FRENCH WORD-A-DAY

Look up! Surround yourself with color! (Two ways to combat the blues.) Picture of a "decorated" clothesline taken in Cassis.

TODAY’S WORD: à fleur de peau

    : hypersensitive    
    : on/under the surface of the skin

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

I woke up this morning with a tinge of the blues. In French, they call it le cafard, a condition I’m not too familiar with—anxiety being my usual companion—mais ça arrive. The elusive feeling came on suddenly and, like a drop of dye in a glass of water, it is slowly spreading, clouding my environment.

I have not read Charles Baudelaire's Les Fleurs du Mal but it introduced the concept of le cafard, or those dark thoughts that can invade the mind, much like how cockroaches infest a house. Those repugnant beetles are ugly, icky, and even a bit sticky, which is how heavy feelings are, too. J’ai le cafard literally means I have the cockroach.

Have you noticed how la déprime is tangible? The blues share something in common with un bleu (a bruise); both are physical. They reside just beneath or on the surface of the skin, à fleur de peau (what a lovely expression, but that is as poetic and as French as depression gets. Le cafard is universal, articulate only in retrospect).

As much as we wish this clingy sentiment would flee, it may be there to teach you and me. Quelle est la leçon? Could it be about understanding others with depression, recognizing when to slow down, or acknowledging the need for connection? Perhaps this lull I feel after last week’s full house—Max and Ana are back at the apartment, and Jean-Marc is away—helps me realize that I may not enjoy being alone as much as I thought. 

Allez, Ricci! On y va! My dog and I go for a walk to try to shake things off, but it only makes me aware of my thoughts: Dois-je prendre des antidépresseurs? Would medication make me lazy or unproductive? Could that be a good thing? No! I realize I feel better when I’m engaged in work. Don’t we all? Just last night, my daughter expressed doubts about her upcoming two-week break before she begins her master's program. She knows herself well and finds that she’s happiest—or at least less depressed—when busy.

It all seems to boil down to staying occupied, or, rather, staying engaged. Even the folks in Paris struggle with Metro-Boulot-Dodo—or the monotonous cycle of “commute-work-sleep”—another form of depression born from repetitive routine. While my own die-hard routine may be contributing to these low-grade feelings, working through this story today has kept me engaged and, as we near the end, it feels like an achievement. Finishing something, whether a morning walk or a letter to a friend, brings a sense of relief. It may be a fleeting high, but right now, I'm happy to report, there’s not a cafard in sight!

***

Ricci and a squash plant that grew out of the compost. It’s exciting to see the butternuts forming, but they keep withering and dying off. For now we will have to enjoy the pretty vine and its giant yellow blossoms.

COMMENTS
I realized halfway through this post that I have shared some version of this letter, on occasion, in the past. Writing about the blues is one way of coping with it. Can you list other ways to find relief from a low mood?  What do you do when you have “the cockroach”? Share your thoughts here in the comments box.

FRENCH VOCABULARY 

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

le cafard = depression 
mais ça arrive = but it happens
Les Fleurs du Mal = The Flowers of Evil
J’ai le cafard = I’m depressed
la déprime = depression 
un bleu = a bruise
à fleur de peau = under/on the surface of the skin
Quelle est la leçon? = What is the lesson
Allez, Ricci! On y va! = Come on, Ricci! Let's go!
Dois-je prendre des antidépresseurs? = Should I take antidepressants?
metro-boulot-dodo = the daily grind

Lots of color in nearby Cassis

REMERCIEMENTS
A heartfelt thank you to the readers who recently made a donation to the blog. Your support is deeply appreciated. Merci beaucoup! — Kristi

Cyndi M.
Susan B.
Michele C.
Maureen M.

Love reading all your posts! Can’t wait to get back. --Cyndi M.

Bonjour Kristi ! Thanks for sharing your life with us! You inspire me. --Maureen M.

I've read your stories since we lived in Paris in 2004-05. You've had a talent for adjusting to the changing realities of blogging, and I've enjoyed your writing, honesty, and clever sensibility to that bilingual life. --Susan B.

Ricci and me at a local beach, early in the morning. Dogs are allowed here at les roches plates, or flat rocks, and the cool water is a relief in this heatwave.

The heatwave, my book project, and spoiled for choice in today's update. A lot of ice cream to choose from = l'embarras du choix. Pictured in La Ciotat: one (of many) ice cream vendors in our seaside town.

TODAY’S WORD: L'Embarras du Choix

    : spoiled for choice

avoir l'embarras du choix (to have "the embarrassment of choice") = to be indecisive in a situation where multiple choices are presented.

The first posts in this blog are collected into one book Words in a French Life: Lessons in Love & Language from the South of France. "With its innovative and entertaining way of teaching the finer points of French, Espinasse's memoir will be popular with travelers and expats alike." -- Publishers Weekly

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

When I asked readers to help choose a cover design for my book, the response was spectaculaire. Thank you for scrutinizing all eight couvertures, for voting, and for commenting on the title and graphics. I learned so much from your feedback, and now I’m as confused as ever.

Just kidding. Je rigole! I can handle it. Jé gère!

One thing I wasn't managing so well is people. You see, I also asked for volunteers to proofread my work, and the response knocked my socks off. It was, as the French say, l’embarras du choix: a situation where so many good options make it difficult, if not impossible, to choose. And when these options are people—instead of, say, so many parfums at the ice cream stand—it’s hard to pick just one.

As I lay beneath our noisy ceiling fan, sweating and fretting about my book and beyond (“beyond” meaning my home and family, my dog, this current heatwave, and le ménage) I felt dépassée by it all. With my son renting out his apartment on Airbnb and moving back home with his petite amie, we have a full house this first week of August. The downstairs bathroom is flooded with towels, four of us have colds, and this place feels like Animal House!

Meanwhile, over at Book Project Central (the little workstation I set up in our cramped cafouche, amidst the suitcases, the ironing board, and the vacuum), my phone began pinging nonstop as my Book Cover Poll on Facebook and Instagram delivered results in real-time. The social media feedback was manageable (I could “heart” every response to express thanks), but my inbox was expanding before my very eyes. How to kindly acknowledge all these emailed responses?

