FRENCH WORD-A-DAY

A YEAR IN A FRENCH LIFE — VOLUME ONE

Dear Readers,

In just one week—on March 6th—my paperback memoir will officially launch! This full-color, 308-page labor of love is finally ready to meet the world. But will the world be able to find it? That’s where you come in!

I need your help. If you’ve been thinking about getting a copy for yourself—or for a friend—Thursday is the day to do it. A strong start is crucial, as early sales will not only help my book gain visibility online but also increase its chances of being stocked in libraries, local bookstores, and even considered for school reading lists, book clubs, and travel collections.

Here’s how you can make a big difference:

• Mark your calendar for March 6th
• Buy your copy on launch day
• Share this with a fellow book lover

Your support means everything to me, and I’m so grateful for your help in making this book a success.

One more thing: I’ll be back in one week, via my newsletter, with a special purchase link. 📖 Stay tuned for that important update!

Merci beaucoup! 🇫🇷
Kristi

TODAY’S WORD: CHENILLE

   : caterpillar

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

La Ciotat has been invaded by an abominable creature—one that hangs menacingly from our historic pines or creeps along les sentiers in the hills above town. Covered in long silky hairs, these mutant caterpillars are armed with poils urticaires—tiny, airborne weapons that threaten to send our toutous to the vet and have locals running for cover lest they break out in painful rashes, suffer from severe allergic reactions, or, pire encore, experience intense itching and respiratory distress.

If you think this sounds like another one of my April Fools' pranks—how I wish it were! But it’s only February, and these so-called chenilles processionnaires are very real and super creepy. Ça m’horripile!

The first time we encountered them was on a hike. “Watch out!” I shouted, shoving my daughter aside just as she was about to step down on a moving string of them. The worms—if you can call them that—were camouflaged perfectly against the ground, distinguishable only by their eerie, head-to-tail procession. 

That same week, two more reports came in: Fiona, our friend and fée du logis, showed up covered in red bumps to her knees after stepping on one in a dressing room (apparently, the previous shopper had carried it in on her shoe). Then Ana and Max were walking their dog, Izzy, in the coastal calanques when the little Beagle began rubbing her nose against the rocks, desperately trying to stop the itching. She was lucky—most animals who come into contact with these stinging caterpillars end up foaming at the mouth and in the emergency room, or worse...

“My friend’s cat lost her tongue,” one neighbor confided. “It had to be cut out.”

Mon Dieu! Pourvu que ça n’arrive pas à Ricci!

As terrifying as these caterpillars are, and as much as they upset me, they also spark curiosity. After all, a long line of slow-moving Thaumetopoea pityocampa is a captivating sight. Just where are they going—and why? (Briefly: after breaking out of their cotton candy-like cocoons, they descend from the trees in a single-file march, searching for the perfect spot to burrow underground. There, they’ll transform into dark moths.) As freaky as they are, they’re fascinating!

French entomologist Jean-Henri Fabre thought so too. In an experiment (possibly involving long-armed tongs for safety), he arranged a group of processionary caterpillars in a circle around a flower pot. For an entire week, they marched in an endless loop, unable to break formation. Fabre saw them as mindless automatons, blindly following the path in front of them—an image later used as a metaphor for obedience and the illusion of progress.

It’s interesting how these caterpillars appeared just as I was circling my own metaphorical flower pot. This whole month I’ve been obsessing over bureaucratic paperwork—Mom’s healthcare renewal, my book’s registration and related administrative work: obtaining an ISBN in France, and something called le dépôt légal at la BnF. I spent hours rereading instructions, convinced I’d miss some critical detail here or there. The effort it took to process each step threw me back to school days, where it took me twice as long to read and understand a chapter (or test instructions) as my classmates. 

All this buildup—this endless circling—culminated in a near breakdown the morning I found our front yard invaded by giant furry worms! There, at the bottom of our front steps, was a horrifyingly perfect line of stinging caterpillars.

“Ricci! Ricci!” I shouted. Too late. She’d already charged through the caterpillar convoy—twice. A big no-no when it comes to these twelve-eyed avengers!

