FRENCH WORD-A-DAY

I woke up this morning thinking, "I could really use a clog to illustrate today's post." Later, Jackie and I were at the mall when we stumbled into a second-hand shop...and found this sabot. Now that’s serendipitous! 

TODAY'S WORD: LE SABOT

    : clog

Did you know the word sabotage comes from sabot? The term sabotage is believed to have originated during the Industrial Revolution in France. Workers, particularly in the textile industry, would throw their wooden clogs (called sabots) into machinery to disrupt production as a form of protest. The act symbolized their resistance against poor working conditions, low wages, and the exploitation of labor. Today, learn a funny expression related to sabot…

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

Some of the most colorful French phrases I’ve learned come from my time as a budding writer in the medieval village of Les Arcs-sur-Argens. While Fanny, up the road at the Swedish vineyard in Draguignan, was natural, wholesome, and funny, my neighbor (who we’ll call Marie) was quite the opposite—severe and calculating. Yet, in the short time we knew each other, she revealed a vulnerable side that I remember just as much as her sharp edges. It was from Marie, with her wit and dry humor, that I picked up one of the most unforgettable local expressions (hint: it has to do with boots and walking).

Marie was the one who played a practical joke on me after my husband invited her and her husband to dinner. It was she who placed the whoopie cushion on my seat so that, when I returned from the kitchen, I sat down in the most inelegant way—PFFFFFT!—to the hysterics of my guests.

My petite prankster later explained that she found me a little stuffy and thought the joke might loosen me up. Marie’s evaluation came as a jolt, and to this day, I overcompensate in social interactions to be sure I’m not as reserved (unapproachable? stuck-up?) as I seem.

It may be that Marie, like many of us, mistakes shyness for snobbery. It’s something I try to remember when feeling too intimidated to causer with certain others at a party—chances are, the ones that are aloof are slightly introverted.

Perhaps I was being judgmental, too, assuming Marie was more confident than she actually was. I remember waving coucou as she drove past my house the next week in her shiny sports car. Her short hair slicked back, she wore dark red rouge à lèvres. A trendy blouse completed the look. When she rolled down her window, a strong whiff of Poison (her signature perfume?) strangled the following words right out of me:

“You look pretty!” I said, to which she replied, “Why? Did I look ugly yesterday?”

Marie stared at me until I registered my gaffe. However embarrassed, I now knew how not to pay a compliment to a French woman.

Marie could be intimidating but, with time, I learned she was only insecure (I didn’t know it then, but her life was on the verge of falling apart, starting with divorce). She once told me the story of her kitchen renovation, which she was in charge of while her husband, a public figure, was away. She needed to get several devis before selecting the right prestataire. Marie suspected she would be overcharged by the contractor:

“Ils me voient venir avec mes gros sabots,” she said, her tone both matter-of-fact and self-deprecating. “They see me coming with my big clogs.” The moment she said it my mind conjured up the image of  someone showing up, clunk, clunk, clunk, with all their weaknesses exposed. She knew her well-dressed appearance and delicate stature made her a target—someone who, in the eyes of opportunistic workers, could be plumée (or plucked of all their feathers/money).

Finally, I could relate to Marie! As a woman with a strong American accent in a foreign country, I sometimes feel the same way—obvious, exposed (especially when alone). It’s not about being a victim; it’s about trying to fend off the wolves who see us coming from a mile away, in our big clunky boots, as we venture to ask, “How much to fix my car?” or “What’s the cost to trim these hedges?”

Worse than clogs, I was wearing an accidental combo (flip-flops and socks) while negotiating with a couple of out-of-town hedge trimmers passing through our neighborhood last week. When they rang unexpectedly, there wasn’t enough time to put my boots on before hurrying to open the gate. Before I knew it, I’d had my hedges trimmed and my highly flammable (empty, but full of dry pine needles) chicken coop cleared out—along, you might say, with my porte-monnaie. While I did negotiate 50 euros off the top, I won’t tell you how much it cost to give our leafy walls a much-needed trim before the police came knocking on our door, threatening une contravention (as they do, every couple of years! Around here you can’t have your hedges hogging the municipal trottoir).

