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).

COMMENTS
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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!

With Ricci, New Year's Day 2024. I love her from her nose down to her sweet toes! In today's story, a kindness from strangers gets the new year off to a meaningful start.

TODAY'S WORD: Bonne et heureuse année

    : Good and happy year

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

”L’Abreuvoir — The Little Water Trough”

“Bonne Année! Meilleurs Voeux! Surtout la bonne santé!” Entering our local supérette for some fresh milk and eggs, I see the shopkeepers huddled around the caisse, bright smiles on their faces as they deliver cheery New Year's greetings. This jolly outpouring reminds me of one more blessing in the new year: all of the familiar faces of our neighborhood and all of the local commerces that we sometimes take for granted. 

We learned our colorful fishmonger has finally gone out of business and what a great loss to our quartier.
"C'est dommage," I say to Jean-Marc. "After all that work I hope the couple are following their dream to retire in Spain!”

"Do you want to open a poissonnerie?" Jean-Marc teases me.

"Mais bien sur que non... c'est juste que...."It's just that I’m sad they are gone, and I regret not visiting them more often. Poissonerie Chez Laure, we hear, will be replaced by a rôtisserie and, as much as we love roast chicken, dans les parages there are now four commerces de volailles rôties....

...et plus de poisson!

Tant pis! We cannot begin 2024 with regrets. Better to start the year with les bonnes intentions. So on New Year's Day, towards the end of our morning walk, I invited Jean-Marc for coffee and a croissant at Plaza Beach. Daily, we pass by this café along the seafront and wave bonjour to Matthieu, le patron, but we never stop to order anything. (We did give Matthieu some business when my sister, Heidi, was here, last summer, when our smala--including Jules--gathered there several times for l'apéro. I have happy memories with my niece and nephew, and Matthieu spoiling us with an elaborate cheese platter.) 

If one New Year's Goal is to give our locals more business, another is to let them know they are appreciated. "Bonne Année!” I said to Matthieu as we sat down with our dog. “We don't come here often enough but I wanted you to know that what you are doing is impressionant! (Indeed, from a little hole in the wall, Matthieu has created an extended terrace café. He must cross the busy boulevard dozens of times each day to reach it from his tiny local beside the surf shop. “We see you working so hard every day. Do you ever sit down?"

As awkward as the delivery might have been (did they sound patronizing?), my words were rewarded with a warm smile and a confidence: “Si je m’assois je ne pourrai pas me relever. If I sit down I won’t be able to get back up!” And like that, our barista was off to cross the busy road once again and fire up the espresso machine.

Moments later Matthieu returned with some fresh water for Ricci. Despite all the tables he was tending, he stopped to bring our dog a refreshment!

That bowl of eau fraiche, delivered as it was, unexpectedly, in an empty ice cream carton, struck a few chords inside of me. As over-sentimental as it sounds, it touched my heartstrings. It was a small detail, the little water trough, but it was meaningful.

Out over the waterfront, sunrays dazzled the surface of the sea, mirroring a hopeful feeling inside of me. Meantime, the little water trough held its own sparkle, and it skipped across the water’s surface, like one kindness pursuing another: our own and that of the receiver-turned-giver. An endless cycle of goodwill, born simply of intention.

 ***

Bonne et heureuse année dear reader, and in case I don’t tell you often enough, you mean a lot to me. Your weekly presence is that sparkle on the surface of the sea, a light that guides me and keeps me writing. 

Amicalement,
Kristi

Matthieu's tiny local. We also stopped by for ice cream, last summer, with my niece Reagan. En face, or across the way, Matthiew has a large outdoor terrace with tables and chairs facing the seafront.

FRENCH VOCABULARY

Click here to listen to the vocabulary words in French and English

une bonne et heureuse année = a good and happy year
l'abreuvoir (m) = water trough, watering place
bonne santé = good health
la supérette = convenience store
la caisse = checkout, till; cash register
le commerce = business
le quartier = part of town, neighborhood
c'est dommage = it's too bad
la poissonnerie = fish shop, fishmonger
mais bien sûr que non = of course not
c'est juste que = it's just that
la rôtisserie = rotisserie
commerce de volailles rôties = roast poultry business
dans les parages = in the area, in the vicinity
plus de poisson = no more fish
tant pis = oh well
le patron (la patronne) = the owner
le local = unit, space, room
la smala = large family, brood
l'apéro (m) = pre-dinner drink
si je m’assois je ne pourrai pas me relever = if I sit down I won't be able to get back up
l'eau fraîche (f) = fresh water

REMERCIEMENTS/ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Sincere appreciation to those making a donation in support of this journal--and for taking the time to send it. 

Jim S.
Lynn R.
Linda H.
Ginny R.
Marcy W.
C-Marie P.
Carmen C.
Adrienne C.

