FRENCH WORD-A-DAY

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

Jan W.
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"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 

A TEAM AND TOURS THAT MAKE A DIFFERENCE 

Bonjour!

As a France-based company, we at Tour With Absolutely offer an insider’s perspective on small-group tours designed exclusively for women, showcasing the very best of France.

Our expert hosts—an extraordinary mix of Canadian, American, and Australian best-selling authors, influential bloggers, renowned chefs, talented photographers, gifted artists, and skilled craftswomen—bring each destination to life with their passion and expertise.

From intimate literary salons in Paris and hands-on artisan workshops in Provence to coastal discoveries in the Basque Country and vibrant market strolls along the Riviera, our thoughtfully curated journeys celebrate the creativity, heritage, and artistry of remarkable women. Join us for an unforgettable adventure, where authentic experiences and meaningful connections await. 100 euro discount code French100

Contact [email protected]

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.

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
Your notes are a joy to read and your corrections help so much. Click here to leave a message

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

A TEAM AND TOURS THAT MAKE A DIFFERENCE 

Bonjour!

As a France-based company, we at Tour With Absolutely offer an insider’s perspective on small-group tours designed exclusively for women, showcasing the very best of France.

Our expert hosts—an extraordinary mix of Canadian, American, and Australian best-selling authors, influential bloggers, renowned chefs, talented photographers, gifted artists, and skilled craftswomen—bring each destination to life with their passion and expertise.

From intimate literary salons in Paris and hands-on artisan workshops in Provence to coastal discoveries in the Basque Country and vibrant market strolls along the Riviera, our thoughtfully curated journeys celebrate the creativity, heritage, and artistry of remarkable women. Join us for an unforgettable adventure, where authentic experiences and meaningful connections await. 100 euro discount code French100

Contact [email protected]

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
Your comments are encouraging and your correction are so helpful. Thanks in advance! To leave a message, click here.

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
See a typo? Have your own story to share or simply want to leave a message? Click here to go to the comments box. Thanks in advance for taking the time to share.

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

TODAY'S WORD: LA RECONNAISSANCE

    : acknowledgment, gratefulness

A YEAR IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

And just like that, 2024 has come to an end. As they say here in Provence, Bon bout d’an!—happy end of the year. 

How quickly the months have gone by. Like the gentle breeze sweeping the neighborhood leaves across the seafront, le temps vole! But to where, exactly, does time fly? However boggling this vast endlessness, there’s comfort in knowing these moments live on forever, in our memories, in our stories, and even into the mysterious ever after. 

Looking back over the past four seasons, I’m filled with gratitude and émerveillement—not only for the unexpected people who came into our lives but for those who’ve been there all along, making every little adventure and its built-in lesson more precious, meaningful, and lasting.

The year began with an intention to connect more deeply with the locals. I imagined myself frequenting cafés, supporting local establishments, and finding ways to weave more threads into the vibrant tapestry of life here in La Ciotat. But the universe had other plans. Instead of reaching out to others, it seemed others were sent to me, offering help in ways I couldn’t have anticipated—or even asked for.

The first spark came early in the year, on a sunny day at the farmer’s market. I had tied Ricci’s leash to a table while picking out some fresh vegetables. I turned away for just a moment, and when I looked back, she was gone.

In a panic, I rushed down the boardwalk, calling her name. But before I could begin to lose hope, several locals sprang into action, hurrying ahead to corral Ricci and guide her back to me. One after another, they closed the gaps, gently steering her back into my arms. That day, I realized just how quickly people can step in to help when you least expect it—and how much I relied on the kindness of strangers which appears when we least expect it.

When my husband left for New Zealand, my confidence in steering this boat quickly dwindled with the arrival of the first obstacles. Mom’s health began to require more attention, and with a medical appointment looming, I realized I would have to dust off my driving skills after years of being Jean-Marc’s passenger.

But I wasn’t alone. Ana, Max’s girlfriend, immediately offered to chauffeur us to the ophtalmologue and Jackie chaperoned us to the next appointment. Watching these young women navigate so calmly reminded me how much we all lean on each other, no matter our inner strength. As I slowly regained my confidence behind the wheel, what began as an ordeal opened a path for me to reclaim a bit of independence.