Whether being shortchanged at the baker’s or overcharged by the hedge trimmers, I’ve got to be vigilant when doing business—or be taken for a ride (se faire rouler). And this takes more than intelligence, confidence, or dark red lipstick. It takes practice. There will surely be more opportunities to negotiate before my husband, Chief Negotiator, returns in eight weeks. How about next time I invite the prestataires in for tea and a wee prank? PFFFFT! A good ol’ coussin péteur ought to level the playing field. Merci, Marie!

Better yet, forget the clogs and the victim mentality and remember Nancy Sinatra’s famous example: These boots are made for walking! All that’s needed now is to stand tall in my flip-flops and socks and let the potential schemers know, “One false step, and I’m gonna walk all over you!”

🎶   🎶   🎶   🎶   🎶   🎶

Post note: I realized, after writing this story, that I had a slight trou de mémoire, or memory lapse. Turns out it wasn’t a whoopie cushion but another classic gag that Marie played on me all those years ago. Google “French word a day fake crotte” and read all about it :-)

Because an underlying theme in today's story is strength: here is my Mom, who lived near us in Les Arcs-sur-Argens, in 2003. She had an apartment on Rue de la Paix (Peace Street). Interestingly, Max, (around 9 years old in this photo) grew up and lived on Rue de la Paix in another town (here in La Ciotat).

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FRENCH VOCABULARY 

Click here to listen to Jean-Marc pronounce the French terms below

se faire rouler = to be taken for a ride

 causer = chat

coucou = hi there!

le rouge à lèvres = lipstick

la gaffe = blunder

le devis = bid

le prestataire = contractor 

Ils me voient venir = they see me coming

les gros sabots = big clogs (expression for being obvious)

le porte-monnaie = wallet

la contravention = fine

le trottoir = sidewalk

le coussin pèteur = whoopie cushion

Merci, Marie! = thanks, Marie

le trou de mémoire = memory lapse

la crotte de chien = dog doo

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Jackie and Ricci at a delicious little café in La Ciotat. For more pictures, I invite you to follow us here on Instagram

REMERCIEMENTS
Sincere thanks to these longtime supporters of my journal, for your donations last week 💗

Douglas 
Maureen
Charles and Martha
Natalia, Rod, Elley & Ari 

Jean-Marc is in love with South America! He will begin his work at two Argentinian vineyards soon, just as soon as he finishes his 3-week bike (and rowing…) adventure in Chile. Wish him bonne chance!

Jackie and Ricci ordering tea and a Galette des Rois at Le Nageur café on the old port in La Ciotat. For more photos and to stay connected, follow me on Instagram @kristinespinasse

TODAY'S WORD: INÉBRANLABLE

    : unshakeable, unflappable

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

Hej! That's bonjour in Swedish. Twenty-five years ago, before taking the leap into writing, I worked at a vignoble in France owned by the Swedish State. Fanny, a young mother of two and the secretary there, made me feel welcome as I rejoined the workforce after my own little ones entered school. 

As sweet as Fanny was, she was firm, and her sense of humor softened any blows. Throughout the day workers would come to her with their urgent demands, but Fanny, with her long strawberry blond curls, was never ruffled. One day le caviste arrived, pounding his fists on her desk, having run out of corks. “Mes bouchons! Didn’t you order them? I NEED THEM NOW!”

During such a meltdown, Fanny’s eyes would narrow as she chewed her gum thoughtfully. “Ne me fais pas un caca nerveux, Philippe!” she would answer calmly.

There at my desk facing hers, I nearly spit my coffee out translating Fanny’s words: “Now don’t go having a nervous poop, Philippe!” She sure knew how to de-dramatise the situation.

Fanny was my hero. I can still see that conspiratorial wink she would flash me as she managed such urgencies and the emotions surrounding them. I really could use Fanny’s calme inébranlable, her rock-solid composure when others (or my own) catastrophic imaginings get the best of me, as they did recently...

It began with a late-night call from my 27-year-old daughter. Jackie was at the airport in Palm Springs, on her way home to France when the ticketing agent warned her she risked being stopped at customs. The one-way ticket she purchased required her French passport when entering the Schengen zone and not the alternative American passport our little bi-national has had the option of using since birth. Though her brother, Max, assured her her American passport was stamped in the back, certifying she was a French national, Jackie feared she would be deported the moment she landed in Amsterdam. “They could send me back to California!”

“Jackie, that’s not going to happen!” I promised my daughter, having been through similar panics with her in the past. No! This time I was not going to drop everything and go searching high and low for the documents she was asking for. Not when I was finally warm in my bed after a day too challenging to write about or explain.