There was simply no way to keep up! Why not throw in the towel now? Speaking of which…

When one more ping had pung on my phone I opened Messenger to experience a much-needed chuckle. A picture of an orderly towel rack with a digitalized name tag over each serviette! Géniale! Merci, Max, for civilizing the towel situation! After washing and line-drying our towels, my son defrosted our icy freezer, emptied the vacuum cleaner, and scrubbed the filter before asking "What else can I do for you?" And just like that, help, like the cold virus we all caught, was now spreading rapidly! Jean-Marc took Grandma to the grocery store, Jackie brought two big salads home for dinner, Ana set the table, Grandma Jules was in charge of watering the garden, Ricci & Izzy were keeping the floors licked clean, and so on and so forth et cetera pantoufle!

(Have I told you about my favorite, totally obsolete and nonsensical French expression etcetera pantoufle--"and so on slipper"? Finally, the chance to use it here!)

Meanwhile, I began to answer emails when a new stream of feedback flooded my phone screen: readers were pointing out un petit souci with the title of my memoir, which included the year these essays were written. “Don’t put 2024. This would date the book!” Whoops! I’d forgotten to mention this is a book series. I am gathering each year’s stories into a collection under the umbrella title “A YEAR IN A FRENCH LIFE.” This first book would be “A YEAR IN A FRENCH LIFE: 2024.” The next would be “A YEAR IN A FRENCH LIFE: 2025,” et cetera pantoufle…

Book covers by TLC Book Design

But I now see your point. Including the date might deter potential readers. One solution might be to use one of the chapter titles as the subtitle. For example: “A YEAR IN A FRENCH LIFE: L’Embarras du Choix.” Can you picture this now? While “spoiled for choice” doesn’t exactly summarize the 2024 stories, it is a catchy way to distinguish between the editions, n’est-ce pas? Another chapter in this book is “Il devait en être ainsi” (or “Predestined”… Tell me if that doesn’t sound intriguing!). Other chapters/potential subtitles include:

• “Le Bonheur” (“Happiness”)
• “Bien Joué” (“Well Done!”)
• “Jamais Deux Sans Trois” (“Good things come in Threes.” However, it can also mean “Bad Things Come in Threes.” This title might not be good for marketing…)

Even with some of the pieces of this project coming together, I tossed and turned all weekend despite trying to focus on the Olympics. During judo, l'escrime, and pole-vaulting, my mind chattered on and on: I must answer all these emails! I’ve got to send off my manuscript… but to whom? Suddenly, all these potential volunteers posed a logistical conundrum: how would each reader record their edits? (In Microsoft Word there is some sort of “live” option, where editors can go right into the document and correct or change text. But isn’t that risky? And what would it be like to receive an influx of live edits from dozens of readers? I could just see my manuscript pole-vaulting all over the place with each added edit!)

As I agonized over how to orchestrate this book project, the word surrender swooped in, once again, to offer relief. Surrender ...a theme visited every so often in this journal: literally se rendre. It means to be still and let the doubts, fears, and unknowns wash right over, like a cool stream of melted ice cream during a heatwave. Surrendering takes faith and practice—a lot of both—but it is as vital as ice cream (according to Grandma Jules, who brought back a little too much of it from the grocery store...). We must trust that when we let go everything will eventually come together, things will get done, and we will show up on time. By surrendering here and now we allow the help at hand—whether divine or, like my readers, sublime—to manifest. Finally, we have stepped out of the way to find ourselves in the midst of grace.

***

Update: Please join me in wishing Rajeev, a dedicated reader and loyal supporter, bon courage as he begins his role as the first volunteer proofreader. When I sent him the manuscript link, Rajeev promptly suggested a solution for sharing edits, which immediately resolved a technical issue I was struggling with. Merci, Rajeev!

COMMENTS
Your comments are enjoyed and your corrections are much appreciated. Click here to leave a message.

After my son washed and organized our towels he sent me this humorous photo. Now if all family members would stick to the plan! (My own towel is hidden upstairs, as I don't like to share towels, toothbrushes, hairbrushes, bathrobes, or some of the other things I sometimes find missing!)

My new office is in a room beside our upstairs bedroom. Too small to be a bedroom, this spare room quickly became a “cafouche”—a storage area filled mostly with my stuff and an armoire for Jean-Marc’s clothes. When our house filled up this month, I quickly cleared out enough space here to set up my computer. I used to write at the kitchen table, but with a full house, it's easier to concentrate up here. Now to find a home for the suitcases, vacuum and ironing board. Does anyone iron anymore?

Jean-Marc with Izzy (Ana’s dog) and Ricci, on their way to cool off in the sea.

FRENCH VOCABULARY

Click here to listen to Jean-Marc pronounce the French and English vocabulary (2)

l'embarras du choix = too many good options
la couverture (du livre) = (book) covers
je rigole = just kidding
je gère = I can handle it
le parfum = flavor
le ménage = household chores
dépassée = overwhelmed
la petite amie = girlfriend
le cafouche = storage room
la serviette = towel
géniale = brilliant
ça y est = that's it
et cetera pantoufle = and so on and so forth (obsolete phrase)
un petit souci = a little issue
le bonheur = happiness
bien joué = well done
jamais deux sans trois = good (or bad) things come in threes
l'escrime = fencing
se rendre = to surrender
bon courage = good luck
merci = thank you

REMERCIEMENTS
Sincere appreciation to the following readers who recently sent in a blog donation. Merci beaucoup! --Kristi

Kurt B.
Roisin L.
Marjory T.
Laura I. & Jim A.

Merci pour votre blog! I always enjoy reading it. Amitié, Marjory

Jules & Jean-Marc. My mom and her beau-fils are true complices, or "partners in crime" (if it is a crime to eat a lot of ice cream)!

The secret to staying the course (or completing a book project) is taking breaks. I enjoyed an early morning coffee with Max and Jackie here at KS 13--a beachfront restaurant where my daughter worked a few summers ago. It's super busy during the day, with people renting "transats" or sun chairs, and having lunch, but in the morning it is serene.

If, from here on out, you see a photo in my blog that would make a nice book cover, would you please let me know? Merci! This image was taken a few weeks ago in Cassis.


Ricci, keeping cool on the tile floors. 

HELP CHOOSE A BOOK COVER
I'm excited to share the cover designs for my upcoming book. Please take a close look and let me know which numbered cover you prefer: comment via this link. Thank you for your feedback and don't miss today's story, just below. (Cover designs by Monica at TLC Book Design)

Or go directly to the poll page, where you will see the book covers up close and you can vote.