Thanks for sharing your journey. Your words and experiences enrich my life. Wishing you and yours all the best for 2024! --Carmen

I have been with you for so long you feel like a dear friend. Thank you for continuing to share with your readers. I wish you and your family a new year filled with peace, joy and adventure! Adrienne

I finished reading “Words in a French Life”, and currently reading “Blossoming in Provence”.  Some of your stories have me laughing out loud (in bed at night)!  Always look forward to your weekly email. Amicalement, Linda

SUNDAY marked 12 weeks since this 9-kilo bundle of wonder came to live chez nous. Thank you, Ricci, for enriching (and energizing) our lives! 

I leave you with a short clip, below, filmed on New Year's Day. Click the arrow in the center of the image, below, and for more pictures please follow me on Instagram.

Photo of les boîtes à lettres taken in Marseilles at Les Arcenaulx. Thank you, Jean-Marc, for recording two sound files for today's post (the second is found below the vocabulary list). Note: if you are experiencing déjà vu reading the following column--tout va bien--the story is being revived from the archives. 

TODAY'S WORD: LES ETRENNES

    : New Year's gift, tip, bonus

étrenner = to wear or use for the first time; to be first in the line of fire

Listen to Jean-Marc read from FranceTVInfo.fr:
Avec les vœux du Nouvel An arrive le moment des étrennes. Vous ne savez pas à qui donner ni quel montant consacrer à cette tradition ? Ce don d'argent n'est pas obligatoire, mais c'est un signe de gratitude qui permet d'entretenir les liens avec des personnes qui vous facilitent la vie. With New Year's wishes comes the moment of New Year's gifts. Unsure of who to give to or how much to devote to this tradition? This donation of money is not compulsory, but it is a sign of gratitude that allows you to maintain ties with people who make your life easier.

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

On Saturday Mom and I were crammed between the two folding doors of an old telephone booth (now a tiny, free library brimming with books). We were checking the latest titles, including Shogun, which Mom could not read because it was in French. Helping return the book, I looked out through the window of the cabine téléphonique and spotted Postwoman Marie....

"Mom! There's Marie! Should we give her her gifts now?"

Mom suddenly confessed she had eaten Marie's present. The giant plastic champagne bottle filled with miniature candy bars had been too much of a temptation, stored as it was for the past three weeks on Jules's kitchen comptoir....

We began searching through our coat pockets for some cash, for this was the opportunity we had been looking for... Tis the season of les étrennes! Time to tip those people in our lives who make our days easier or brighter. (And I certainly appreciate it when Postwoman Marie opens our gate and drops a package--rather than putting a yellow ABSENTE slip in our mailbox for pickup at the post office!)
 
"Hurry, she's getting back on her motorcycle!" Jules and I sped toward Marie, singing Maria Maria! 
Having caught up with la factrice, we showered Marie with kisses in thanks for her warmth and realness.

 Marie pulled off her heavy casque de moto, revealing bright blue cropped hair.

"Oh, I love the blue!" Mom said, "even more than last week's green!"

"Merci beaucoup," Marie smiled. "Attendez!" She said. Having accepted our gifts, Marie pulled out a stack of calendars from one of the satchels on her yellow motorcycle. "Il faut choisir...."

Mom was thrilled by the unexpected gift, and she thoughtfully examined the selection of themed calendriers....

Il y avait des chevaux, des champs de fleurs....la mer....

Not wanting to keep our postwoman waiting, I nudged Mom to hurry up and select a calendar.

"Oh, I'd better take the kitties," Jules decided, and Marie nodded, from one animal lover to another.
Our factrice put her helmet back on, only for Mom to shower her with more kisses. And when our blue-haired postwoman drove away there were bright pink kiss prints, les bisous, all over her helmet, and hopefully all over her heart.

***
Story Update: it is now January 2022 and Mom (who never receives mail) has Postwoman Marie's tip ready. "I'm giving extra this year--for her family." Jules is referring to "Guacamole" Marie's adorable, four-legged complice.

FRENCH VOCABULARY

Click here to listen to the French terms below
les étrennes = New year's gift, a tip, (also "Christmas Box")
la cabine téléphonique = telephone booth
le comptoir = counter
la factrice, le facteur = postwoman, postman
la casque de moto = motorcycle helmet
attendez = wait
Il faut choisir = you need to choose
il y avait =  there were
les chevaux = horses
un champ de fleurs = fields of flowers
la mer = the sea
le bisou = kiss

Vocabulary that didn't make it into the sound file:
le/la complice = partner, partner in crime, accomplice

Smokey and me at the telephone booth-turned-library from today's story

A favorite picture of my Mom, Jules, walking in La Ciotat

Closing with another photo of the mailboxes at Les Arcenaulx. Stroll with me there in the story "flâner"

Experience a Lavender & Vine painting tour! Discover the magical light of Van Gogh this summer (lavender season) or fall (wine harvest). Join our small group with professional instruction to paint in Provence. Rates and tour info here.

Today's Phrase: au petit bonheur

    : haphazardly, randomly

Le bonheur, c'est de continuer à désirer ce qu'on possède. -Saint Augustin
Happiness is wanting what you already have.