My daughter, an insect nerd from the time she learned to walk, remained calm, grabbing Ricci and bringing her inside for inspection. In a panic, I threw on a homemade hazmat suit: COVID mask, glasses, a long-sleeved coat, and a hat. Armed with a dustpan and chimney shovel, I stumbled toward the enemy (hard to see with my lunettes immediately steaming up).

"Mom, stop! I’ll call Max!" Jackie urged, having run back out to check on me.

But we couldn’t bother Max—not after all he and Ana had done this month. The dynamic duo had already rewired and changed the bathroom light fixture, purchased and installed a wall heater for Grandma, and were due to replace my ceiling fan. (They’re becoming bricolage experts after renovating their condo. They are moving in two weeks!)

And there was no way I was paying 500 euros for professional pest removal (especially from the same team that overcharged me weeks ago—only to show up again, hoping for more business during stinging caterpillar season). Besides, it was too late now—the caterpillar processions were everywhere. Laisse tomber—we could literally let them continue to fall!

Over 30 feet up in the branches, our pine trees were teeming with cotton candy-like nests, and hundreds of caterpillars had already crashed to the ground to begin their pulsing pèlerinage. Even after carefully scooping up the entire line of hairy invaders (and tying them up in an industrial sac à poubelle), I stepped outside moments later to find another ten-foot procession. Rebelote! Suiting back up, I removed those too—only to discover another undulating line near Mom’s place that evening, in the driveway.

“You ought to put them in a jar. One big science experiment!” Jules said, hunched over, studying a pile of them (apparently the furry little creeps huddle together at night, as if to stay warm). On closer look, our in-house animal advocate wondered if they were hungry: “Oh, bless their little hearts.”

“Mom, these aren’t kittens. And if they’re hungry they might eat you! Stay away from them!” I urged her. As for the rest of us, I think we’ll be camped out indoors for the next month—or for the time it takes until they turn into harmless moths. Sacré bleu! That could be months!

***

FRENCH VOCABULARY

AUDIO FILE: Click here to listen to Jean-Marc pronounce the French words below

la chenille = caterpillar

les sentiers = the trails

les poils urticaires (m) = stinging hairs

le toutou = (slang) doggy

pire encore = worse yet

Ça m’horripile! = They horrify me! 

les chenilles processionnaires (f) = pine processionary caterpillars

la fée du logis = house fairy (a playful term for a housekeeper)

calanques = rocky inlets along the Mediterranean coast

Mon Dieu! Pourvu que ça n’arrive pas à Ricci! = My God! Hopefully that doesn’t happen to Ricci!

Thaumetopoea pityocampa = scientific name for pine processionary caterpillar

un dépôt légal = legal deposit (mandatory submission of a book to the national library)

la BnF = Bibliothèque nationale de France, the National Library of France

les lunettes (f) = glasses

le bricolage = DIY, home improvement 

laisse tomber = forget it, never mind (literally: let it fall)

le pèlerinage = pilgrimage 

le sac à poubelle = garbage sack

rebelote = here we go again

sacré bleu = old-fashioned exclamation of surprise or frustration

Pinch the screen to zoom in and see the caterpillars in the foreground

Notice two lines of caterpillars near the beach

REMERCIEMENTS 
Many thanks to the following readers who sent in a donation this week in support of my blog 💗!

Katjya
Judy L.
Betsy C.
Ginny B.
Midge and Dick F.

“Thanks for all your blogs. I started reading them after reading your first book. Kudos also for your column in France Today which I’ve read for years! I was especially touched by your testimony blog recently!! Merci! Betsy from Phoenix”

Do you see Mama Dove just above my own mama? These birds follow our family everywhere in the garden, and remain perched near the window when we're inside. They’ve just had babies and are hungry all the time. If only they’d eat those caterpillars!

The Mediterranean landscape dotted with almond blossoms, as described in today's story. Read on...

TODAY’S WORD: Le Cours

: lesson, class

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

After the bright yellow mimosa and the scarlet coquelicots, now les amandiers and les cerisiers are blossoming in the hills above our  coastal town. Looking down a rocky trail, I can see the first signs of springtime crisscrossing the landscape, all the way to the bay of La Ciotat.