TODAY'S WORD: GALÉRER

    : to struggle, have trouble

"Les galères font le galérien." --Victor Hugo
(Difficult times create resilient people.)

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

I have been trying to gather these stories you are reading into a book for years—ever since my last compilation was published a decade ago. You'd think it would be simple to pull together some blog entries, paste them into a manuscript, and—abracadabra—upload them to Amazon's Print On Demand. After all, there are so many tools and support systems available for indie publishers. But, after struggle upon struggle--après avoir bien galéré--I realized I couldn't do this alone.

Back in 2003, as a newly-minted blogger, I managed to put these early billets into a manuscript, create a cover, and send the files off to "Instant Publisher" in the States. They printed the books and shipped them, 500 at a time, to me in France. In turn, I shipped them one by one and sometimes three by three (many of you graciously bought all three volumes) to readers worldwide. These little awkward editions (one was missing part of the title on its spine, and all three lacked proper interior formatting) were selling like hotcakes, and I was finally making a living as a writer--or at least helping to supplement my husband's income. I was now a stay-at-home mom with a vocation! My publishing gig might have continued even today if it weren't for an unexpected email from a "Big Five" éditeur...

It was a dream come true when Simon & Schuster professionally edited my essays into a hardbound book: "Words in a French Life." While the memoir did well, selling over 50,000 copies, it wasn't enough for the publisher to want to pursue a Volume 2. When my editor suggested fiction, I froze, having only ever written short essays. Allowing all my insecurities to come out and feast, I let my contract with a New York agent run out and I returned to what was "easiest" or most familiar to me: blogging. I made a few half-hearted attempts at printing more books but had lost my self-publishing mojo.

Several years later, a reader reached out, and I had the chance to work with Tami and Erin at TLC Book Design. It was exciting to see two more books published in 2009 and 2014! But after our déménagement from the vineyard, I floundered for a while. Then, in the beginning of 2024, fueled by the positive comments on the blog, the dream was rekindled. I realized part of the difficulty in gathering the stories was the overwhelming scope of it all: there were 22 years of archives to sort through! Finally, the thought came: Begin where you are. Just do your best with your current stories and enter them into the manuscript, one by one.

This decision helped me focus on the story at hand and stick to a narrative. As I worked, the title for the book surfaced naturally:

"A YEAR IN A FRENCH LIFE"

Finally, this title sounded right, given the book is based on this column "A Day in a French Life." With these pieces of the puzzle in place, I was off and running! Well, until the formatting woes, cover conundrums, etc., drained me, and the doubts returned. A quoi bon? Why bother making a book when it's so much easier to just keep blogging? As long as I kept mumbling "A quoi bon?" I was stuck.

Last week, I was ready to give up altogether when my sister Heidi called. Within minutes, she assured me it would all come together. "Keep at it!"

Once again, the message is: cela aussi passera. This doubtful moment will pass. There will be others, but they will pass as well. The next day, I was back at my manuscript, and things were looking clearer. This overwhelming project felt faisable. Around this time, I received a series of book cover options from TLC Book Designs, who I'm pleased to be working with again. "A YEAR IN A FRENCH LIFE" will be published in 2025, and though I'm only halfway through the manuscript, I trust I'll make it to the finish, with the help of faith, friends, and family. While I may like to do things on my own, experience is showing me that life is better together.

I leave you with the second most beautiful verb in the world, according to peace activist and novelist Bertha von Suttner:

"Après le verbe 'aimer', 'aider' est le plus beau verbe du monde." "After the verb 'to love', 'to help' is the most beautiful verb in the world."

Post Note: As for the nagging question "A quoi bon? or Why bother" Here is one good reason: Because if we don't pursue our goals, they will bother us until we do! I suppose that is the reason I write.

LOOKING FOR BETA-READERS
I am looking for volunteers to read the first half of my manuscript and report any typos or mistakes. If you are comfortable reading 187 pages in Microsoft Word and good at spotting errors in French and English, thank you for contacting me at [email protected]

Some of the first books I self-published. The yellow book is the Simon & Schuster edition. Three more books are not pictured, as this photo was taken before they were published.

COMMENTS
Your comments are enjoyed and your edits are appreciated. Click here to leave a message.

FRENCH VOCABULARY

Listen to Jean-Marc pronounce these French terms. Click here

galérer = to struggle, have trouble

Les galères font galérien = Difficult times create resilient people.

après avoir bien galéré = after struggle upon struggle

un billet = blog post

un éditeur = publisher

déménagement = move

A quoi bon? = Why bother?

cela aussi passera = this too shall pass

faisable = feasible

Après le verbe 'aimer', 'aider' est le plus beau verbe du monde. = After the verb 'to love', 'to help' is the most beautiful verb in the world.

REMERCIEMENTS
Sincere appreciation to the following readers who recently sent in a blog donation. Merci beaucoup! --Kristi

Lo S.
Ron C.
Joan S.
Tom D.
Fred G.
Lynn R.
John M.
Linda A.
Brenda P.
Kathryn H.
Rob and Pat W.

Kristi, your beautiful posts are a delight! Merci beaucoup! --Linda A.

Kristi, sending you tons of gratitude and well wishes! Retired and looking forward to visiting France in the next few years! --Ron

Mother-Daughter lunch In Cassis at Le Grand Large. Our girls, Jackie, left, and Josie, right really hit it off. I met Jennifer, center-right over 15 years ago, when we both were blogging about family life. Jennifer's blog, Diary of 1 is no longer on line, but if she ever starts another journal I will let you know.

Posing with artists from Capetown, South Africa and London, UK. Sisters Anna Morris (photographer) and Julia Godsiff (sculptor) came to visit La Ciotat after reading my journal and ended up in an Airbnb right next to my church. Over Perrier spiked with orange juice we talked about the creative life, entering into “the zone” and the need to set boundaries at home in order to be able to write or paint or sculpt. Julia, right, shared some words from Virginia Woolf: “You’ve got to kill the angel in the house.” I left our meetup inspired and with plans to set my noisy family straight. Indeed, No more Mrs. Nice Guy! Just kidding. The truth is Life is messy and it will always come kicking and screaming into your creative zone. Instead of killing the angel of the house, we need to let life trample all over us and be imprinted with its passionate passage. After all, what would there be to say, sculpt, or paint if life didn’t get in the way?

