FRENCH WORD-A-DAY

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voler de ses propres ailes
(vo-lay deuh say pro-prz zaylz)

    : to fly with one's own wings (to stand on one's own two feet)

Audio File: Listen to Jean-Marc (cicadas chattering in the background): Download MP3 or Wav file

Souvenez-vous quand vous ou vos enfants ont volé de leurs propres ailes?
Do you remember when you or your children stood on their own two feet?

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE... by Kristin Espinasse

Voler de ses propres ailes--it was one of the first expressions my affectionate host family shared when I came to France to study. And now it is Max's turn to fly with his own wings. Though I know he is ready, every maternal fiber inside of me is tightening, as if it would still be possible to shield a grown child from the outside world.

Careful not to link arms, I flutter beside my son as he struts over cobblestone paths in Aix-en-Provence. In a sunny square with a giant stone fountain and a café teaming with life, we approach a historical building, one visibly caressed from the bustle and hum. I wonder if those shutters on the second floor are designed to shut out the chatter which ricochets across the old stone façades, as bullets did in wartime. A plaque at the square's entrance hints at a dramatic scene that must have played out here. Now, where young mens' lives were yanked away, a new life is beginning for a modern-day Frenchman, thanks to those who came before him... and so a mother's mind yammers--from apartment hunting to apocalypse. 

"It's this one here," Jean-Marc says, motioning to a door on the ground level. Flimsy venetian blinds cover a large window beside the entrance. (The French have a thing for outdoor window treatments and it's not uncommon to see door curtains flowing in the wind.) My eyes roam from the second story apartment to this rez de chaussée studio. There are no shutters on this window to block out the noise. But there are bars.

"Bars!" I say, linking arms with my son as we study his new digs.

"Maman!" Max shrugs, but the twinkle in his eyes tells me he's not so bothered by the mothering. "Nobody can break into this apartment," he points out. 

"It's not that!" I lie. "It's just... do you think you can study with this bruit?"

(My husband's sacoche, Mr Sacks, is photobombing this photo! A fold-out couch, just beside Max, marks the limit of this studio.)

We are now standing in a room so small you'd mistake it for a Galaries LaFayette window display... Beyond the large fenêtre, there are no mannequins--only a couple of parents, a nineteen-year-old Franco-American, and a pretty realtor. The four of us are now busy closing a transaction. Tak, tak, tak and fast as that you can sign away your first born....

The hipster realtor--a pretty French girl who might be a mini cougar (?) shakes our hands. "You can move in August 1st! If you need anything at all," she says to Max, "you can call me."

"Do you live around here?" I ask, my hand strangling hers. Why am I suddenly wondering whether she's wearing a bra beneath that spaghetti-strap top? Am I reading my son's mind?

For once, Max is linking arms with me, stealing me away from the scene. As we hurry to the next-door café and score a table, my mind changes channels and I'm thinking about coincidence.

Look at those new glasses he's wearing. How his vision has changed since he last got his eyes checked, during his military registration. Glasses!... I remember the new pair I wore and how fun it was to try on a new persona in a new city, in France....

 "Can you believe that 24 years ago I lived just around the block from you, here in Aix-en-Provence? Imagine that!"

Yes, imagine that.

*    *    *

HOMMAGE TO BILL MYERS
Thank you for the warm notes of support you sent in, after I wrote about the death of a reader and editor for this blog. There was some doubt as to whether the "Bill" in question was one of our regular blog commenters.  

No, he wasn't. Bill never once sent in a public comment. He sent all corrections privately. A shame, as his notes were so colorful! I have now posted a photo of our friend Bill (thanks to John Newman for sending the picture). There is also an extra section--"In his words"--in which Bill describes himself. Click here to see the updated post.

Max and me in Aix-en-Provence

 
"Empty Niche Syndrome." Photo taken in Caromb.

What To Do in Aix-En-Provence?
I received the following letter from a reader and hope you can help by submitting tips on what to do and see in Aix! 