As my daughter and I hike Chemin de la Croix, more flowers appear along the path. This time a bunch of jonquilles huddle at the base of an olive tree. 

“Just a minute,” I call out to the young woman ahead of me, before kneeling down to get a good picture.

I admit, it’s only a ploy to catch my breath. I take my time to snap the photo before returning to Jackie. How is it she’s breathing so steadily? “Mom, we’ve just begun!” she explains. I guess that means I need more exercise. But we are now averaging 2-3 randonnées a week—and doing Pilates. 

Never mind. I’ll get there. The most important thing is not to drop out! And as long as Jackie is here, I won’t. She’s a great coach, and I’m lucky to have her. And, it turns out, she needs me too!

We figured this out during our first workout session here at home. Because Jackie is now pursuing her certificate for teaching Pilates, she will eventually need to practice on someone and, though several friends have expressed interest, I’ve been waving my arms, Pick me! Pick me! for weeks now.

Finally, un concours de circonstances had both of us at home and bored at the same time. Having pushed all the living room furniture to the back of the room, we dusted off our only piece of equipment, an old fitness mat. Beyond the glass door, our resident doves, Mama and Papa, followed our every move from their perch on the picnic table.

When we finally settled down, we were faced with an unexpected challenge or two…

 “How do you say ‘butt’ professionally?” Jackie began.

Oops. “Butt” and “profession” should not go together. ”You mean politely,” I reply. “To say ‘butt’ politely, we say ‘bottom’.”

“OK, Mom. Sit your bottom down and swallow your stomach.”

“Oh, I don’t think we say that in English,” I pointed out. Perhaps it was a Pilates expression? Or did she mean “suck it in”? Or, “navel to the spine” as I would later learn, watching as many YouTube videos as I could in between sessions.

We proceeded, hit or miss, until I lay there twisted like a pretzel waiting for further instructions. Jackie hesitated. 

“What is it?” 

“I don’t know the words.”

“The words to what?”

“Ça et ça et ça!” Jackie blurted, pointing to various points along her arms and legs.

We laughed. Though I taught her English before she entered la maternelle, it’s suddenly clear she never learned all the terms for human anatomy. Given she’d like to teach Pilates in both languages this posed un souci.

“Le mollet,” she continued, tapping her lower leg. “What do you call it?”

“Do you mean ‘shin’ or ‘calf’?” (Weren’t they the same?)

“Le tibia?” Jackie ventured.

Honestly, I wasn’t even sure about that one myself, though I recognized the term! (Wait—tibia is the shinbone, right? But mollet means calf?) D’accord, d’accord. We figured we had it right—until Jackie paused again.

“Hurry up,” I pleaded. What with my calves—or shins, or tibias—hovering two inches off the ground, I can’t stay this way forever. My back is killing me!

My bilingually-challenged instructor stares at her hands and draws a blank.

“Palms! Those are your palms!”

“Palms to the floor!” comes the confident reply.

Ouf, pressing down on the mat helps some, but I have to bend my knees for lower back relief.

Just then Ricci runs up, sniffs the mat, and begins licking my face.

“Ricci! Sors de là!” Jackie says, shooing our little shepherd away. “Now, bring your knees to your breasts!”

I lift my knees… when something seems off, linguistically.

Suddenly, I picture my daughter leading a class of senior citizens in Palm Springs. “Knees to your breasts!” The looks on their faces! They might be giggling (certainly not shocked), but still, Jackie needs to get the terminology just right.

“No! We say ‘chest’—knees to your chest!”

Jackie looks a little dismayed. No matter, it’ll soon fall into place—the words for her and the exercises for me.

“We’ve got work to do,” I say, when our session comes to an end. Jackie agrees, pulling me up to a stand. I can’t help smiling—unwittingly, I’ve just secured the first spot in her cours de Pilates, even if it’s just a trial run.

“You need me as much as I need you!” I remind my daughter, hoping to keep my number one spot. I can already picture a growing lineup outside our door: Ricci, Mama and Papa dove, Grandma, Jean-Marc (when he returns next month), Max, Ana, friends and neighbors. 

“See you back at the mat tomorrow at 5!” Jackie agrees.