My Notes. Scrolling through a manuscript of 187 pages can be confusing. I finally grabbed an envelope and came up with a rough system to track things: had I included a photo with each chapter? were all French words italicized? Did the chapters have numbers? These are only a few considerations but they help in the initial run-through! Thank you for reading and don't forget to take the poll for the best book cover.

At Château la Tour de L'Evêque, in Pierrefeu du Var

TODAY'S WORD: UN AUXILIAIRE DE VIE

    : a caregiver

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

When I stop to think about it, July has been the most challenging month of this year so far. Though it began with excellent news (Mom’s insurance came through!) and the joy of our 30th wedding anniversary celebration for Jean-Marc and me, tensions were rising between mother and daughter here at our multi-generational home. It seemed the honeymoon phase of this caregiving journey we are on together was over. Nurse Kristi was all but fired! Then the heatwave hit, followed by a strange plague of mites (and their bites), making it feel like I had arrived at the gates of hell.

For some reason, those venom-filled acariens (possibly “les pyémotes”—our friend Pierre suggested) were attacking me with a vengeance! These pests, which come out in spring and summer, nest inside wood, infesting places like the fireplace, antique furniture, and perhaps even the wooden knobs where I hang my bathrobe. Whereas six weeks ago I received a dozen or so of these bites, this time there were too many to count. The venomous piqûres turned into itchy welts, and I was absolutely miserable by Thursday when we were set to go to a vernissage at Château La Tour de l’Evêque, where our son, Max, is in charge of wine export.

Waking up Friday morning, itching and unable to scratch, I was desperate. “Je vais pleurer!” I said to Jean-Marc. I’m learning it helps to say the words “I am going to cry” or “I feel like crying” when my body can’t release tears of despair or frustration. For one, it allows my husband to know I’m at a very low point. Ironically, a 30-second emotional commercial on TV, a wedding, or a baptism can make me bawl instantly. But other matters of the heart and, in this case, psyche, remain invisible when I shut down.

Just when it seemed I could take the torture no longer, my daughter came into the room. “How are you doing, Mom?”

After I let it all out—the unbearable bites and the wicked heat—Jackie assured me: “Ça passera.” My daughter had unknowingly cited one of my favorite assurances, This too shall pass, and the effect was immediate. The itching subsided in light of the thought that this situation would not last forever. Jackie was right. This current trial would soon be over, and things would patch up between Mom and me—just give it time.

In the days following the emotional and physical release, a series of serendipitous encounters took place as friends and helpers came out of the woodwork (instead of those pesky mites!). It began when I was walking back from the pharmacy and a woman on the opposite trottoir said hello. I recognized her because of her chocolate labrador. “Comment allez-vous?” she said, reaching out.

“Très bien, merci!” I was giddy, suddenly imagining an invitation to her avant-garde bungalow, which I’d witnessed being renovated all last year!

A few blocks later, I recognized another local and her pit bull. We’ve run into each other a few times at the farmers market and at les roches plates, the flat rocks where we swim. “Coucou!” she said, crossing the street. We chatted on the sidewalk like old friends. Counting my blessings on the way home, I now had the energy to call on another neighbor I’d met at the beach a year ago while she was training her Australian Shepherd. Nathalie, it turns out, is a nurse. When I explained to her that my mom needed a weekly injection and twice-weekly blood samples, as prescribed recently by her doctor, Nathalie said she could help, and true to her word, she’s been here almost every day this week. And in her absence, she's sent Nicolas, who Mom also likes a lot!

Then, Sunday, while walking to church, I stopped to look at a rack of sundresses (desperate for something cool to wear in this canicule) when a young lady inside the store came out. “Kristi?”

“Yes...”

“It’s Fiona! We met at Esprit—the clothing store where I used to work.”

“Yes, yes! I remember you.” How could I forget this friendly, helpful and professional woman who was about my daughter’s age? She had made an impression on me last fall when I was preparing for a trip to Paris. “Comment ça va?” I smiled.

“Sadly, I was laid off! They have closed down all of the Esprit retail boutiques in France. Thankfully, I found work here two days a week.”

“I’m so sorry you lost your job. What would you like to do?” I asked.

“I’d like to be an auxiliaire de vie and help seniors.”

What a coincidence! “Just this week,” I explained, “I received a flyer in the mail for AIDADOMI (a play on words for Aide à Domicile). I saved it as I am looking for someone to assist my mom! Maybe we can work something out?”

With promises to keep in touch we hugged, and I continued on my way to church, feeling so blessed I couldn’t imagine the prédicateur could top this with a more hopeful message. But he did, and it was, in a nutshell, about opening our hearts: “Jesus stands at the door knocking, but the doorknob is on the other side of the door,” said the Irish preacher, in perfect French, at our tiny local église baptiste.

Well, this week, dear reader, I opened the door, and look at all the angels who rushed in!

It is hard to ask for help, but once you do, things have a way of falling into place. Now that Nathalie and Nicolas are here and Fiona is on the way, it is having an effect on both Mom and me. We’re both up early and dressed, dusting off our counters and preparing for these angels to help a couple of would-be hermits. While I still have some doubts as to whether I can keep up with the regular visitors, I understand that change is good and will keep us from falling into a pit.

Speaking of pits and hell, my mite bites are fading, and I am cooling down with the help of regular splashes of water from the sink, a few ceiling fans, and some sundresses I’ve located in my bags of summer clothes that I need to sort out. Maybe Fiona can help me too? 

I’ll wrap up this entry with a giant hug to all of you. It's surprising how much love manifests when we finally reach for that doorknob. Remember, it’s on the inside of la porte! Only you can reach it. Love is on the outside knocking.

Post Notes: Monday morning I hurried over to Mom’s to wake her before Nurse Nathalie arrived. I was greeted with the biggest hug and several “I LOVE YOUs.”

“You know you are my favorite person,” I assured Mom, hugging her back. Next time Mom is at a low point, as I was recently, I’m going to share my tip: just say the words “J’ai besoin de pleurer”—I need to cry. You may or may not experience a cathartic release, but you’ll have gotten the words out.

Now to get the mites out… I’ve got to mix some beeswax and insecticide together and plug all the holes in our wood furniture. Bestioles begone! See you next week and thank you for reading.

Oh, and one more post note! Just this morning, before posting today's entry, while out on a walk I ran into the woman with the cool, newly-renovated bungalow. She invited me into her house for a tour! 

