FRENCH WORD-A-DAY

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...

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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
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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!

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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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