“I’ll be there!” I promise. The main thing is to keep showing up—physically, linguistically, and with (cheeky) enthusiasm: knees to our chests and we’ll keep abreast! 

***

FRENCH VOCABULARY

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

le cours = the lesson, class

le coquelicot = poppy

l’amandier = almond tree

le cerisier = cherry tree

Chemin de la Croix = Path of the Cross

la jonquille = daffodil

la randonnée = hike

le concours de circonstances = a stroke of luck, coincidence

ça et ça = this and this

la maternelle = kindergarten

un souci = a concern, a worry

le mollet = calf (of the leg)

le tibia = shinbone

d’accord = okay, agreed

ouf = phew

le genou (les genoux) = knee (knees)

sors de là = get out of there

Photo: les jonquilles, or daffodils

COMMENTS/CORRECTIONS

Thank you for your comments, which I look forward to.
To leave a message or report a typo, click here.

REMERCIEMENTS 
Sincere thanks for your donations in support of my French word journal! 

Jan W.
David VE
Andrée M.
Rosemary L.

"A small sum for the pleasure I get from reading your blog throughout the year. --Andrée"

Mama and Papa dove, chillin'.

Coming soon… please send all good wishes, prayers, and positive vibes as we put the finishing touches on A Year in a French Life. The book is filled with full color photos of our beautiful coastal town.

Ever noticed how some people are having a day at the beach...while you are scrambling up the rocky coastline? In today's story, I’m feeling crabby in the rush to the finish line to publish my next book…

TODAY'S WORD: ABOUTISSEMENT

    : completion, result, outcome

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

I said I wasn't going to write this week, not with the run-up to my deadline—or the aboutissement of my manuscript, including the last-minute search for photos, typos, and peccadilloes—oh my!

This is a crucial moment in the production of my book, A Year in a French Life—the moment when everything must be triple-checked (spelling), swapped (photos) and tied up (loose ends and, while we’re here, tie up the feisty writer whose arms and legs are flapping in anticipation of what could possibly go wrong).

On Friday, days away from my publishing deadline, I realized I had not turned in the back cover—in fact I had not so much as conceptualized it… Monica, the cover designer, was now asking for some pertinent information: text (what kind of blurb?), shelving category (“Travel”? “Memoir”? “France–Social Life & Customs”?), the ISBN, and the price. But I can’t determine the price until I know the printing cost! 

With my head spinning—What? Where? Who? How much?—I felt like a swimmer on the final lap, suddenly without goggles. Before sinking, I decided to pause and watch a movie, hoping for a fresh perspective.

Have you seen Nyad? The film about 64-year-old Diana Nyad who tries to swim from Cuba to Florida? Following each failed attempt, she dives back in, braving the dark waters, the sharks, the nausea until some deadly méduses threaten to undermine everything. Undeterred, she suits up in a special protective skin and mask and soldiers on in what are clearly impossible, downright painful circumstances. No matter how the story ended (I’m trying not to give it away…) Diana is a powerful example of following through, win or lose.

After the film, I procrastinated further with a walk. When rain began pouring down, drenching my clothes, a voice in my head warned, Turn back, you might catch a cold. Then you’d really delay this project! But then I remembered Diana, fully immersed in frigid waters, battling a storm at sea. In the dark of the night, as towering waves shoved her back, she pressed on until the lights of Florida sparkled on the horizon. Delirious, she still had fifteen hours ahead of her to reach la ligne d’arrivée!

Around that time, she began floundering—swimming in all directions! A kind of human short-circuiting where left is right, up is down, and the machine is disintegrating. That is about how I feel now, faced with tying up several loose ends relating to my book project: I’m becoming disoriented.

“Write a list, Mom!” I hear my daughter’s voice as I carry on through the rain. She is right, just note down every little thing and begin checking it off! (I might note down “breakfast” because I forgot it this morning which partly explains why I’m so crabby today.)

Soaked, I finished my walk and returned home to my own marathon. If Diana can attempt the Cuba to Florida crossing five times, I can go over the details of this book une énième fois.