Grand-mère et petite-fille et petite chienne. Grandmother and granddaughter and granddog

REMERCIEMENTS
Sincere appreciation to the following readers who recently sent in a blog donation. Merci beaucoup! --Kristi

Ann S.
Sally F.
Kelly B.
Robyn M.
Holly R. (Florida)
Holly R-J. (Somerset, UK)
Michele C.
Jo-Anne Y.
Jill B. & John M.

Thanks so much for your delightful newsletter. We enjoy it so much. --Jill B. & John M.

It's such a gift to read about your life in France, including its ups and downs. I often think about your life lessons, and the photographs are so beautiful! Thank you! --Kelly B.

Max showing us around Château La Tour during a vernissage for American artist Barbara Jauffret.

I was excited to meet this American and French national, who's lived in Marseille since 1981.

COMMENTS
Your comments are a joy to read and your corrections to this letter are much appreciated.
Click here to leave a message

FRENCH VOCABULARY

Audio File Click here to listen to the French and English terms below

les acariens = mites
les piqûres = bites
le vernissage = art exhibition
le Château La Tour de l'Evêque = Château La Tour de l'Evêque
Je vais pleurer = I am going to cry
Comment allez-vous? = How are you?
Très bien, merci! = Very well, thank you!
le trottoir = sidewalk
les roches plates = the flat rocks
Coucou = Hi
Comment ça va? = How are you?
un auxiliaire de vie = caregiver
le prédicateur = preacher
l'église baptiste = Baptist church
la porte = the door
la bestiole = bug

I wore this dress 30 years ago to our town hall wedding, and again on July 4th to surprise my husband. For more recent pictures, see "La Robe" (the wedding dress story) and scroll to the end.

Agapanthus flowers on the Island of Bréhat.

POSTCARD FROM BRITTANY

When we received an invitation for un mariage in Brittany, Jean-Marc planned a romantic escapade around this joyous event. We only had three days to vacation together, not counting travel time, but it was enough to mark the occasion of our 30th wedding anniversary. After careful research, my former fiancé put together an itinerary including two nights on the island of Bréhat, lunch above the beach in Saint-Sieuc (back on the mainland), and a half-day in the fortified town of St. Malo.

This ambitious périple surrounding his godson’s wedding filled me with doubts, especially after my husband announced we were limited to one carry-on suitcase. Given we were leaving the heatwave in La Ciotat for the rainy north coast—to tromp around a muddy island before heading to a formal affair—packing would be a challenge.

Sacrificing my hairdryer and clothes steamer, I packed two permapress robes, a satin jupe and chemise, two pairs of heels, a raincoat…. (I won’t bore you with the rest), and stepped onto our Volotea flight wearing white jeans and a cream-colored blazer that would hopefully go with all three dressy outfits. Wearing half my party attire, I felt somewhat stiffer than usual, especially for a full day of travel, but how else to keep a portion of my wardrobe pressed for the wedding?

As for my no-fuss Frenchman, he carried a lightweight cotton tote (compliments of our local pharmacy), and somehow managed to fit all his needs inside—with room to spare for my umbrella! The bright yellow floral print on his bag was an amusing contrast against his rugged exterior.

The drive to the airport, the plane ride, the rental car, and la vedette, went smoothly. However, when we stepped off the ferry boat late that afternoon to find a tractor waiting for us, any embarrassment I felt being the only tourist in white was overcome by panic. How to keep these party clothes clean if we were going to ride that muddy thing? This being a car-free island, it was ride the tractor or pédaler!

Soon enough another tractor arrived towing a tiny train behind it. Ouf! Boarding one of the train cars, we enjoyed a scenic tour of the island from the embarcadère to our friend’s house, on a bluff above the English channel, where we would séjour for two nights. Arriving at the little stone cottage, the view during high tide was breathtaking as the sun began to set on the orange horizon.

By morning, three little boats in the cove were temporarily stranded among the seagrass and rocks, making for another charming view from the large rock where we would drink our morning coffee and enjoy the evening apéro both nights. After a breakfast of pain au chocolat and café crème in Le Bourg, a ten-minute walk from our cottage, Jean-Marc suggested we set out to discover le phare du Paon on the northernmost part of the island. But I suddenly felt lazy on learning the distance. It was only four kilometers there and back, but we also had plans to walk to the southernmost end of the island by noon. As I stood there waffling over what to do, the following words tumbled out: “Je te suis!”

I’ll follow you! This new mantra would be my ticket to overcoming indecision, hesitation, and always wanting (if not having) my way. With Jean-Marc in the lead, I was free to photograph the hortensias and the hollyhocks (Bréhat Island is classified as the flower island), the neat stone houses made of local rock, the island dogs, the bikes, the beaches, and coves at high tide and low.

We passed fields with cows, rocky beaches, and curious stone structures. During the peaceful marche, Jean-Marc admitted that one thing he loves about these little islands off the coast of Brittany is the feeling of insularity, or safety. Passing an unmanned stand brimming with produce and confitures, I understood what he meant. The little stand was packed with homemade jams, vibrant produce and there was even fresh-baked bread. A sign read: “Petit Marché. Servez-vous et laissez les sous dans la caisse s'il vous plaît.” Serve yourself and leave the money in the cash box.

“This would not go over well in Marseille,” I giggled, to which Jean-Marc added, “No, they would take the goods and steal the cash!”

When Jean-Marc suggested lunch on the south coast, I resisted the urge to protest and instead said, “Je te suis!” I'm so glad I did. We discovered the island’s only sandy beach, La Plage du Guerzido, with an inviting terrace shaded by a parasol pine. Imagine that! Un pin parasol! We marveled at the exotic flora—jasmine, lavender, fig trees, and even pink tamaris from the desert—all thriving on this enchanting archipelago.

For our last evening, we enjoyed more local huitres, baked brandade de morue, and toasted to our full (and only) day on L'île de Bréhat, hoping to come back and rent a house and bring the family. (The only risk being rain! We were lucky for our sunny day, but rain is de rigueur on this little island along the English Channel. In that case, my family from Seattle would be right at home!)