January Book-A-Thon....
For two years now I have quietly read your blog, enjoying your triumphs and trials. Unable to sleep one night, I opened your email to find a request to buy your book. It was time for me to step out of the shadows and support your cause. What a delight! I have been unable to put it down. I wish you loads of success. --Jeanne

January book-a-thon: buy a book for a friend. Your purchase supports my writing and helps new readers find their way here. Merci! Available in ebook/Kindle or paperback.

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

The photo in the opening of this post, and this one, are from Beth. I have personally experienced her hospitality during one of her organized trips in Provence. Do check it out, it may be just the adventure you are looking for in 2019! 

Recent Instagram post: Three generations, with my Mom, Jules, and my son, Max.

Wish I'd gotten a picture of the hero in today's story. Meantime, here's a lovable stand-in. Photo taken somewhere in the Vaucluse...

le locataire (lo h-ka-tair)

    : tenant

Audio File: Listen to Jean-Marc: Download MP3 or  Wav file

Le locataire ouvre grand ses bras. "Entrez, je vous en prie!" il dit.
The tenant opens his arms. "Come in. Please!" he says.  

A Day in a French Life... by Kristin Espinasse

"La Ciotat, La Ciotat!"

I went twice to La Ciotat yesterday. First, in the morning--to get more ingredients for the Healthy Fudge--and again in the evening to look at an apartment for my belle-mère.

The second trip was Jean-Marc's idea. "But are you sure your Mom wants to leave Marseilles? All of her friends are there. And all of her friendly commercants, too." I remember meeting Michèle-France's pharmacist on my previous visit, and witnessing the cheerful bantering between the two women. In a new town, my belle-mère would lose these cozy ties--or have to slowly build them again. 

Jean-Marc assured me that his maman was desperate to move. After nearly two decades in her shoe-size apartment, Michèle-France feels like a bull in a birdcage. And because there is no elevator, she is obliged to climb four flights of stairs--the idea of which keeps her prisoner inside her own home (and one or two nagging health issues do nothing to encourage her to venture out).

***
In a flowering courtyard a hundred meters from the sea, a thin man is looking out from a ground floor apartment. The smile on his face is as warm as the sunshine pouring down on the flowering lauriers-roses beneath his window. 

"That's Monsieur C. He's moving back to Corsica," the landlady explains, guiding Jean-Marc and me up the stairs to lobby. 

In the entry hall, beside the door of the apartment, there is a giant poster in hues of blue--my mother-in-law's favorite color. The details of the affiche escape me when the porte flies open and another subject comes into view: the Corsican.

"Bonjour, Mr. C." The landlady apologizes for the invasion but we are apparently no bother: her tenant ushers us in with a warm welcome. "Entrez," he says, "entrez!"

We begin our walk-through of the one-bedroom apartment. Passing a hall closet, the landlady assures her locataire: "No need to open it, Mr. C."

"Je vous en prie!" Mr. C. insists, reaching down to push a heavy packing bag out of the way.

I peer into the tiny placard, which holds a few threadbare items. My focus returns to our voluntary guide, Mr. C., whose clothes mimic those in his faded wardrobe. He is wearing an oversized coat and pants and his fedora is about to topple off his head. Standing this closely to Monsieur, I smell fumes on his breath and notice how his eyes are softly lit.... I begin to wonder why he is moving and hope that wherever he goes he will be OK. 

"And here is the bedroom," the propriétaire points out. "The place comes furnished." 

As we step past him, Mr. C. smiles, pushing his packing bag out of the way once again. I reach out and grasp his shoulder in an automatic gesture of thanks. Thanks for the warm welcome. Thanks for being so helpful. Thanks for putting up with this invasion. Only, when I find myself patting his shoulder again and again, I realize my reflex may be overly sympathetic. I begin to wonder: if Monsieur didn't have the glassy eyes and octane breath--if he didn't have the repurposed suitcase--if instead he had a Louis Vuitton and wore a bow tie--then would I have patted him on the shoulder?

No, I wouldn't have! I would have been too intimidated. But here, there was no intimidation or awkwardness--only a sense of camaraderie. Still, I should be more composed--for overt displays of sympathy can come across as pitying, or worse--condescending!

As we continue to tour the stranger's apartment, I think about how quick I am to show affection to certain types of people. How chatty I can be! But put me in a room with the up and climbing Joneses, the cosmopolitans--or people my own age, or savants--and I'm suddenly tongue-tied and awkward. No way I'd be slapping them on the back, ol' pal style. Ça ne se fait pas!

As my mind overthinks my gestures, Mr. C. is going with the flow--the tide of strangers peering into the nooks and crannies of his upturned life. I notice the padlock on his bedroom window shutters; once again I have the urge to reach out... and comfort him? and for what? But the padlock, or cadenas, is proof of the fragility that up til know could only be sensed. 

"That's the WC," the landlady says as we follow her out into the hall again. "It's separate from the bathroom." Opening the door I'm cheered by the tiny room with its bright turquoise blue paint. There is a picture of a saint on the wall, her arms are outstretched just as Mr. C's were, on ushering us into his home earlier.

