renting out our home each summer.

I glared at Jean-Marc as he flipped over the board and began to stencil in seven life-altering letters.

I noticed how, like the board, I felt those letters carving into me.

"Be careful not to paint out of the lines!" I snapped, before storming out to my car, on my way to do a few errands.

Returning to our nest an hour later, I saw the hand painted sign strung across the front gate and those blood red letters that read like a menacing lab report. I blinked my eyes but, upon opening them, the words hadn't budged:
"A VENDRE."*

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Post note:  This past summer, I swore to my own mother that I would drop an anchor into this land for good. "Never sell your home!" she had cautioned. But, as the French say, "On ne sait jamais ce que demain sera" ("We just don't know what tomorrow holds"). For us, it may be a move north, to new stomping grounds (or "to stomp grapes"). In the meantime, we need to sell our cozy nest. If you, or someone you know is in the market for a 3 bedroom home + guesthouse (one hour from Nice & Aix-en-Provence) please contact Jean-Marc at jm.espinasse@gmail.com.

Read all about our house, the backdrop for so many bucolic scenes, in my book "Words in a French Life". If you already have the book, flip to the chapter "Aiguille" where you'll find a story to accompany today's photo.

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References: à vendre = for sale

Listen to French:
Hear Jean-Marc recite today's quote: Download vendre.wav
Ce n'est pas acheter qui instruit, mais vendre.

Verb conjugation: vendre
je vends, tu vends, il/elle vend, nous vendons, vous vendez, ils/elles vendent; past participle: vendu
The Ultimate French Verb Review and Practice

French Expressions:
  maison à vendre = house for sale
  vendre la mêche = to let the cat out of the bag
  se vendre comme des petits pains = to sell like hotcakes
  vendre aux enchères = to sell at auction
  vendre en gros = to sell wholesale
  vendre en vrac = to sell in bulk

In Gifts:
Montblanc Ballpoint Pen

L'Occitane Shea Butter Hand Cream

Heelys Skate Shoes (In Monte Carlo, Jean-Marc and I watched a few pint-sized tourists whiz through the principality in these shoe skates!)

Yellow pull wagon/chariot : Lovingly designed in France by Vilac.

(photo of my husband, Jean-Marc, and his filleul, Matthieu)

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un filleul (fee-yul) noun, masculine
1. godson, godchild

Also:
filleule = goddaughter
filleul de guerre = adoptive son (in wartime)

Mon filleul va bientôt partir, ainsi la guerre va devenir plus personnelle pour moi. My godson is going over soon, so the war's about to get personal for me. --Garry Trudeau.

                                                                         
"I love Marseilles. When I was young, I loved to feel the Mistral wind blowing through me. I would stand still and just let it whip through my hair. I can no longer bear the Mistral. But I still love Marseilles." --Mme. Chollet

In the spice-scented salon* of the Chollet's home, I marvel at four generations of French women, one as beautiful as the next. The great-grandmother, with her dark chocolate brown hair and large clip-on earrings, recounted her passion for the windy city. Curiously, her lust for Massalia* skipped a generation, to her granddaughter. Her very own daughter (seated beside her, dressed all in black and looking very Cannoise*) prefers La Côte d'Azur, explaining, "Les Marseillais* are violent like the wind that blows through their city! The wind is mild in Cannes."

I sat facing my friend Corinne, her mother, and grandmother, thinking about how my feelings for a city that I once called home had changed. I didn't always like Marseilles. At one point I despised it. Returning now, as a visitor, I am enchanted by this historical town founded by the Greeks over 2600 years ago.

Earlier, as we motored through the 8th arrondissement, past the Bagatelle (where Jean-Marc and I were first married, but that is another story...) I found myself wondering how, newly arrived, I could not see the charm and beauty of this ancient city. Back then, Marseilles felt like a perpetual attack on this desert rat. (I would not recommend moving from warm, dry Phoenix to cold, windy Marseilles; Chicago to Marseilles, why not, but Phoenix/Marseilles--forget it!)

The cruel wind, the absence of a "user friendly" anything, the aggressive, unsympathetic government employees who threatened to deport me, and the lack of edible tortillas were just a few elements that wrecked havoc on the successful integration of this Phoenician, in a town founded by the Phocaeans.*

But now, 14 years later, I can't help but be caught up in the whirl of this action-packed, passionate, multi-ethnic ville.* Marseilles IS violent. Like its famous Mistral wind, it kicks, pushes, whirls, stomps, spits, and sometimes slams, daring you to cling right back to it, for the ride of your life.

My first child came into this world via Marseilles, kicking and screaming like the wind, which might explain his constant joie de vivre. (My daughter was born in Aix-en-Provence, and is reserved like the Aixois, or citizens of Aix.)

But, returning to our story, and to the Chollet's cozy salon, we were about to celebrate the birthday of a little guy who had just turned two. Matthieu, pronounced "ma-tyeuh," is my husband's filleul* (and the birthday boy in question).

Matthieu's mother, Corinne, had prepared five desserts for the celebration and, knowing what a good cook she is, I got in line illico* to sample the gateau au chocolat,* crumble au poires,* Madeleines, gateau au yaourt* and a brownie...or two.

Next we watched the birthday boy (dressed in a t-shirt that read "J'ai 2 ans!" I'm 2!) boogie and chanter.* And what did he sing? A song about St. Tropez! I take it that passion for Marseilles has just skipped another generation.