The next morning we had café and croissants at Hotel Bellevue on the port before boarding la vedette back to the mainland. With time dwindling we hurried to the beach in Lancieux for lunch, before heading to our rental to clean up. Only, there were no sheets or towels in our apartment! (It's not uncommon in France to have to bring your own linens.) Undeterred, we used our t-shirts to dry after showering, and made it to the ancient église in time to see Julia and Baptiste walk down the aisle. I had to split my Kleenex in two when Jean-Marc’s eyes began watering, too! Did he also feel that quiver in his heart? There is something so tender, so innocent, so trusting about two souls uniting pour le meilleur et pour le pire, jusqu'à la mort vous sépare!

Next, we raced back to our résidence hôtelière to put sheets on our bed (Jean-Marc located a janitor who tossed him a duffel bag of bleached linens) and change for the dressy evening reception. Everything had gone incredibly smoothly up till now, so when I saw my horrible chipped toenail polish, pas de panique! I simply let it go. (I would not trade all that walking and sightseeing around the island for a perfect manicure!)

Back at the reception in a picturesque hameau, we joined the bride, groom, and over a hundred invités for a night of dining, dancing, and toasting to une vie à deux. I missed my chance to offer any guidance to the young couple, but now, in retrospect, I suppose one piece of advice I could give would be to incorporate this golden phrase, adopted on this romantic getaway: “Je te suis!” I will follow you! (And then to take turns saying it to each other throughout your marriage.)

Back on the airplane, buckled in and heading home, I am amazed at how smoothly our four-day race to Brittany went. Like the shores of Bréhat, where the tide comes in and goes out, so do our fears, doubts, needs, wants, and moods. We just have to keep our eyes on the horizon, remembering that every little thing will work itself out. As I sit next to Jean-Marc, I reflect on how this trip, with its minor challenges and beautiful moments, has reinforced our bond. “Je te suis, chéri,” I whisper, knowing that these words mean more than just a willingness to follow. They represent trust, love, and a lifelong partnership. No matter where life takes us, I pray we will navigate it together, sometimes leading, sometimes following, but always side by side.

***

At the church in Saint-Lunaire, the bride and groom are cheered with a fleet of bubbles instead of rice.

Jean-Marc watches his newly-wed filleul, or godson, and bride as the groom's parents give a speech at the evening reception.

Picture taken at the wedding reception we attended on Friday night. I don't know if this is a cultural note, but at many events these days you will find a photo box where guests can ham it up and bring the photo souvenir home. Are you familiar with these?

The property where we stayed while visiting Bréhat. This is our friend's cottage, and we stayed in the second cottage located in the spot where I am taking this picture.

The charm of bicycles gliding past...

COMMENTS
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REMERCIEMENTS
Sincere thanks to the following readers who recently sent in a blog donation. This truly is a reader-supported journal and I appreciate your help in publishing it week after week. Merci beaucoup! --Kristi

Ann B.
Jill F.
Jo B-R
Mary K.
John C.
Nancy C.
Marion J.
Colleen M.
Michelle M.
Jeanine WW

Merci Kristi pour tous les histoires merveilleuses. Elles font ma journée. —Nancy C.

Merci for your sharing your heartfelt journey with all of your readers! —Michelle M.

I appreciate and enjoy the engaging and beautiful writing of Kristin Espinasse. Kristi is both a wonderful story-teller and photographer. Thank you for your vivid glimpses of French family life. Merci, Kristi! —Marion J.

We thought this was our ride! (Jean-Marc and our luggage, including his only tote. I like how the yellow flowers match his shorts :-)

Finally, we spotted the tractor train coming up the long embarcadère, with its three cales (or docks). Depending on the tide, the boat will arrive at one of the 3 cales. The farthest is a 10 minute walk to the port.

FRENCH VOCABULARY

Audio File: click here to listen to the French and English terms below

le mariage = a wedding
le périple = journey
la jupe = skirt
la chemise = shirt
la vedette = the ferry
l'embarcadère = the dock
le séjour = stay
le phare du Paon = the Paon lighthouse
la marche = a walk
les hortensias = hydrangeas
le pain au chocolat = chocolate croissant
le café crème = coffee with cream (or rather milk)
le pin parasol = umbrella pine
l'hortensia = hydrangea
la lavande = lavender
les huitres = oysters
la brandade de morue = cod brandade
la vedette = ferry
l'église = church
une résidence hôtelière = a hotel residence
une vie à deux = a life together
un hameau = a hamlet
un invité = a guest
pour le meilleur et pour le pire = for better or for worse
jusqu'à la mort vous sépare = until death do us part
pas de panique = no panic
Je te suis = I will follow you
chéri = dear

La plage de Guerzido

Window on Bréhat Island


A palm tree on Brehat Island, along the English channel...

Earlier I mentioned only one sand beach, clearly there are more!

In St. Malo, a fortified town where we had lunch and a stroll.

Thirty years ago today, this snapshot from our mariage civil at La Bagatelle Town Hall in Marseille.

TODAY’S WORD: LA ROBE DE MARIÉE 

: wedding dress

"I chose my wife as she chose her wedding dress; not for its shiny and delicate appearance but because it would withstand the test of time."

J'ai choisi ma femme comme elle a choisi sa robe de mariée ; pas pour son apparence brillante et délicate mais parce qu'elle résisterait au temps. --Michel Polnareff

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

Today is our 30th wedding anniversary! To celebrate this meaningful occasion, Jean-Marc has reserved a table in Marseille, at the beautiful Calanque de Sormiou. It's the very place we dined three decades ago, following our civil ceremony. It will be a casual soirée, just us and our kidults, but when I found out about our plans I knew should wear something soigné.

Several days ago it occurred to me. What about my wedding dress? Did I still have it and would it fit?

Upstairs in the second chambre, I carefully climbed onto a chair and found the wedding dress above our dusty armoire in a vintage suitcase. Quelle chance! It was wrapped lightly in plastic from the dry cleaners. The cleaning tag was still stapled to the dress’s label. Nostalgic, I searched for the cleaning receipt but didn’t find it. Google estimates it would have cost 825 French francs (150 dollars back in the day!). I know I would not have paid that much to clean a dress, wedding, or otherwise. After all, it wasn’t an intricate garment, but a simple flowy-to-the-knees affair. My other, floor-length dress, was reserved for the church ceremony two months later. I see it didn’t do as well in storage, considering the large yellow stain on the front. Quel dommage!