The challenges continued when we discovered Mom’s health card had expired. I braced myself for a bureaucratic nightmare, unsure how we’d navigate the French healthcare system. But once again, help came in the form of angels—nurses, hospital staff, and administrative workers—who quietly and compassionately ensured Mom received the care she needed, regardless of the expired paperwork.

In the end, all her bills were covered, a testament to the grace of a system and the people within it who prioritize compassion over red tape. I was deeply humbled by their quiet bienveillance.

Any challenges this year were punctuated by joys. In February, raising a glass of l’eau pétillante, I toasted to 21 cherished years of sobriety. In July, Jean-Marc and I celebrated our 30th anniversary and in October my dad, sisters, and I reunited on a Mediterranean cruise! You know it’s been a good year when you get to dig out your wedding dress and wear it twice (once for our anniversary dinner and again for the cruise’s White Night party).

In the fall, the tables turned, and I experienced an unexpected health issue. Physical therapy and the support of friends and family got me through. This year, I meant to reach out to others, but instead, they reached out to me. From locals at the market, to loved ones, and the medical angels who showed up when we needed them most, I was reminded again and again of the quiet ways grace flows into our lives.

Recalling everyone who played a part in this period of our lives, I owe so much to my readers. Thank you for helping me realize my goal of writing another year of stories--these essays will soon be published in the book A Year in a French Life. 

To those who followed my blog, commented, emailed, and encouraged me—you may not know it, but your support kept me showing up at the blank page, typing away. Writing isn’t something I can do in isolation.  A weekly deadline in which I report to you here provides just enough pressure to “gather all the butterflies”—or happenings—and settle them into a meaningful story. I'm learning to live with the anxiety, though I sometimes think, Why not just settle down in the garden and let the butterflies be? Wouldn’t that be more relaxing? I do not know what drives me to write, but your presence gives me the strength to keep sharing.

Special thanks to my book angels at TLC Book Design: Tami Dever, for taking on this book project and helping to market it, to Erin Stark, for designing the beautiful interior and for all her detailed work, thoughts, prayers, and valuable time, and to Monica Thomas, for the wonderful series of book covers she created so that readers could pick the winner!

Mille mercis from the heart to my dedicated proofreaders Rajeev Bansal, Liz Caughey, and Sara Rubin—thank you for your invaluable feedback, dedication, and precious time spent correcting this manuscript. To Chief Grape, chief of my heart, Jean-Marc, to Mom, and to my family, near and far, thank you for your 24/7 love and encouragement. And to my longtime bestie, Susan Boehnstedt, a.k.a. Rouge-Bleu, for your timely WhatsApp check-ins—a needed diversion from the daily act of juggling life.

One year ago, I never imagined the quartet of helpers who would come into our home: un grand merci to the nurses, Nathalie, Roland, and Nicolas, and to our fée du logis, Fiona, who is like a daughter. Finally, thanks to my frères et sœurs at Église Évangelique Baptiste. France will always be a foreign land, but this little church feels as familiar as home.

As I sit here, watching the waves roll in along the shore in La Ciotat, I am overwhelmed by reconnaissance. These past twelve months weren’t what I imagined, but they taught me to open my heart and receive the help of others.

The phrase I mentioned earlier, bon bout d’an, is often followed by another: et à l’an que ven—“and to the coming year.” I leave you with many cheers and hope the new year finds you open-hearted, and ready to receive countless blessings. When you get the chance, lie in a garden and wait quietly for the butterflies or angels—grace in whichever form it may appear.

***


An end-of-year blessing to share: Mom is painting again! She is working on this scene of our house and garden. That's going to be me and Smokey (lower right), as this painting was begun before our golden retriever passed away.