Faster than you can say “finish line” in French, the back cover came together and all the remaining photos for the interior were turned in. I still needed a fresh pair of eyes or two to catch any coquilles, or typos. My sister, Heidi, in Denver, has offered to look it over, and Agnès, in Marseille, too. And there’s Sara from Boston, now in Paris, still waiting to do a final proofread after a stroll down Rue de Rivoli. Tee-hee! (I had to add tee-hee, to rhyme with Rivoli…cuz I’m a little delirious! Make that giddy!)

Ouf. Like our waterlogged swimmer, I’m beginning to see the lights on the horizon, but one more call to my sister just to let the jitters out.

“And even if there are a few typos in my book,” I tell Heidi over the phone, “it won’t be the end of the world.”

“No, it won’t be the end of the world,” Heidi assures me.

I hang up the phone, click open my word file and rub my eyes. I’m tired but this sure beats swimming with the sharks!

*** Spoiler Alert***

When Diana Nyad reached the shores of Florida she was able to speak despite exhaustion. “Never ever give up,” she said. “You’re never too old to chase your dream,” adding, “It looks like a solitary sport, but it’s a team.”  

Thanks to the team at TLC Book Design, who are working behind the scenes, and for all those who helped and are helping in these last moments before A Year in a French Life is published. Let’s remember this popular French expression, next time a goal seems overwhelming: ce n’est pas la mer à boire. It’s not the sea to drink, not the ocean to swallow. For me, a bunch of raindrops made this project easier to assimilate.

Finally, there will always be doubts when reaching the finish line. Some, including myself, have asked, “Why would anybody buy your book when they have already read the blog online?”

I trust readers will buy it for the same reason we watch movies a second time or listen to songs over and over or return to a restaurant to order the same comforting meal. I hope you will see my stories in the same way—and come back to read again. 



***COMING SOON!***

COMMENTS/CORRECTIONS
I look forward to your messages and your edits help so much!
Click here to comment.

FRENCH VOCABULARY

Listen to Jean-Marc pronounce these French words…as the Argentine vineyard crew revels in the background

l’aboutissement (m) = completion

la méduse = jellyfish 

la ligne d’arrivée = finish line

une énième fois = the umpteenth time

une coquille = typo

ouf = phew

ce n’est pas la mer à boire = it’s not the end of the world (literally, "it’s not the sea to drink")

At Mugel Park in La Ciotat

REMERCIEMENTS
An ocean of thanks to the readers who sent in a donation after my last post. Your support means so much and helps keep this journal alive and thriving—I couldn’t do it without you!

Jean P.
Mike P.
John O.
Carol T.
Paige H.
Susie B.
Karen P.
Linda H.
Karen M.
Bianca S.
Sharon K.
Gary and Lou M.

I leave you with the back covers of the last three books. They each have their own style. First French 'Essais' , available here, has more marketing, while Blossoming in Provence, below, highlights readers' comments. 

Blossoming in Provence, published in 2011

Words in a French Life, available here, is shelved in the travel category. A passage from the book makes up this back cover.

I once thought giving up alcohol would make dining out less enjoyable—how could I savor a meal without a glass of wine? But with so many delicious things to eat and to see, I don't miss drinking. Just look at this charming pup and the inviting French menu. Life is full and vibrant on the other side. More in today’s story!

TODAY'S WORD: LE TÉMOIGNAGE

    : testimony, personal account

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

February 3rd, 2025—Twenty-two years ago today, I made the decision to quit drinking. I had just turned 35.

We lived in the medieval village of Les Arcs-sur-Argens, in le Quartier de La Garrigue, on a quiet lot at the base of a forest. From our living room you could see la piscine where our kids loved to swim and a few rows of vines Jean-Marc had planted—the beginning of his dream to make wine. The day I became sober, we had no idea that two vineyards and thousands of gallons of wine were in our future.

I remember the cream-colored velour canapé where my husband and I sat side by side that early morning. The kids were asleep in the rooms down the hall. Steam rose from our coffee cups, and the house was so quiet you could hear our heartbeats. The last time our hearts had pounded this loudly was on our wedding day, nine years earlier. I had been just as scared then as I was now, facing another lifelong commitment.

Setting down his coffee, Jean-Marc turned to me. “Je pense que tu dois arrêter.” (I think you need to stop.)