As I stand admiring the saint a sour scent lifts upwards from beneath my feet, filling my nose with an acidic tingling.... I quickly back out of the WC. but the scent seems to trail out to the hallway. I guess Mr. C. had missed the spot--as men will--only his aim was a little farther off than most.

Overall, Jean-Marc and I loved the apartment, and Mr. C's character lent an affectionate and adorable aura to the place.

"But we'll need to do some repair work," Jean-Marc explained. "Some painting... and we'll need to change the linoleum floors."
 
The deal was sealed with a bottle of wine - one Jean-Marc promised to bring on the next visit. With a little persuading, maybe we can get him to bring a bottle for Mr. C. (or would fudge be a better idea?), in thanks for his warm hospitality.

On our way out I brushed Mr. C's shoulder once again, finding it hard to resist the lovable character. The gesture wasn't condescending, no! How good it felt to touch a saint and to sense his gentle spirit run through me, filling my mother-in-law's next home with love and abundance.

***

Post note: The landlord tells us Mr. C. is returning to his native Corsica, after a stint in La Ciotat. No sad ending, here. May the beauty of the southern French island fill his days with joy.

French Vocab

la belle-mère = mother-in-law
le commerçant = storekeeper 
la maman = mom, mother 
les lauriers-roses (mpl) = oleanders
une affiche = poster
la porte = door
le locataire = renter, tenant
entrez = come in 
je vous en prie = please (go ahead)
le placard de rangement = small closet, often in a hallway
ça ne se fait pas! = one doesn't do that!
le cadenas = padlock 
le WC = toilet (bathroom) 

Photos and words like this are the best reward for sticking to my writing dream, and pushing past all the doubtful moments!  Mille mercis to the students in this photo, and to their thoughtful teacher!

Hi Kristin,  I had an amazing 8th grade French class this year and some of the girls fell madly in love with Words in a French Life.  We did a weekly reading period on Mondays and they would literally fight over who got to read it.  Because I enjoyed them so much, I gave all of the girls in the class your book and they were ecstatic! ... I thought you might enjoy the picture!  

JoAnna, a middle school french teacher in Massachusetts

Another recipe--maybe we're on a roll?

Three sum years ago, when he was 15, our son Max had an internship at a local starred restaurant. There, he learned how to make verrines! I came across this photo in my archives, which comes in the nick of time: we have several guests this month and I've been needing some kitchen inspiration. This verrine (from the word "verre" or "glass") looks simple:

...a layer of chopped surimi (will replace this with real fish...), a layer of guacamole, a layer of sour cream, and a layer of smoked salmon. Top with anèth, or dill--something that happens to be growing profusely in our garden!


Looking back on this post, written in 2013, I did not know we too would move to the historic town of La Ciotat in the summer of 2017. 

""The rare Frenchman who uses the crosswalk" Computer is back and so are some long-lost photos from years ago! Youpie! Yay!

une béquille (beh-kee)

    : crutch, stand; kickstand (bike)

Audio File: listen to Jean-Marc pronounce the following expressions: Download MP3 or Wav file

Elle marche avec des béquilles. She walks with crutches.
mettre une moto, un vélo sur sa béquille = to put a motorbike or bike on its stand.
se déplacer avec des béquilles = to get around on crutches


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

I was staring up at a flower seed display with packet after packet of possibilities when I heard a tap tap tap coming up from behind me. Turning, I saw a woman on crutches who was now looking up at the same rack of flower packets.

"Bonjour," I smiled, quickly turning back around in discretion. A moment passed before I thought to scoot over so that the newcomer could see the entire display.

"Ne bougez pas. Vous ne me gênez pas du tout," she assured me. Her hair, gathered up in a large twist, was the color of Mexican poppies ...or maybe honey-colored nasturtiums? ...the ones I was debating  whether or not to buy. I liked the idea they were edible plus pretty to look at. I had recently bought a pack of blue starflowers, or bourrache, for that very reason. Come to think of it I had recently bought quite a few packets of flowers, so maybe I'd better head off now, and meet-up with Jean-Marc, who was two aisles over, in the "automatic watering systems" section of the store.

But before leaving I felt the urge to say something to the middle-aged lady with the béquilles. During the handful of minutes that we had stood staring up at the flower seed présentoir, I sensed her endearing presence. We had only exchanged a brief greeting and that is when I saw what my dear aunt Charmly would refer to as stardust. It's that heavenly sweetness that emanates from a kindred spirit.

"Wouldn't it be lovely to have them all!" I said to the stranger, betting on the possibility that she, too, was overwhelmed by what the French call l'embarass de choix. There were so many flowers to choose from. I went to put back the seed packet I had been holding when the lady with crutches responded to me.

"Which one is that?" she asked.

"Oh... cosmos," I offered.

"Cosmos?" She had never heard of the flower before.