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FRENCH VOCABULARY

Sound file: Click here to listen to Jean-Marc pronouce the French words below

la reconnaissance = acknowledgement, gratefulness
bon bout d'an = happy end of the year
le temps vole = time flies
l’émerveillement (m) = awe 
l'ophtalmologue (nmf) = opthlamologist
la bienveillance = kindness, goodwill
l’eau pétillante (f) = sparkling water
mille mercis = a thousand thanks
un grand merci = a big thank-you
la fée du logis = house helper
mes frères et sœurs = my brothers and sisters
bon bout d'an et à l'an que ven = Provençal for happy end of the year and to the coming year

REMERCIEMENTS/THANKS
Mille mercis for your generous donations and unwavering support, which make it possible to publish this journal and bring my forthcoming book to life. ❤️

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"Over many years, you have become the good friend I will never be able to meet. You, your thoughts, your photos, your family are always welcome." --Barbara A.

The following story is a reminder it's the thought that counts, so don't stress over gift-giving this season (easier said than done, I know...)

TODAY'S PHRASE: C'est le geste qui compte

[say-luh zhest kee kohnt]

 : it's the thought that counts

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

Entering the studio on the side of our house, I find Mom bundled in bed, laptop propped on a pillow, watching the exciting réouverture de Notre-Dame in Paris. Organ music fills the room, and the iconic église, now rebuilt after the devastating fire five and a half years ago, sparkles brightly from Jules’s side. But no matter how glorious the event on the screen, Mom will shut it off to give her full attention to her visitor.

Since our golden retriever Smokey passed away, and 20-year-old Lili the cat moved back to the neighbor’s (unwilling to share the yard with Ricci), Mom’s ever-present companion has become her laptop. Connected to the speaker Max gave her, for better sound, Jules’s computer has become her portal to limitless adventures. With a single click, she’s back with her neighborhood horses in a barrio in Mexico, tending stray dogs in Greece, or soaring over France’s beloved cathedral for a view far better than even the president's!

Sliding shut the front door, I set down my keys and phone and join Mom in her world, sharing her excitement or concern, depending on the news she’s watching. However different our views on politics and current events may be at times, we try not to get too caught up in these passing emotions. Peu importe, the two of us always seem to find a truce over food.

“I’ve made another pompe à l’huile,” I say, grinning. “Version number three. Want to try it?”

“That sounds good! You go ahead, Honey. I’ll be right over.”

I head back, with Ricci trotting close behind. High up on a branch of our bay laurel tree, resident doves, Mama and Papa, follow our every move. Moments later, Mom arrives with two polished apples, les reines des Reinettes (“queen of queens”). She places them on our coffee table as if part of a still life. When invited over for a snack or a meal, Jules's automatic response is reciprocity: her spontaneous gifts range from canned peppers to sautéed shrimp to ice cream cones. Offer Mom flowers in a tall glass vase, and she’ll divide the bouquet in two, creating an elaborate tableau vivant—a living picture—by arranging the second half artfully in a clay bowl for my coffee table.

It’s a lovely reminder of a timeless custom and a simple truth: il ne faut jamais arriver les mains vides (never arrive empty-handed). While we're here, and before we return to our narrative, here are a few more thoughts in French concerning gift-giving:

--C'est le geste qui compte
--Donner, c’est mieux que recevoir
--Le cadeau n'est rien, c'est l'intention qui compte

“Your tree looks beautiful with the lights,” Mom says, entering through the sliding glass door, taking Ricci into her lap after settling on the couch.
“Do you think I should add ornaments? I’ve got blue stars and reindeer…”
“I would leave it just as it is!”
“I like that idea!”

Presently, les santons—what clay figurines we have left—are crowded at the base of the olive tree. After Jean-Marc borrowed la crèche for his wine shop a few years back, a few characters disappeared. A quick inventory reveals we still have le porteur d’eau, la bergère, les trois mages—and Joseph—but no sign of Mary, and, good lord, Jesus has gone missing! But there’s time to find him (yes, it’s never too late to find Jesus!).

“What do you want for your birthday?” Mom changes the subject.

“You already got me something: I’ve ordered the fluffy wool faux fur coussin for my writing chair.”

“Good! Now let’s get you something else!”

I stop to revel in Mom’s generosity when suddenly she asks, “How old will you be?”