I carefully slipped the little dress out of its bag, to find it was in good condition, if slightly off-white—but then maybe this was its original color? “Pearly”—fit for a 30th or “pearl anniversary". To think this delicate garment survived eight déménagements, amid the heat, the cold, the smoke, the inundations, the mold, and any little critters that might have altered its state.

Standing in awe examining my wedding dress of days gone by, I decided to try it on right there and then. To my surprise, it fit (it had the advantage of being an A-line dress, much more forgiving than my church dress, which would no longer button up the back…).

As for this little wedding dress, I now knew I could wear it! I thought to rush down and show my husband, but why not surprise him on our special day? Even if he planned on us arriving a few hours early, to swim in the calanque, I could always sit on a rock in the shade and try to stay put together for our nice dinner. Or maybe after all these years I might finally let go, enjoy a swim and then slip into the pretty dress, salty skin and all. No, I don’t think I’ve evolved enough to be this carefree.

Back to the dress…It was full of plis from being in the old suitcase. I wondered if I might simply steam out the wrinkles? But what if the heat damages it? You know what they say, "never iron or steam clothing that is soiled." Even if it wasn't dirty, could it be "marked" from time? Did I want to steam in those imagined marks? Why not do as the venerable fashion designer Vivian Westwood, and never clean your couture!

Just leave the dress as is, I decided, no marks, only a few wrinkles. You could treat it as a messy beach cover up! Then you could go swimming with your hubby. And hold your head high when you arrive for dinner. There, problem solved.

Except that the idea of wearing the dress as it was thirty years ago—new, pristine, and so pretty—would feel amazing on this special day!

Back to square one (or three…Where were we?) It didn't seem right to steam a dress that's been in storage so long. Alright, I  would take it to the dry cleaners. Even if it didn’t have “Le parfum du Temps” a cleaning would ensure it had a fresh scent.

Le Nettoyage à sec, however, presented further complications. Would it be ready in 4 days? After all, this is slow France! Voyons voir... Let’s see… On closer look, the tag inside said the dress was made of polyester. Not exactly a noble fabric, but un tissue that can be hand washed as far as I know. Hadn’t I handwashed polyester dozens of times? Then again, the tag inside read “dry clean only”… The gentle cycle in my machine à laver might be worth the risk, considering I would only be wearing it this one time (I can’t see myself unearthing it again for our 60th... then again, why not?). Still, it would be a shame to damage the dress.

Purée! I am beginning to develop decision fatigue. Enough! I'm taking it to the dry cleaners!

Feeling my energy return and, armed with a plan, I left one hour early to tackle what seemed an impossible mission here in France: to get anything done easily, logically, and on time. I am reminded of the time my brother-in-law, Doug, brought 7 shirts to the dry cleaners when we lived in St. Maximin and the owner immediately handed back 4. It is still a mystery why she refused the rest. "Everything is complicated in France," I explained to my brother-in-law, and from that point on I rarely visited le pressing (except to clean our down comforters which don't fit into our tiny washing machine).

Back to my plan of action: with Operation Wedding Dress underway, I would put all chance on my side by getting to the cleaners early. If the first establishment couldn't clean my dress, I had a second place in mind. But I did wonder, even if I found un pressing willing and able to clean my dress in 3 days, what would it cost? Looking at my dress, it didn't appear to be a wedding dress. The a-frame slip dress could be worn on other occasions, like the popular Soirée Blanche the French are so fond of during summertime, where all the guests wear white.

Finally, my guess was 30 euros for the dry cleaning.  Just don’t tell them it’s a wedding dress! Or the cost will double. Allons-y!

I collected my keys, ID, a few forms of payment, and the dress, and snuck past my husband. "I'll be back in an hour," I waved. On my way to the car, I said a little prayer. Remember, the Lord is your helper in big things and small. Speaking of small, what if the cleaners shrunk my dress?

Putting on my seatbelt, I shook off my doubts and hit the road... and before I knew it, I'd found a parking spot at the busy Carrefour Centre Commercial. I saw the sign for le pressing right away. So far so good.

The thin woman at the dry cleaners wore all black and a frown. “Bonjour,” I said.

(No reply.)

“Bonjour, Madame,” I repeated, remembering protocol. "Just a little question to begin with," I said, sweetly. “Are you able to clean a dress by Thursday?”

“Montrez-la-moi,” came the curt response.

Taking the wedding dress out of my fourre-tout, I began to describe the situation. When I paused, before continuing on, the woman interrupted:

“That'll be 15 euros.”

“You mean it will be ready by Thursday?”

The woman nodded. "Would you like une carte de fidélité or is this an exceptional visit?”

“Oh, it’s exceptional!” I said, delighted at how simple this complicated process was after all.

I paid the 15 euros, thanked the dry cleaner, and headed to my car feeling as light and carefree as a fluttering wedding veil. Au fait, maybe I could have dry cleaned my veil too. Oh! I could think of a lot of outfits I could finally take to le pressing! On second thought, I should have gotten the loyalty card!

This little adventure just goes to show that maybe France isn't so slow or difficult after all. Perhaps it was my own mindset that needed a little pressing. With my dress now taken care of and our celebration on the horizon, I am eager to begin the second half of this French life--loyalty card in hand. Joyeux anniversaire, Mon Chéri!

Arriving with friends at la Calanque de Sormiou, July 4th, 1994. Now, just where did I store that hat? I think it got lost in the shuffle of so many moves.


The happy day. At La Marie de Bagatelle in Marseille’s 8th arrondissement. 

And here we are 30 years later.

Jean-Marc was surprised to see the dress. I think he was touched!

REMERCIEMENTS
Sincere thanks to the following readers who recently sent in a blog donation. This truly is a reader-supported journal and I appreciate your help in publishing it week after week. Merci beaucoup! --Kristi

Ed T.
Tim W.
Rich M.
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Owen E.
Carol H.
Rajeev B.
Marcia H.
Ginger B.
Edgar T.
Michele C.
C-Marie P.

God Bless You! --Owen E.
Dear Kristi, Look forward to your posts! Best regards to you and your family! Ginger B.