"Ah," I said, smiling. "They grow this high..." I motioned with my hands," and are covered with fuchsia flowers. (I was thinking of the cosmos that my mom had so loved, back at our farm in Sainte Cécile-les-Vignes. The thought of Mom fawning over those flowers threw me back in time.)

Perhaps emotion had cast a fragile shadow over me, for next the stranger offered an affectionate compliment.

"Hold on," the woman said, as I  returned the seeds to the display. "I will plant them and they will remind me of you."

It was such an intimate and generous thought that it caught me completely off-guard. I thanked the woman with the Mexican poppy-colored hair and quickly hurried off.

It was a strange reaction and, even as I was walking away, I wanted to turn back... to say something back to her just as nice! But what?

Two rows over, in the watering section of the store, I stood there debating. I should go back and get the seeds that she had been looking at (morning glories, I think they were...) and tell her I'll plant them and think of her, too! But as the seconds turned to minutes I convinced myself that the window of opportunity had passed. At this point it would be too awkward to return.

Hélas this touching encounter will be filed under Missed Opportunities. Meantime somewhere in France dozens of cosmos will bloom this summer. I see the woman with the Mexican poppy color hair hobbling up to admire them. She's finished with her crutches by now, and a part of her is even jogging down memory lane.

***
Post note: Recently, I discovered in my seed collection a packet of Mexican poppies (a gift from Malou a few years ago). I will scatter them and think of the golden-haired stranger. She won't have the joy of knowing my gesture (as I had knowing of her plan) but that brings me back to stardust, which must--like the emanating and far-reaching light from which it is born--illuminate kindred spirits the world over. Somehow she will know.

To comment, click here. Share your remarkable experiences with strangers or talk about another theme in today's edition. Thanks.

French Vocabulary

le présentoir = display rack

ne bougez pas vous ne me gênez pas du tout = don't move. You're not bothering me a bit

le bourrache = borage

les béquilles (f) = crutches

hélas =  alas

un embarras = a difficulty (more here)

l'embarras de (or du) choix = embarrassing variety of choice, multiple possibilites

Au présentoir des fleurs je suis resté bête devant l'embarras de choix.
At the flower display I was stumped before all the choices.

avoir l'embarras du choix = to have too many solutions

Remember these words? Don't miss the pictures and stories:

semence

choper

raison

fouiller

Months before we moved to our first vineyard, in Sainte Cécile-les-Vignes, we would visit it. Here is a picture of Jean-Marc beneath a rainbow... and on the verge of a colorful future in winemaking. You can also see the kids and our dog Braise.

Jean-Marc will kick off his USA Wine Tour in March!  Click here for more info and to see what other cities he'll visit. 


A blessing in disguise is what Jean-Marc calls my latest computer crash... for when my PC was repaired, we recuperated all the pictures that were lost during the first computer crash! It is fun to see the kids, in 2007. That's Braise they are washing... in an old grape bucket from Uncle Jean-Claude's vineyard. 

Pronounce It Perfectly in French - with exercises in sound discrimination and accurate sound creation. Order your copy here.

Still pinching images from Google image search (I promise I took these!) after my computer crashed one week ago (typing this post on my son's PC).... This photo was snapped in St. Tropez. Its artist theme fits with today's story of the "tree artists" (or pirates, rather...). Read on, in today's column.

chaparder (sha-par-day)

     to pinch, to lift, to steal

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

Pirates of the Olive Plantation

For the next week or two there will be a modest camping-car parked in the driveway below our house. This is part of Jean-Marc's solution to our tree-pruning dilemma: hire a specialized team to tackle the project in one intensive fortnight!

Like this we have insta-neighbors—though we don't see them or hear them very much. Tanguy* and Thomas, who arrived Friday from the Gard region, will spend their days cutting back the enormous oliviers that have graced this land for centuries.

It would be fun to imagine the two tree-trimmers as Edward Scissorhand's distant French cousins, but the truth is they look more like pirates than gothic gardeners. (There's a definite Johnny Depp connection. It must be the rock ‘n’ roll demeanor they share. It's that giant silver hoop, or créole, that Tanguy sports or that bad boy air that surrounds Thomas, who, with une clope dangling from his lazy smile, easily perpetuates the myth that cigarettes are seductive.)

I knew a little bit about Tanguy before he came to live here for this short séjour. His partner, Aurélie, has helped at all our grape harvests. I had a hunch that Tanguy might know a lot about how to forage wild plants, as Aurélie does, so I asked him to help me identify some pissenlit (or confirm it was indeed dandelion) that I was hoping to use in the kitchen. That is when I learned that Thomas, Tanguy's friend and co-pirate, knew a thing or two about les plantes sauvages. At the picnic table, yesterday, a sleeveless Thomas reached down and snapped up an herb with lance-shaped leaves, declaring it plantain.

Thomas handed me the wild specimen, which I could use to compare against other wild plants—eventually adding it to my knowledge base. I am hoping to have a certain understanding of the comestible plants on our property ("certain" being the key word. I want to be sure the plants I am picking are mangeable and not poisonous as they are destined for soups, salads, and juices).