Never explain, never complain, ideally speaking, but reality is often different from our best intentions. Suddenly the phone line was jumping as mother and daughter tossed a proverbial hot potato: 

“Mom! Quit shouting!”

“Jackie, I am not shouting!” 

“Mom, if you will calm down I….”

“I am calm! Now just tell me where those papers are!”

“Why are you so upset?”

“I am not upset. I am tired!” What I didn’t tell Jackie was that earlier, when I had gone to bed, my only prayer was that she would make it home safely. And now this administrative glitch might prolong that dreaded 3-flight journey back. 

Our argument amounted to both of us releasing that stress. Round and round we went until finally, down the cold stairwell I hurried, to go rifling through Jackie’s room. This restless impatience isn’t limited to moments like these—it spills into my writing, where I second-guess every word and wonder if I’ll ever relax enough to simply tell the story. If only I wouldn’t get so worked up before completing the task at hand… It’s as if I need so much built-up tension for the goods to come spilling out. Is there an art to such pressure? Shouldn’t creation simply flow? Is this essay getting off-track?

Finally, to my surprise, Jackie’s documents were easy to find when I followed her simple directions. I quickly snapped photos of her French passport and her French national identity card and sent them on, wishing I’d done so immediately—and so avoided a long drawn-out drama! Talk about a caca nerveux!

In the end, our little globe-trotter passed la douane (no need for the extra documents, the stamp on the back of her passport was, as her bro said, sufficient) and Jackie arrived safely home. There she stood on our front steps, wearing a stylish, modern cowboy hat, and all black, her valises on either side of her. Our enguelade instantly forgotten, we hugged each other tightly. Thank God she had a safe journey. I could now release any remaining tension.

“I’m so glad you’re home. I love you,” I said, tugging the brim of her hat.

“Me too, I love you.” Reaching down to calm an overexcited Ricci, Jackie murmured, “Et oui. Je t’aime aussi!”

The next day we set out with Ricci on a mother-daughter hike up to le sémaphore, to help with jet lag and to clear the air between us. It was also the chance to talk about Jackie’s plans. The marketing program she began last semester was not what she thought it would be. Recently, she’s developed an interest in Pilates….

“You know, I can really see you as a physical trainer!” I said, huffing and puffing my way up the hill. “Can I be your first student when you get your certificate?”

“Oh, Mom. I’m so relieved you are not disappointed in me for leaving school!”

“I think you are one smart cookie and you are finding your way. You have the emotional intelligence, caring heart, and the experience to work in the health and fitness industry. I never did see you behind a computer all day long.”

We paused along the jagged trail to contemplate a new beginning. Below us, the deep blue bay of La Ciotat hugged the rocky coastline. The hills rising up to le sémaphore glowed with faded blossoms, reflecting the auburn highlights in my daughter’s hair. In the quiet, several tiny birds flitted back and forth between the bushes, like colorful strokes on a brand new canvas. The picture was bright.

Jackie’s next words stirred the paint, before the universe added an unexpected brushstroke to our horizon…

“Max called from le chantier. He wanted to know if he and Jacques could come over for dinner tonight. And maybe Ana will be here. Oh, and let’s invite Aunt Cécile!”

Just like that, I began panicking over what to cook for a growing party of last-minute guests. With Jean-Marc away in South America, I’d lost my boussole—my compass in times of family gatherings. Who’ll serve the wine? Who’ll grill? Who’ll make bananes flambées? My internal chatter was spiraling again. Let’s see… Max will serve the wine…we don’t have to barbecue…and everyone loves ice cream—especially Grandma. But how would we get Jules to join us—oh, yes, ice cream!

“Mom relax, I’ll take care of it!” Jackie said, sounding very much like her father. Her growing smile won me over. Pourquoi pas? Why not have a dinner party? My youngest was home safe, with a new, exciting plan. This was a cause to celebrate!

Somewhere, I like to think Fanny is smiling too. I see her winking at me as she snaps her chewing gum with a playful pop. “Now, stay cool, ma belle. Enjoy your family, and continue to write about this beautiful life. It is worth sharing. 

I also see several little birds flitting back and forth along the path, prepping the canvas for the next chapter…

***

COMMENTS
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Our Provençal Christmas tree moved to the patio, where our doves enjoy hanging out. 