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References: le salon (m) = the living room; Massalia = Marseilles' original name; une Cannoise = a woman from Cannes; les Marseillais = the people of Marseilles; Phocaeans = inhabitants of an ancient district of central Greece; une ville (f) = a city; un filleul (m) = godson; illico = right away; gâteau au chocolat (m) = chocolate cake; crumble aux poires = pear crumble; gâteau au yaourt (m) = yogurt cake; chanter = to sing

Hear French spoken:
Listen to Jean-Marc recite today's quote: Download filleul2.wav
Mon filleul va bientôt partir, ainsi la guerre va devenir plus personnelle pour moi.

Fruit and vegetable crates at a corner market in Orange (Vaucluse).

une emplette
(om-plet)
noun, feminine
a purchase

When Max and his soeur cadette, Jackie, offer to ride their bikes to the bakery, I request a little detour along the way.  "Please stop by the supérette. We're out of toilet paper!" 

The kids wrinkle their noses, complaining that they'll look carrément ridicule shopping for le papier WC.  But not wanting to lose the right to ride to town, they quickly come up with a compromise.

"Can we get Sopalin instead?"  

I'm not crazy about the paper-towel idea, but have to give the kids credit for some creative problem-solving. 

Half an hour later, brother and sister return from les courses with a few unexpected purchases. Jackie, her cheeks crimson from the cool autumn air, hands me a package of toilet paper.

"It smells like peaches!" she says. "Sens-le!"

I sniff the fruit-scented TP. It does smell good! Still, I am suspicious. How did she suddenly muster up the courage to be seen in the toilet-paper aisle?  And what is that in the other bag?

As if on cue, Max pulls a bottle out of his sac à dos. 
Wine? Jean-Marc, walks into the room. He is as confused as I am.
"Pour faire plaisir à Papa," our 11-year-old Max explains.

Jean-Marc examines the bottle, amazed at the coincidence: the Côtes du Rhône wine is from the area to which we will be moving this summer!

Busy reading the label, Jean-Marc seems unfazed by the fact that his child has managed to buy alcohol. More than fazed, I am dying to know a few details about the booze purchase.

"It's a 2004," Max is busy talking wine with his dad. "It cost 6 euros 80 for the bottle!"

"But Max," I question, 'How is it that the store clerk let you buy wine?"

"I told him it was for my dad."

My eyes shoot over to Jackie. Eh bien! That explains the toilet paper confidence. She must have told the clerk that the TP was for her mom!

***
Putting away the groceries, I have a change of perspective and am no longer embarrassed about the toilet paper. All it takes is to imagine the following Could Be Worse scenario:

Early Sunday morning at the supermarket. Two little kids run up to the check-out line (peopled by all of our nosy neighbors!), and plunk down a bottle of wine. In breathless voices they explain, "It's for our Mom!"

Your Edits Here.  Is the story clear?  Better to leave off the final paragraph? ("It's for Mom!" may be a strong enough punch line, no? Thanks for your thoughts here in the comments box. 

French Vocabulary

la soeur cadette
little sister

la supérette
small supermarket

carrément ridicule
completely ridiculous

le papier WC (also le papier toilette)
toilet paper

le Sopalin (from "Société du Papier-Linge")
paper towel

les courses
errands

sens-le
smell it

le sac à dos
backpack

pour faire plaisir à Papa
to please Daddy

Côtes du Rhône
wine grown in the Rhône region of France

eh bien!
well!

Chariot of fire French vines in the Vaucluse (and a sneak peek at the farm).

Learn French in your car : a simple, direct approach to language learning.

un compromis (kom-pro-mee) noun, masculine
  1. compromise  2. sales agreement (compromis de vente)

Un compromis fait un bon parapluie, mais un mauvais toit. Compromise makes a good umbrella, but a bad roof. --Robert Lowell
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On Thursday, November 2nd, Jean-Marc and I signed a compromis* for 8.5 hectares* of vines near Avignon. Signed! I should say we signed, and signed, and signed. In all, we scribbled our signatures and printed our initials across twenty-four pages of French legalese.

Though our future digs are thirty minutes away from Châteauneuf-du-Pape, the "co-promising" took place at Uncle Jean-Claude's cellar, with two dozen old oak barrels standing witness. Aunt Marie-Françoise and cousin Audrey would have been present for the signing, but they were busy babysitting Max, Jackie, and Braise, who had made the two-and-a-half hour journey north with us to partager* this memorable day.

Babysitting was a good idea. We had already pushed our luck back at the village of Ste. Cécile les Vignes, when our family of five (with Braise in the lead) bounded into the town hall for a chance meeting with Monsieur le Maire,* who graciously received us in his elegant office and promised to help in any way he could. "Ne vous gênez pas." Don't hesitate if you need anything, he insisted.
"We are happy to welcome another wine-farming family to our town."

I considered our future mayor's offer.... Come to think of it, Jean-Marc could use a hand in pruning some 30,000 newly-acquired vines. I would need assistance cleaning out the chicken coop and finding homes for over a dozen freeloading cats that have taken up residence in the old rabbit hutch. The kids could always use help with their French manners (starting with keeping their grimy elbows off the mayor's desk) and, as for our dog, Braise, she could use a walk around the block after concentrating all her efforts on keeping the mayor's oriental rug dry.

I might have taken up Monsieur le Maire on his offer, but then we won't be moving to Ste. Cecile for another five or six months, at which point we'll need all the helping hands we can get.

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References: un compromis (de vente) = sales agreement; 8.5 hectares = about 21 acres; partager = to share; Monsieur le Maire = Mr. Mayor

WineMaker magazine--for people who want to make their own wine at home. It is edited for both beginners and experts with simple, how-to tips using kits and concentrates to more advanced articles focusing on fresh fruit.

Hear French:

Vineyard Tales: Reflections on Wine

Vineyard Wine Charms : A great hostess gift or gift for wine enthusiasts

French Rooster Tin Floral Bucket

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