Kristin,
 
If you have a moment, please...  I am thinking about planning a trip to France in late August of this year and would really like to visit Aix-en-Provence as part of that trip, perhaps even stay there as my 'home base' while in France.  I'm hoping to stay for 8-10 days, and would like to visit Paris for a day and see some of the countryside.
 
I think it would be fun to stay in Aix as it will be fun to see some of the things you've spoken about before and have a better mental picture when reading your thrice-weekly column...
 
I'm sure you probably get this question a lot, but is there any way you can give me some helpful tips on visiting Aix-en-Provence?
 
Thanks so much!
LeNora

.

Que Faire à Aix-en-Provence? / What to do in Aix-en-Provence?

Friends, please share your Aix-en-Provence tip and suggestions here. Tell us which restaurants, bistros, and cafés to visit. What about B&B's or hotels? Is there a room to rent in the area? What about activities and must-sees? What are some neighboring villages that are worth a visit? Share your tips and ideas here!

                    Les paniers for sale in Aix-en-Provence 

petit sac pour emporter les restes
noun, masculine
peuh-tee-sak-poor-ahm-por-tay-lay-rest
doggy bag

One of the first cultural differences I encountered after moving to the land of bistros was this: they don't do doggy bags in la France! 

In 1990, in Aix-en-Provence, a plate of egg rolls separated me from my future husband. Egg rolls in France are different from those in the States. In France, Asian restaurants serve the fried rouleaux with sprigs of mint and leaves of lettuce in which to roll them. Les Nems, as they are called, are Jean-Marc's and my favorite entrée, and we usually order so many that by the time the main course arrives we are too full to finish it.

At the end of that first shared meal in the restaurant chinois, we had our first leftovers. I explained to Jean-Marc that les restes in America go into doggy bags.  Jean-Marc was amused by the funny term and  his practical side was quickly won over by the concept. But when he tried out the idea on the waitress, asking her to wrap up the remaining food on our plates, she showed neither amusement nor practicality. In fact, she looked a bit put out by the request. 

After Jean-Marc persisted, the waitress returned with an empty plastic tub which, judging from the label, had formerly held pistachio ice cream. She pried open the container and slid the contents of both plates inside. I watched doubtfully as the sweet-and-sour shrimp was poured right over the canard laqué, and the riz cantonais was heaped directly on top. 

"Ça ira?" As the waitress scraped off the last grain of rice from the plates, her exaggerated gesture embarrassed me, cheapening an otherwise romantic evening. 

Walking down Aix's narrow and winding cobblestone streets after the meal, I suggested to Jean-Marc that maybe it was not a good idea, after all, to ask restaurants to wrap up food. It was too awkward for everyone involved when the servers had to go scavenging for odd containers in order to be accommodating.

Jean-Marc disagreed. It was a very good idea, he assured me—no more wasted food. The French would do well to adopt the practice of asking for a doggy bag!

"But they are not doggy-bag equipped here, so there's no use trying to save the food!" As I argued my point, I walked right into a street beggar. Suddenly, three sets of eyes bounced off each other.

"Bonsoir, monsieur," Jean-Marc spoke first. 

I watched my date, who smiled as he crouched to the ground, offering the homeless man the "useless" invention. Le doggy bag. 

The homeless man nodded his appreciation. A long pause ended, and Jean-Marc and I walked on. I pulled my boyfriend's arm close. This one was a keeper.

***

Your edits appreciated. Does the story read clearly? Should it be included in the book? See the comments box at the end of this edition to leave an edit or feedback.

French Vocabulary

le rouleau
roll

le nem
a kind of fried egg roll

une entrée
starter, hors d'oeuvre

le restaurant chinois
Chinese restaurant

les restes (mpl)
leftovers

le canard laqué
Peking Duck 

le riz cantonais
fried rice 

ça ira
will that do?

Bonsoir, monsieur
Good evening, sir