FRENCH VOCABULARY 

Listen to Jean-Marc pronounce the following French words

inébranlable = unflappable

le vignoble = vineyard 

le caviste = cellar worker

les bouchons = corks

le caca nerveux = nervous poop, meltdown 

Ne me fais pas un caca nerveux = Don’t freak out 

la douane = customs

la valise = suitcase

l’enguelade = argument, row

et oui = and yes

Je t’aime aussi = I love you too

le sémaphore = signal station (a hilltop building used historically for maritime communication, offering stunning views)

le chantier = the renovation site 

la boussole = compass

la banane flambée = Bananas Foster, carmelized banana with rum

pourquoi pas? = why not?

ma belle, mon beau = darling (an elegant way to say my dear)

Jackie at the Living Desert Zoo and Gardens in Palm Desert. She had an inspiring visit with her grandparents in California.

I left my job at the Swedish vineyard to begin French Word-A-Day in October of 2002. I would drop the kids at school, write all day, and pick them up in time for le goûter (after school snack). Life, then, in the medieval village of Les Arcs-sur-Argens, offered a lot of "grist for the mill"--plenty to write about. Those stories are collected in the book Words in a French Life: Lessons in Love and Language from the South of France

REMERCIEMENTS
Heartfelt thanks to the readers who contributed after my last post. Your support means so much and helps keep this journal alive and thriving—I couldn’t do it without you!

Vicki B.
Joan S.
Jane R.
Patty C.
Dixie M.
Cathy D.
Susan H.
Stacey C.
Michèle C.
Pamela C.
Andrew K.
Kristina W.
Catherine L.
Parlez-Vous Provence

Mom, on her wedding day in Sedona, Arizona. Her marriage license was never filed. Don't miss the story of how Jules came to France, in the post "Le Collier" (The Necklace)

A story of old friends and the necklace that connects them--and all of us. 

TODAY'S WORD: LE COLLIER

    : necklace

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

When our friends Charles and Martha arrived from Florida, they came bearing gifts: bottles of wine for Jean-Marc, Worcestershire Sauce and giant jars of beurre de cacahuète for the family, and a whimsical necklace for Jules. “Hopefully we’ll see her tomorrow …” our friends hinted.

“Oh,” I stammered, “I hope so too!”

I pictured my mom, next door, hiding beneath a pile of covers. Ever since she came to live with us, nearly seven years ago, she’s enjoyed the comfort and privacy of her little studio. Thinking of Mom’s quiet life now, it’s hard to believe how many challenges she’s faced in the past...

At 16, living in Utah, she was kicked off the cheerleading team and out of school for getting pregnant. There followed divorce and years as a single mom (in which she briefly remarried in time to have me, in the Philippines). In Phoenix, where she brought us up, things didn’t slow down when Heidi and I flew the coop. Mom left her job at the ski shop to work herself to the ground in real estate, where she became a top seller. Burnout came after she married her fourth husband who was as in dire straits as she once was. Mom lost everything when they moved to Mexico and her husband sold sandwiches on the street. John (author of “Barefoot in Yelapa”...) went on to sell time shares, managing to build a nest egg before he passed on. 

No sooner had her husband died than the landlord raised the rent, forcing Mom out of the condo they had shared for years. Next, she learned her marriage license was not filed after the ceremony, therefore she was not legally married and would not benefit from her “husband’s” social security.

How did Jules react to all of this? Même pas peur! Not even scared as the French say—Mom’s cup of faith always runneth over. Fearless (and probably in shock), she immediately rented a shack with a corrugated steel roof in her housekeeper’s neighborhood on the outskirts of Puerto Vallarta—the slum to some, a heavenly jungle to Jules. In no time, the neighbors became her fifth husband: the support and love she needed--if not the complete protection...

No matter how strong Jules was, she was vulnerable. After the roof fell in she moved up the dirt road, dotted with pigs and chickens, only to be robbed while building her new nest. After that, troublemakers camped outside her door, blaring music all night. Finally, it was all too much. Mom agreed to move in with us here in France. 

Initially, just like back in Mexico, Mom enjoyed the occasional ”people spree”—brisk outings in which she met a few locals—but she always looked forward to returning to her quiet refuge, a former garage around the corner of our house. (We converted it beautifully before her arrival, but she jokingly tells everyone she lives in a garage–even though she considers it paradise.) For years Jules has embraced this tranquil space, preferring only to see close family members. While we all respect Mom’s wishes, we try to encourage her to sortir. Back now to our story....