Changing the subject, so as not to take up Tanguy and Thomas's lunch break, I said: 

"By the way, that would have been a great photo of you two in the olive trees this morning!" I was remembering the image of Tanguy and Thomas, each on a different branch high above the ground which is graced here and there by wild orchids this time of year.

Tanguy laughed. "You aren't the only one to think so!" he admitted, telling me how he and Thomas seemed to be stopping the traffic that normally cruised by the great olive field. 

More than a sight to behold, the tree-trimmers were surrounded by some very attractive commodities: the centuries-old branches that were piling up on the ground beneath them.

"One grand-mère pulled over, hiked up her skirt, and climbed onto the olive grove," Tanguy explained. "She plucked up a couple of olive branches, saying they'd make great gifts (an olive branch symbolizes peace—what better offering than this?).

"Another guy pulled over and snapped up an armful of leafy cuttings. 'For my sheep,' he explained." (I wondered if the punk rock sheepherder was back? Was this whom Tanguy saw stealing away with the olive branches?) 

Tanguy shook his head, smiling. "I let him take what he wanted. Sheep love to eat olive branches!"

(Come to think of it, that was true! I remembered the transhumance that took place on our land last month—and how the sheep stood on hind legs to reach the olive branches!)

I listened to stories of the other motorists-turned-thieves. What funny images it all painted in my mind. It was amusing, too, to think that Tanguy and Thomas weren't the only ones to share a pirate's likeness—apparently half our neighborhood did too!

I pictured Tanguy and Thomas dangling high up in the olive tree (or ship mast...) as a host of unlikely pirates landed on the orchid spotted deck below, before disappearing with the leafy loot.

*** 

 Here I have to smile at the colorful French definition of today's word:

chaparder: dérober de modestes objets (to steal objects of modest value). True, the branches weren't worth much, but many an unsuspecting thief found value in those discarded tree limbs, and yo-ho-ho! away they rode.

*Learn all about the cool name "Tanguy"--click here and scroll down to the story column. We met Tanguy via his partner, Aurélie. I wrote a poem about her here: "...Heroines with hot peppers in their hearts, they sizzle with mystery and soul." Read the story-poem "Bohème" - click here.

French Vocabulary

un camping-car = camper van, RV

un olivier = olive tree 

une créole = large hoop earring

une clope = cigarette

un séjour = a stay

le pissenlit = dandelion

la plante sauvage = wild plant

le plantain = known as ribleaf, lamb's tongue and other names

mangeable = edible

Words and photos you may have missed. Click on the pictures for more:

How to say "care package" in French?

rouler de nuit: why the French drive at night

parler en public: to speak in public!

girouette (remember what this is?)

127 things to do in Paris: click here to read the latest reader-submitted tips!

The gnarled and noble trunks of the olives trees that Tanguy and Thomas are pruning this week.

Pronounce It Perfectly in French - with exercises in sound discrimination and accurate sound creation. Order your copy here.


Always leave on a sunny note--something I sometimes forget, especially when taking for granted the daily comings and goings of family. Speaking of sunny, have you planted sunflowers seeds yet? If you don't have a big yard, where else could you plant one? Ever seen one of those cool sunflower houses--where you dig a square trench and plant seeds all around - leaving space for the "front door" door? When they are grown you can connect the tops! To comment on any item in this post, click here, and thank you for forwarding this letter to a friend.

Cabane de berger (the shepherd's wooden hut) photo by the Neurdein brothers. Here we have a slumbering sheepherder with his border collie and german shepherd (is it?) minding the troup. (When Mom sees this photo, she'll ditch her latest treehouse scheme... in favor of this fort-on-wheels with a nifty sliding door! Mom has had a hard time deciding where to anchor, here on the olive farm. This just may be the answer!) 

un berger (une bergère)

    : a shepherd, or shepherdess

la bergerie = sheep pen, sheepfold

Audio File: listen to Jean-Marc read the following sentence, in French: Download MP3 or Wav file

Le berger amène ses moutons dans la plaine. Cela s'appelle la transhumance.
The shepherd brings his sheep to the flatland. This is called "la transhumance".


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

A Modern Day Nomad

Returning home from the doctor's on Monday, we ran into a roadblock along our driveway. Dozens of sheep, great and small, were feasting on the grass beside the olive trees! 

They're here! Hurry, get their picture! I said to Jean-Marc, who got out of our car to check the mail. Hurry! Before they wander off!

                           (Jean-Marc's photo)

Having collected the courrier, Jean-Marc made his way up the crowded and bleating path. There were sheep everywhere: in the road, in the meadow, and in the trees (or nearly!). I watched, amazed to see the peaceful-looking animals rip off and devour the thorny stems of the bushes, enjoying them like chewy licorice sticks.

Driving cautiously in my husband's wake, I rolled down the window to get a better look at the troupeaux, which included several nursing lambs—agneaux—and even a few black sheep. I smiled thinking of their proverbial brothers and sisters (and a few of my own family members...).