“57.”

“57! You should have a present every day!”

“Aw, Mom. What about you? What would you like for Christmas?”

“Pajamas. I want my whole wardrobe to be pajamas!”

I laugh and hug her, a warm, unspoken understanding passing between us. No matter our ups and downs this past year, Mom will always be the apple of my eye, the queen of queens—just like those polished Reinettes she brought me.

It's these little moments—the laughter, the shared joy—that are the gifts that keep on giving. Whether for Christmas, birthdays, or any day, time with a loved one is the most precious cadeau of all.

*    *     *

And now, from our home to yours, Joyeux Noël! See you in a few weeks for the very last edition of the year....

Photo taken on my birthday, three years ago, after Mom got me matching pajamas.

COMMENTS/CORRECTIONS
Your messages and your eagle eye in spotting typos are encouraging and helpful! Click here to comment. Merci!

FRENCH VOCABULARY

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

c'est le geste qui compte= it’s the thought that counts
la réouverture = the reopening
Notre-Dame (f) = cathedral in Paris
l’église (f) = church
peu importe = no matter what
la pompe à l’huile = traditional olive oil bread
la reine des Reinettes = queen of queens (type of apple)
le tableau vivant = living picture
il ne faut jamais arriver les mains vides = never arrive empty-handed
donner, c’est mieux que recevoir = giving is better than receiving
le cadeau n'est rien, c'est l'intention qui compte = the gift is nothing; it's the intention that counts
le santon = figurine from a Provençal nativity scene
le porteur d’eau = water carrier
la bergère = shepherdess
les trois mages = the three wise men
le coussin = cushion
le cadeau = gift
Joyeux Noël = Merry Christmas

Lili the cat update: 20-year-old Lili, who moved in with Mom after Smokey passed away, has always been an outdoor cat, but for the past year, she has preferred to stay inside, where she is cozy in our neighbor's armoire. Sadly, Lili's 15-year-old daughter recently passed away at our neighbor's, where both cats lived.

Our doves, Mama and Papa, befriended Mom when she moved here 6 years ago. Though Smokey and Lili are gone, this sweet pair of tourterelles are as close to mom as any. "Mama" has a white patch on her left wing, and "Papa" is never far from her, making it easy to identify the two.


Photo taken at les roches plates in La Ciotat. The texture of this rock reminds me of the surface of the pompe à l'huile, or crumbly olive cake I made recently. How did yours turn out?

REMERCIEMENTS/THANKS
I'd like to express my heartfelt appreciation to the following readers for their helpful donations to this blog!

Karen L.
Linda R.
Cerelle B.
Michèle C.
Sue & Charlie JP

Thanks for the weekly smiles and sunshine. —Karen L.

Joyeux Noël to you, Jean-Marc, Jules, and your kids! —Linda R.

Have a Blessed Christmas, Kristin and thanks for the recipes. Hugs. —Cerelle


A mid-December hike with Ricci in the hills above La Ciotat, offering a glimpse of the wintry Mediterranean Sea beyond the crumbling ruins

Bonjour, Jean-Marc here—Kristi's husband, aka Chief Grape, and the guy behind those sound files you hear in this journal. From January 6 to March 20, 2025, I’ll be cycling the legendary Carretera Austral in Chile and making wine in Mendoza, Argentina.

If you have friends or family in Santiago (Chile) or Mendoza (Argentina), I’d love any helpful connections to make this adventure even more special. I’ll send some trip photos to Kristi, who might sneak them into a post here while I'm away.

Merci beaucoup for your help and à bientôt!
Jean-Marc ([email protected])

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

If I learned French from books and teachers, and if it was my French family and friends who grew and tended my vocabulary, would you believe it was a humble cake that taught me la Cène?

The discovery came while I was leafing through l’Almanach Provençal, a treasure trove of Provençal traditions. I had just admired a sweetly decorated olive tree when my gaze landed on another ancient Christmas custom: la Pompe à l’Huile.