After delivering Charles and Martha’s gift to Mom, I added, “They’d love to see you…” With that, I left Jules to open her present, fancifully wrapped from the Galeries Lafayette in Paris. The next evening we gathered with Charles and Martha for dinner and lively conversation. As we listened to our guests recount their trip to Paris and St. Remy de Provence, I enjoyed the contrast in the couple’s accents: it’s “north meets south” with Charles’s Boston brogue and Martha’s Alabama drawl. Charles, especially, has a way with words; his colorful speech includes the playful use of terms like “folksies”…you folksies, we folksies, which I find amusing, though when he says “brain fart” it makes every hair on my neck stand up. I guess that makes me a word prude. I was about to admit to as much... when all eyes suddenly darted to la baie vitrée.

There stood Mom with her dazzling sourire, waving for me to hurry and let her in. She was dressed in her silver All-Star high tops, black slacks, and a black cashmere turtleneck. Worn by Jules, a plain woolen cap took on the elegance of an exotic turban. Around her neck, an eclectic string of…wine corks… It was the wonderful necklace our friends had offered her.

If Mom had come this far out of her comfort zone this was serious business. “Charles,” Jules began, “I am here to tell you what an important role you have played in Jean-Marc’s  life…you are like a big brother to him!”

As Mom addressed Charles, I thought back to our first meeting via email: Charles was a reader of my French Word-A-Day newsletter, having found it through Adrian Leed’s Nouvellettre. He signed up to my journal thinking a few extra French words wouldn’t hurt as he was headed to France to explore more vineyards. 

Back in 2007, Charles, retired from the IRS, was studying to be a sommelier when he contacted me. Did I know anyone with a wine connection to the Rhône? Did I? We were on the verge of moving to Sainte Cécile-les-Vignes, where Jean-Marc had found a vineyard. I put the two men in contact and before you could say vendange! Charles became our first partner. (We needed several to secure le prêt bancaire.)

Only, months before our first harvest, which he was dying to attend, Charles had an unexpected quadruple bypass surgery! This did not stop him from boarding a plane, soon after, in time to begin harvesting. That’s when Charles became Jean-Marc’s right-hand man, Jean-Marc became “Chief Grape” and Mom, who flew out from Puerto Vallarta, became our resident cheerleader in what was one of the most intensive harvests of our lives as grape dwellers.

When Charles returned from la vendange, still kicking after all he put his post-op heart through, he proposed to Martha, his sweetheart. Soon we had the chance to meet Martha, and happily adopted her into our hearts, too!

Back in our living room, gathered around the fire, I sat admiring my beautiful mom who had settled beside me on the couch. “I couldn’t find my earrings,” she smiled. No problem—the avant-garde collier de bouchons tied her outfit together nicely, just as it had pulled us together for a long overdue toast to our friends.  Seeing Jules wear that whimsical necklace with such flair was a reminder of the love and effort it takes to show up—for each other and for the moments that matter.

Having thanked Charles and Martha and, after several hugs and kisses, Mom slipped away, returning to her cozy studio to be surrounded by her books and her paintings. She carefully hung her new necklace on the lamp near her bed, where she could remember all the folksies out there who care so deeply for her.

That necklace will always be a precious souvenir of our eternal connection. Like Jules, we all need our space and privacy, a buffer zone represented by the corks strung between the shiny perles. Those shiny beads, like Charles and Martha, are the lovely people we encounter in life. And the string is the mysterious force–l’amour–that ties us all together. We can rest assured that whether we stay in or venture out, we are never truly alone; even more we are loved and remembered.

***

COMMENTS
Your edits and your messages mean a lot and help so much. Thanks in advance. To comment, click here.

Related stories:
"My beau-père passed away" 

A La Recherche du Temps Perdu 

The wine cork necklace, strung over a lamp Mom brought in her suitcase all the way from Mexico. You should have seen what else she managed to pack! 