As Jean-Marc advanced, a shepherd appeared on the restanque just above. The two men began a lazy conversation. I struggled to get within earshot, but it wasn't until the shepherd whistled—and a Border collie materialized—that the path instantly cleared of its four-legged traffic and I was able to pull my car over to the side of the road. 

Jean-Marc, interested in some free soil amendment for his soon-to-be planted vines, was informing the berger about which pastures belong to us, and which were the neighbors'. As the men pointed and stretched their arms, measuring the expanse of the pâturage, I stole a closer look at the sheepherder.

He appeared to be in his early thirties, an unusual age for sheepherders, who, once upon a time, were either the very young or the very old (deemed useless to the family for anything but watching sheep!).

History had changed since the down-and-out times of early shepherding; it wasn't likely that this modern day berger was a burden to his family. Shepherds these days earn a living and, from all appearances, made enough to afford a smartphone! 

Apart from the portable phone, I noticed the shepherd's tattered wooden cane, une houlette. It had the famous hook at the end, useful for freeing the hoof of a trapped sheep, one that has fallen from the path.  

The shepherd tucked his canne under his arm, pausing to roll a cigarette as he listened to Jean-Marc. He was no ordinary shepherd, wearing a newsboy cap and a punk haircut. His short locks were punctuated by a single strand of braided hair that signaled nonconformist. Come to think of it, weren't punk rockers noncomformists who aspired to be nomads? This shepherd was the real deal, a living, breathing wanderer.

"Tomorrow, I'll park on the other side of the field," the berger informed Jean-Marc, pointing to his  beat-up shepherd wagon. It was one of those classic Estafettes, the kind Jean-Marc's grandmother drove during WWII, as she peddled house linens to the Pieds-Noirs in Morocco. 

"Ça marche," Jean-Marc waved goodbye to the sheepherder, before getting back into our car.

I still hadn't had a word with the shepherd, though I was itching to know him. What a fascinating story he must have to share. But I had a feeling he was a private type—he reminded me so much of  my rebel sister-in-law. And though I had so many questions, (just as I had for her), I didn't want to put him out and, admittedly, I didn't want to say something stupid or square to someone so authentic.

But then, wasn't I a little authentic too? How many times had I let my perceived squareness keep me from befriending the nonconformists? But I wasn't so straight as that.  Gone were the perfectly made-up face and fluffy hair. With a bandaged nose* and, wearing a sweater with holes (my dear mom's, for comfort), I might pass for a bohemian, like him.

Before putting the car into gear, I stuck my tattered nose out the window. "Nice dog!" I offered, admiring the hardworking Border collie, and noble chien de berger. "Is she good at what she does?"

A smile now stretched across the nomad's face, revealing a row of teeth as wandering as his sheep.

"Elle est la meilleure!" the berger replied, his enthusiasm as endearing as his smile.  "If one of these moutons ended up on that far off colline (with this, he stretched forth his cane, waving it for effect), Mieszka (mee-esh-ka) would be there in a flash, to steer her home."

It didn't take much, after all, to connect with the mysterious nomad who was so different from this heart-on-sleeves homebody. I had thought I had nothing to say, and yet, venturing the question, I was rewarded by the friendly, universal connection.  

 
To comment on this story, click here. Keep the conversation going by sharing your own stories about connecting with people so seemingly different than yourself. And what about Border collies and the intelligence of dogs? Notice any other themes in today's essay?  Thanks for sharing your thoughts, in the comments box.

 *bandaged nose: the stiches from the biopsy were taken out on Monday. Good news: this time the results came back benign, and not bcc!

References:
Read about Jean-Marc's grandmother in the story "bouder" (to pout). It was Jean-Marc's grandmother who gave me some of the best mariage advice, namely ne jamais bouder! Click here for that story and the scene of the grandmother peddling linens from a military supply vehicle....

FRENCH VOCABULARY

le courrier = mail

le troupeau = herd

un agneau =lamb

le mouton = sheep (some fun & colorful "mouton" expressions, such as "revenons à nos moutons, here)

la restanque = a kind of terrace held by a wall of stacked rocks

le pâturage = field of grasses from which animals graze 

la canne = cane

le pied-noir = French citizen who lived in Algeria before independence. The term included citizens, like my mother-in-law and her family, living in other North African countries, such as Morocco, during or after wartime.

ça marche = that'll work

le chien de berger = sheepdog, such as a Border collie

elle est la meilleure = she's the best 

la colline = hill

Gus was so suprised and touched by the messages you left him for his 88th birthday. Gus writes (in typical Gus "all caps"):

IF I REALLY TRIED, I COULD COME UP WITH A FLOWERY PHRASE TO TELL YOU ABOUT MY FEELINGS FOR THE BIRTHDAY AFFAIR.  THE BEST ONE IS A VERY SINCERE "THANKS"..