My first encounter with this gâteau was years ago at Cousin Sabine’s. Married to Jean-Marc’s cousin François, Sabine often hosts Le Gros Souper at their family vineyard nestled in the fragrant foothills of la montaigne Sainte -Victoire. It was there I first discovered les santons and their bustling village scenes: little clay figurines representing the local characters of Provence—la boulangère, le chasseur, and l’homme ravi, among others.

Sabine’s crèche was an elaborate tableau, complete with fresh moss gathered from the surrounding hills to form the floor of a miniature Provençal village. Off to the side but at the heart of it all was l'étable, the humble stable, quietly anchoring the scene.

After admiring the nativity scene, we gathered around Sabine’s mile-long dining table to enjoy a traditional feast that lasted until the sun dipped below the horizon. Annie, Sabine's mom, served home-grown chickpeas, still warm from the cocotte-minute. Sabine’s father, André, a hunter, tended the wild faisan which cooked in the fireplace beside our festive meal. A host of other dishes circulated the grand table along with family wines including Uncle Jean-Claude's Domaine du Banneret, from Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Then came the grand finale: the thirteen desserts, each laden with symbolism, representing Jesus Christ and the twelve apostles.

Among the sweets, I’ll never forget la pompe à l’huile. Modest and unadorned, these characteristics remind me of the manger, where Christ lay as a newborn. No matter how many times we sang Away in a Manger growing up, for me, it took learning French to fully grasp the poignancy of the English word "manger" in this exact context: Our Lord was laid in none other than a feeding trough for animals.

As for the pompe à l’huile, there was nothing pompous about its appearance. No icing, no layers, no filling—not even a couronne, like the one sported by another popular (but equally plain) cake. No, this pompe à l’huile was as plain as a felled sapin: a simple, round loaf delicately scented with orange blossom and made with olive oil—its namesake. Its history may explain its rustic charm. Born of necessity, the dessert originated as a way to save the last precious drops of oil from the press. Flour was used to "pump" or absorb the oil, with a touch of sugar added... and voilà! The flat cake was born, evolving over generations into the humble yet symbolic spécialité served in Provence during the holidays. 

I remember Sabine offering me a slice. I was hesitant. Olive oil? In a cake? It seemed counterintuitive—like eating dessert with spoons, as my tablemates were doing. But as I took a bite, something magical happened. Perhaps it was Sabine’s smile or the warm hospitality that transformed my palate. By the time my tastebuds registered, I could honestly answer her question.

“Alors?” Sabine asked in her Provençal accent. “Tu aimes?”

“Yes. I love it!”

Years passed, and though I loved the cake, I never attempted to make it. Part of me believed only a dyed-in-the-wool Provençal woman could do justice to such a traditional recipe. But this week, curiosity (and courage) got the better of me.

I lined up the ingredients: olive oil, water, egg, grated orange peel, flour, sugar, salt, fleur d'oranger, and levain. After mixing the ingredients, I shaped the dough on a lined baking sheet, scoring decorative lines across the top with a knife. Into the oven it went (375F…20-25 minutes).

When the timer chimed, I opened the oven door, and a whoosh of warm, citrus-scented air enveloped me. There it was—a golden cake, its surface glistening faintly. Despite a few miscalculations, c’était réussi!

This first attempt turned out well! The lavender sprinkled on top must've been good luck! 

But what about la Cène? For years, I had taken bread and wine (that is, grape juice) at church without fully understanding the meaning of this French term for the Last Supper. Each time the pastor said the word, I wondered: was it la Seine—the river in Paris? Or perhaps la saine (meaning "the healthy one")? Then again, could it be la scène (the stage)? I thought our visiting pastor might finally clear up the mystery, but his thick Scottish accent while speaking French only added to the kaleidoscope of possibilities for what this word could mean. Sin? Seen? Sane?

My confusion lingered until this week, when I stumbled upon la Pompe à l’Huile while researching the thirteen desserts of Noël. That’s when I came across the spelling of a word I had heard so often in church—la Cène. Suddenly, everything clicked: it was the Last Supper of Christ and His apostles!

How fitting that a humble cake, steeped in tradition, would finally unravel the mystery for me.