FRENCH VOCABULARY

Sound File: Click here to listen to Jean-Marc pronounce the French and English words below

le collier =  necklace
le beurre de cacahuète = peanut butter
sortir = go out
même pas peur = not even scared
la baie vitrée = sliding glass door
le sourire = smile
le sommelier, la sommelière = wine steward
la vendange = grape harvest
le prêt bancaire = bank loan
le collier de bouchons = wine cork necklace
le souvenir = reminder
la perle = bead
l’amour = love

Mom, in her cozy studio, with Ricci.

Jean-Marc, Ricci, and Charles in La Ciotat, after lunch at the delicious Molto Mucho restaurant in the little square Sadi Carnot.

REMERCIEMENTS
Heartfelt thanks to the readers who contributed after my last post. Your support means so much and helps keep this journal alive and thriving—I couldn’t do it without you!

John M.
Judy W.
Charla C.
Marcy W.
Gwen Y-S
Ophelia P.
Cynthia R.
Michael H.
Marilyn W.
Roberta M.
Kathleen L.

The ORIGINAL CORK NECKLACE
Do not miss the story of another cork necklace, a veritable work of art given to us by Charles and Martha's dear friend, Nan, years ago. Click here to see it!

In the opening photo, from years ago, notice Mom's fish purse on the table. Here it is again. She got it in Mexico a long time ago. Recently, we took it to the cobbler, to replace the zipper. Good as new.

The world feels upside down when posting a giant ice cream cone in France while California faces devastating fires. Today’s story, written before reading the news, is shared with the hope of offering comfort. Life can feel completely out of our control, but we can keep faith and continue giving—however we’re led to give.

TODAY’S WORD: Doux rêves

    : sweet dreams (noun)

The verb form is faire de bons rêves (to have sweet dreams).

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

On the last Sunday of the year, I took a twenty euro bill and set off early for church. Before leaving, I rummaged through a cupboard for un sac fourre-tout, intent on filling it with flowers from the weekend farmers market, where you can get a beautiful bouquet for under 20 euros. My sister Heidi had suggested the gift for Mom and I didn’t want to let her down.

My husband often drives me and picks me up, which is as close to getting to church as he gets. But it’s not about being in church, it’s about serving others, something Jean-Marc enjoys, not that he’s always chipper about it.

As we motor past the beaches, heading to le centre ville, I squint my eyes. “Up there, after le manège. Er…no. In front of Eden Theatre…Attends… just past La Chapelle des Pénitents,” I signaled to Jean-Marc. A slight grumbling on his part tells me it would be good if I could make up my mind. But, I’m just trying to estimate where, in a long line of market stalls, the flower stand is located. 

You can let me out here! Merci. Je t’aime! I said, offering a quick wave goodbye before cars began piling up behind us. Crossing the street, I searched for the flower vendor. Past la rôtisserie and the clothing stands, past les culottes et soutien gorges, past the kitchen supplies …les fleuristes were nowhere to be seen. With no other options, I dragged my feet to church. That is when I saw the thin, tousled, unshaven man who sat accroupi not far from la savonnerie. An urge came over me to give him something. I thought about the 20 euro bill.

…coins would be better, even a five or ten, but before I could think further, my arm reached out and handed the man the folded bill intended for Mom’s flowers. 

Le mendiant looked up, surprised. Non, he gestured, c’est trop. 

Oui, I gestured back, pushing the bill into his hand. Accepting the money, he suddenly sprang to life, babbling on and on in an incomprehensible jargon.

Oh no, I thought, he’s drunk! He’ll surely lose the bill or, pire, waste it on a six-pack. What good will that twenty do him now? It will only worsen his condition! But you wouldn’t know my thoughts from my gestures. A smile was still frozen on my face as I walked off, waving it’s nothing, you’re welcome! C’est rien. But apparently it was something to me… 

I hurried away, dismayed. Rounding the corner café and its giant ice cream cone mascot I wished my thoughts could be as innocent and sweet, instead of merdique! 

There in the tiny église, amongst all the sourires, câlins, bises, I was tempted to vent about my run-in with the drunk beggar when suddenly I remembered some holy words: “When you give, don’t let your right hand know what your left hand is doing.” As my mind chewed on that thought, I settled into a seat near the heater, to learn about the Twelve Tribes of Israel and the Twelve Apostles. For the first time I began to connect (certain) dots between the Old and New Testament, but my mind could not focus further. I was still trying to connect the dots concerning the flowers, the beggar, the booze, my 20 and how it would be used…

Then it hit me! Just as we are not to let our left hand know what our right hand is doing when we give, IT’S NONE OF MY BUSINESS WHAT HAPPENS TO THE MONEY! Just as it’s only between God and me, when giving, it’s between God and the recipient, when receiving. That poor man can do what he wants with the measly twenty!  It’s no longer my responsibility! Ah… What freedom there is, letting go of the outcome. 