I wiped my tears away, but more came pouring out. I wasn’t sad about quitting, I was relieved, soulagé (interesting how the word soûl or “drunk” is part of the word soulager, “to relieve”). I was relieved to be done with alcohol, and I could now see how I had used it as a relief from everything from social anxiety to procrastination—or facing the challenges of living.

I may not have been un accro at that point along life’s trajectory, but my social blunders were accumulating and I was waking up with more and more regrets. My family and friends did not think I was an alcoholic, only that I could not handle alcohol—whether it was wine, beer, or vodka.

Vodka. I leaned back, remembering the Christmas gift from weeks earlier. At the Swedish-owned vineyard where I worked, we were all given bottles of Stoli. I brought mine home and slid it in the congélateur. In the evenings, after the kids went to bed, I would pour myself a shot and sit in front of a blank page. My dream was to be a writer, but an invisible barrier seemed to stand in my way.

The Swedish team had also given us pajamas in cornflower blue—soft, elegant, and comforting. I wore them at home after work, sipping vodka at my desk. One shot became two, a new ritual, just as wine had become a ritual when I moved to France and, before that, beer. It was an engrenage—a slow, insidious trap tightening its hold on me.

I might have quit drinking as a teenager, after my first blackout. But it wasn’t in the cards—or in the stars. Heaven alone knows our steps and our missteps, but one thing is clear to me now: when there is a giant boulder on the path, it takes a supernatural strength to remove it. The day I made the decision to quit, the desire to drink was lifted right out of me. I know it was the hand of God.

That morning, sitting on the couch beside Jean-Marc, something shifted—a déclic. My intellect told me dark clouds were ahead if I continued down this road. My heart and mind told me I needed help and could not do this alone. By God’s grace, I stepped off that dead-end road and, little by little, found an inébranlable peace. Life’s challenges and anxieties don’t suddenly disappear when you make a positive change, but positive changes are like muscles, helping us to carry life’s load instead of bending beneath it. 

Twenty-two years ago today, I said adieu to alcohol. Not everybody understands my decision but I do and I have never looked back—except to share my story, day after day, when I wake up to face this blank page. That invisible, insidious barrier has been lifted, entirely taken away. And but for the grace of God go I.

"Addiction is giving up everything for one thing. Recovery is giving up one thing for everything." 
--Anonymous
L'addiction, c'est tout abandonner pour une seule chose. La guérison, c'est abandonner une seule chose pour tout retrouver.

Ceci est mon témoignage. This is my personal account. I hope it speaks to you. Whether you are thinking of quitting alcohol or cigarettes or gossip—whatever the insidious habit—face the blank page and begin to write your own future, the way you imagine it in your heart, your mind, and your dreams. Je vous assure, it is a story worth telling. 💗

Back then...I'm the tipsy one wearing the party ribbons

And now: on a hike with Ana, Max, and their dogs.

COMMENTS
To leave a comment or a correction, please click here.

FRENCH VOCABULARY 

Click here to listen to Jean-Marc pronounce the French words

le témoignage = testimony, personal account

la piscine = pool 

le quartier = neighborhood 

la garrigue = wild Mediterranean scrubland

le canapé = sofa, couch

je pense que tu dois arrêter = I think you need to stop

soûl (saoul) = drunk 

soûler (saouler) = to get drunk

soulager = to ease, relieve

un accro = an addict, someone dependent on something

Stoli (Stolichnaya) = a brand of vodka  

le congélateur = freezer

l’engrenage (m) = spiral, cycle

le déclic = aha moment

inébranlable = unflappable

adieu = good bye forever

ceci est mon témoignage = this is my personal story

je vous assure = assure you 

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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!

Jo H.
Norman S.
Yvonne W.

Back here in La Ciotat, the mimosa is in bloom. I've been enjoying lots of hikes. This one with Jackie and Ricci.

On February 4th, we also saw the first coquelicot, or poppy, of the season! I meant to photograph it in the field, alongside the road, but when we returned from our hike it was gone. We spotted it on the ground further down the road. "A little kid must have picked it," Jackie said, reaching for it. That's how it ended up in Ricci's fur, and she is being very patient for this photo even if it's not her best.