Don’t wait as long as I did to learn the meaning of certain French words, especially la Cène. And don't delay in trying this modest cake—it’s a lesson in simplicity, an authentic taste of Provence, and a slice of history all in one. Joyeuses Fêtes!

***

"Sacred Heart." Attempt number two at making la pompe à l'huile, the dough was firmer. I shaped it into a heart, for a look as sweet as the taste. This flat cake, sometimes referred to as Fougasse, and sometimes as crumbly at a scone (depending on whether you use baking powder or yeast?) is delicious with a morning cup of coffee or tea. The problem is, we’ve been snacking on it all day long! Here’s a simplified recipe for la pompe à l’huile—no kneading and less time required:

Simple Recipe for La Pompe à l’Huile

Ingredients:

• 250g (2 cups) all-purpose flour
• 75g (1/3 cup) sugar
• 1/4 tsp salt
• 1 tsp baking powder
• 60ml (1/4 cup) olive oil (preferably extra virgin)
• 60ml (1/4 cup) orange blossom water
• Zest of 1 orange
• 1 egg
• 1/4 cup warm water

Instructions:

1. Preheat oven to 180°C (350°F). Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
2. Mix the dry ingredients: In a large bowl, combine the flour, sugar, salt, and baking powder.
3. Prepare the wet ingredients: In a separate bowl, whisk together the olive oil, orange blossom water, orange zest, egg, and warm water.
4. Combine the wet and dry ingredients: Gradually pour the wet mixture into the dry ingredients, stirring with a spoon until a soft dough forms.
5. Shape the dough: Place the dough onto the prepared baking sheet and gently press it into a round, flat shape about 1.5 cm (1/2 inch) thick. Use a rolling pin if necessary. Use a knife to make a few decorative slashes across the surface.
6. Bake: Bake for 20-25 minutes or until the edges are lightly golden. Let cool slightly before serving.

I made three pompes this past week. This third one had baking powder instead of yeast, which meant it did not need to rise before going into the oven. I forgot to include an egg and was surprised it turned out as good as it did (the third cake was Jean-Marc's favorite). I would love to know your ideas for additions to this cake. My sister, Heidi, suggested using almond flour. Let me know in the comments if what you would add. 

COMMENTS
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I found this photo of a crèche Provençale in my photo archives. I’m not sure if it’s Sabine’s crèche or another, but it’s a beautiful example of their intricate beauty.

FRENCH VOCABULARY

Audio File Listen to Jean-Marc pronounce the following French terms

La Cène = The Last Supper
l’Almanach Provençal (m) = the Provençal Almanac
la pompe à l’huile = traditional Provençal olive oil cake
Le Gros Souper (m) = The Big Supper (for Christmas)
la montaigne Sainte-Victoire = Sainte-Victoire mountain
les santons (m) = traditional Provençal clay figurines
la boulangère = the baker 
le chasseur = the hunter
l’homme ravi (m) = the delighted man
la crèche = nativity scene
l'étable (f) = stable, barn
la cocotte-minute = pressure cooker
le faisan = pheasant, game bird
la couronne = crown
le sapin = Christmas tree
alors? = well?
tu aimes? = do you like it?
fleur de l’oranger = orange blossom
le levain = leaven, sourdough starter
c’était réussi = it was a success
saine = healthy
la scène = the stage
Joyeuses Fêtes! = Merry Christmas! Happy Holidays!

THANKS REMERCIEMENTS
With heartfelt appreciation to the following readers for their thoughtful donations to this blog, along with the encouraging notes! 

Al K.
Julie C.
Linda F.
Linda C.
Karen B.
Elaine M.
Debbie E.
Theresa B.

Mille mercis, Kristi! —Julie

Merry Christmas from Virginia! —Karen

Joyeux Noël et bonne année Kristi! Amicalement, Al

Thanks for the years of enjoyment reading your blog. —Linda C.

Merci pour tout! J’adore l’Ollie. Happy holidays to you and your lovely family. Linda F.

Kristi , Merci beaucoup! Joyeux Noël et Bonne Année! Debbie from Canada