After church, I turned my phone back on only to find a text from my husband:

“Hi Beeb, c’est Max qui te récupère. J’ai fait des frites et carottes au four. J’arrive vers 12H45 💋” —“Hi Beeb, Max will pick you up. I’ve made fries and roasted carrots. I’ll be there around 12:45. 💋”

Jean-Marc was off riding his VTT, in preparation for his upcoming biking trek in Chilé (a side trip he’ll take before beginning his next wine mission in Argentina!). I waited at the curb for my son to pick me up, growing slightly aggravated when Max was twenty minutes late. But the blue sky, the sun's warm rays, and all the interesting people walking by made for an agreeable parenthèse. 

Turning toward the cafe with its outdoor terrace, I noticed a tall man walking with a cup of steaming coffee in his hand and a smile on his face. On second glance it was le mendiant! So he hadn’t lost the bill… or used it for beer! Chances are he’d even had a bite to eat before ordering the coffee. I shook my head in appreciation: God’s little plot twist completely one-upped the story I’d drawn in my head.

Looking up at the sign, I noticed the unusual name of the café: ‘Sweet Dreams,’ or Doux Rêves if it were in French. It was a gentle reminder that we can rest easy when we follow a loving hunch and let go of the outcome. And, incidentally, this was just the outcome Mom would have preferred—a million times better than flowers. (Though we’ll get her a beautiful bouquet soon—I promise my sister!)

***

Flower market in Nice. Follow me on Instagram where Ricci and I are posting a daily photo/video this month of January! You'll also see updates from Jean-Marc's bike trek through Chile! Click here and be sure to hit follow.

COMMENTS
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FRENCH VOCABULARY 

Sound File: My husband is now recording these audio clips while on the road in South America. Enjoy.

doux rêves = sweet dreams

un sac fourre-tout = a tote bag

le centre ville = downtown

le manège = the carousel

Eden Théâtre = La Ciotat’s historic movie theater, the oldest in the world 

Attends = wait

La Chapelle des Pénitents = The Chapel of the Penitents

Merci = thank you

Je t’aime = I love you

les culottes et soutien gorges = panties and bras

les fleuristes = florists

la rôtisserie = the rotisserie

accroupi,e = crouching

la savonnerie = the soap shop

le mendiant = the beggar

Non = no

C’est trop = it’s too much

Oui = yes

pire = worse

C’est rien = it’s nothing

merdique = crappy

l’église (f) = the church

les sourires = smiles

les câlins = hugs

les bises = kisses

c’est Max qui te récupère = Max is picking you up

J’ai fait des frites et carottes au four = I made fries and roasted carrots

J’arrive vers 12H45 = I’ll be home around 12:45

le VTT (vélo tout terrain) = the mountain bike

une parenthèse = a pause or interlude

le café = the café

La Chapelle des Pénitents Bleus

REMERCIEMENTS/THANKS

Heartfelt thanks to the readers who contributed after my last post. Your support means so much and helps keep this journal alive and thriving—I couldn’t do it without you! Your notes touch me deeply, especially this one from Gordon:

"Thank you for your charming, long-running improvement of my French from a now 100-year-old follower from Canada."

What an honor that you would read my stories, Gordon!

And my deepest gratitude to all who contributed:

Bob M.
Tara Z.
Mike P.
Joan S.
Carla N.
Laura S.
Karen F.
Patty C.
Nancy S.
Ginny R.
Marcia L.
Donna G.
Denise G.
Bruce StJ
Gordon P.
Patricia F.
Augusta E.
Lee Ann W.
Christine F.
Roseann M.
Colombe M.
Jacqueline F.
Mary and Bill E

Thank you for your newsletter. I love getting your peeks into French life when I can't be there myself. —Joan S.

Un grand merci de nous avoir partagé votre vie ces dernières années. Même si je ne vous ai jamais rencontrée, j'ai l'impression de vous connaître grâce à l'ouverture de votre coeur à vos lecteurs. Que l'année qui vient vous apporte du bonheur! —Ginny R