Gus is pictured, above, with daughter Mary, who is, Gus tells us, "MY ONE FLOWER AMONG FIVE SONS".

Remember these words? Thanks for reading the stories:

étourdie

une causette 

etre tout sucre, tout miel

video of our home + "mas"

Marguerites in the lavender town of Sault. Has a friend forwarded you this post? Sign up, here, to receive French Word-A-Day in your in-box.

What is remarkable, or kind of funny, about this sign above the window? Your guesses in the comments box. Photo taken in Toulon, where today's story takes place.

ouvrier (ew-vree-ay)

    : worker

Example Sentence:

Je ne suis qu'un simple ouvrier. I am but an ordinary working man.

A Day in a French Life... by Kristin Espinasse

Mom and I were in Toulon, yesterday, looking up at a giant monument when a man suddenly appeared, like a phantom.

"Do you know the story?" he quizzed, motioning to the statue above us.

I looked back at the plaque, to the dates, which corresponded to WWII. "Were you there?" I asked.

When he didn't answer right away, I worried about placing the man in the wrong generation (and over-guessing his age). Casually, I rephrased things:  "I mean, are you from here?"

A smile lit up his wrinkled face, and he had to hold onto his woolen hat as if to contain himself. Once acknowledged, his voice hushed a notch. "There is another memorial plaque, on the other side..." he pointed out. "For the men who lost their lives in 1911...."

Mom and I listened, one of us translating as the stranger told his story.

"The battleship was called "Liberté"..." he began. "It was a brand-new vessel and it was carrying explosives. But almost as soon as Liberté left the port, the cargo detonated.  The accident caused several hundred men to lose their lives."

As the stranger spoke, his light blue eyes shone through my own, the warmth carrying with it a tangible sense of that dramatic moment in time. So transported, we listened to the waves crashing against the burning boat, the cries of the matelots, and to our own beating hearts, we frozen bystanders, one hundred years in the future.

After the stranger finished his story, my eyes were gently released from the grip of his regard, and I found my vision wandering from the man's peaceful face, to his worn-out coat, to his scuffed purse and shoes. In his hand he held a feuille des soins, or receipt from a recent medical visit. 

Around his neckline there was a layer of debris. Discreetly, I tried to identify it. It was the kind of dust that could collect after a long cold night on the streets of Toulon... poussière from an industrial city shedding itself on the unfortunates, or sans domicile fixes, including schizophrenics, runaways, and drunkards.

I observed the stranger's eyes, which were bright--sober as a newborn. His mind was just as sharp, and we listened, Mom and I, as he began to tell us about his beloved Toulon, this time in verse.

Les arbres qui l'entourent... la mer qui l'embrasse....

Mom listened as I tried to translate the poetic words as fast as the poet spoke them, but I could not keep up. 

I couldn't help wondering if the beautiful rhymes were his own. "Verlaine?" I questioned. 

He shook his head, surprised. "Now, where was I... oh yes! Les arbres qui l'entourent... Toulon, ville de fleurs... Toulon..."

After the poetry came a bit of trivia: do you know about les Farons?

I nodded my head dumbly (really not knowing a thing; in fact, when he said "Faron", I thought I heard "Pharaoh", and was soon lost in Egypt... when Monsieur interrupted my daydream, offering that le Faron was a hill. Pointing to it, he added: "There is a zoo up there." ). 

Just then, I felt a poke to my side. "Ask him if he is a professor!" Mom elbowed me.

"Vous êtes un prof?"

"No, I am a simple worker," came the modest answer. "Juste un ouvrier."

His statement set my imagination on fire again, and I pictured everything from giant cranes to coal mines to dock maintenance.

But before we could find out his story, il a disparu. We watched the simple ouvrier walk away--until he reached the edge of the place de la liberté, at which point he disappeared—poof!—like a ghost. All that was left was the uncanny feeling... of having just received a privileged visit from a drowned Liberté sailor, or ancient matelot.

French Vocabulary

(Je sais, je sais... I know, I know... this story needs a vocab section. Meantime, feel free to define some of the words in today's story. Click here to add a definition to the comments box. Merci d'avance!)

***

In other stories: this stranger's words, "I am but a simple ouvrier," reminded me of another character we met in the town of Buis-les-Baronnies. Do you remember the last peasant?

We celebrated Jackie's 15th with my mother-in-law Michèle-France's chocolate cake. Uncle Jacques joined us, too.

If you are new to this blog, you might enjoy this mother-daughter story le frisson written last spring. You don't have to be a mom to enjoy it; if you've ever wanted desperately to connect with someone, you'll relate! Click here to read it.

***

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In other news, Jean-Marc received a very big package yesterday. He has once again chosen the maritime shipping container as a solution to our storage needs! The large unit is not visible from the front porch (ouf!) and the wine color almost fades into the scenery... where grapes will soon compete with the colorful horizon!

For more stories of Jean-Marc's original solutions to life's dilemmas, read Words in a French Life or Blossoming in Provence. Your book purchase is a great support to this journal. Thanks.