FRENCH VOCABULARY

Click here to listen to the French words

un mariage = wedding 

un anniversaire = anniversary
une Calanque = rocky inlet (specific to the Mediterranean coast)
une soirée = evening event
soigné = elegant, well-groomed
une chambre = bedroom
une armoire = wardrobe
quelle chance = what luck
quel dommage = what a pity
un déménagement = move (relocation)
une inondation = flood
un pli = wrinkle
un nettoyage à sec = dry cleaning
le parfum du temps = the scent of time
un tissu = fabric
une machine à laver = washing machine
purée = darn (mild exclamation)
le pressing = dry cleaner’s
allons-y = let’s go
bonjour = hello
bonjour, Madame = hello, ma’am
montrez-la-moi = show it to me
une carte de fidélité = loyalty card
un fourre-tout = tote bag
au fait = by the way
joyeux anniversaire = happy anniversary
mon chéri = my dear

This past week, in another beautiful calanque, we had the chance to meet up with longtime readers Lou and Gary  (Boulder, Colorado) on Gary's 77th birthday. We also met Barbara and Paul and enjoyed lunch at our favorite Restaurant du Mugel.

And last Sunday… Jean-Marc holding his bike after arriving at the top of Mont Ventoux. He is preparing for "L'Etape du Tour".
Thank you for reading today's edition through to the end. I'll be back in two weeks with more stories and photos. Happy summertime!

Une abeille, un papillon, et une cigale. A bee, a butterfly, and a cicada. Street decorations above La Rue des Poilus in La Ciotat

Summer Reading: You might enjoy the book First French Essais, a collection of earlier episodes from this blog. The "essais" part is a play on words, which is explained in the chapter "Valorisant" about how I came to write this blog. Click here to read more.

TODAY'S WORD: LA MAUVIETTE

    : sissy

Vieillir, c'est pas pour les mauviettes.
Aging is not for sissies. —Betty Davis

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

Summer. La saison estivale has begun and I am up at the crack of dawn, partly because my dog wakes me early, and partly because my body is aching. Oh que j'ai mal! 

To soar like a butterfly, to have knees like the bees, or simply not to be sore upon waking… If only arthritis could be poetic. But it isn't, it's pathetic! These are my thoughts as I begin today's edition, attempting to match la photo du jour to the theme of our story about aches and pains.

Barely out of bed and already feeling pressed, I considered opting out of this morning's walk with Jean-Marc. Amidst thoughts of laundry, paperwork, meal planning, and a weekly blog deadline, I realized exercise is as much a priority as working. A stroll through my neighborhood will be the key to getting this creaky engine rolling. De plus, it will strengthen my bones, calm my mind, and exercise my social skills (I'll take brief interactions while out walking over a cocktail party any day!).

Closing our front door, I stretch my sore legs and notice the stiffness in my lower back. Hopefully, these douleurs articulaires will ease with a little warm-up. As I step outside the front gate, the blooming laurier rose and vibrant blue plumbago lift my spirits if not my posture (that will take some mindfulness). Orange trumpet vines, roses, and purple bougainvillea brighten our neighborhood, as seagulls glide by effortlessly. If exercise fails to set me straight, nature will, coloring my thoughts in vivid hues to lighten the mood.

Halfway into our balade matinale, I turn to my husband. "I'm going to pick up Mom’s meds. I'll catch up to you after." With that, I cross the road while Jean-Marc heads down to les roches plates to swim with les chiens (we're dog sitting today). Ricci won't like the water, but she is a willing nageuse, if only to quickly return to shore once Jean-Marc gently lowers her into the water. Izzy, Ana’s beagle, will opt out in favor of playing lifeguard from her perch on one of the rocks above the sea coast.

At the pharmacy, after filling Mom’s prescriptions, I hesitate before leaving. “Could you help me with something else?” I ask la pharmacienne. “When I wake up in bed, I'm sore from my hip to my knee. The pain radiates from inside my bones so strongly that I have to get up and walk around for the aching to stop. No more sleeping in. C’est fini la grasse matinée!”

The pharmacist smiled knowingly. "C'est l'âge. What you are experiencing is a mixture of inflammation, hormones, and menopause. Suivez-moi." The woman in the lab coat led me past knee wraps, canes, and Ensure to a shelf of herbal supplements. I keep thinking that surely, by looking at me, she will realize this is not my category. Only, when I study her face it looks very much like mine. She's not yet 60 and yet...

"I had the same aches and pains," she confides.

"Had? Do you mean they will go away on their own?"

"Pas vraiment. They'll just change places." She points to her elbow, shoulder, and neck. "Eh, oui," she sighs. I'm reminded of the daily phone conversations with my older sister, Heidi, who suffered from pain in her arm all last year. “It's just tendonitis,” I assured her. (To think it was probably arthritis all along. La pauvre!)

My confidant hands me a box labeled “Flex Max Articulations” (for flexibilité, mobilité, comfort articulaire). This magic potion has curcuma, glucosamine sulfate, chondroitine sulfate, collagen, and vitamins C, D, manganese and costs 24€99.

“Take two a day.”

Putting the herbal supplement in my basket, I’m feeling a mixture of hope and regret (if only my sister had these pills!).  As for the aches and pains, “C’est juste l’effet de grandir,” I tell the pharmacist and so convince myself I am only growing up!

“C’est ça.” The pharmacist smiles. I take a moment to appreciate her openness and the fact that we are relating to each other beside the stacks of diapers that may very well be a part of our futures. If it ever gets to that point, I’ll know who to go to for help: this friendly woman, the same vintage as me, who is going through similar little miseries.

As for ces petites misères, I think of those a decade or two, or three, or four older than me. How is everyone out there feeling? Aging is not for sissies! I'm reminded, only I don’t know how to share this with the pharmacist, in French. Besides, at only 56, I can’t be sure I’m no longer a sissy. In such redoubtable circumstances, it helps to focus on community: aging is the opportunity to move beyond brief social encounters to nourish new friendships. As the pharmacist handed me the supplements, I realized growing older isn’t just about aches. It’s about forming new connections.  Indeed, aging is not for sissies—it’s for sisters.
  

From my photo archives: a pharmacy in Paris

COMMENTS
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My son Max and I were at a baptism this past weekend, along with all the family.

REMERCIEMENTS
Sincere thanks to the following readers who recently sent in a blog donation. This truly is a reader-supported journal and I appreciate your help in publishing it week after week. Merci beaucoup! --Kristi

Anne W.
Mary M.
Diane H.
Susan B.
Edred F.
Wendy K.
Cheryl M.
Jeanne G.
Cecilia DA
John and Jana M.

J’adore French-Word-A-Day! —Diane H.

Thank you, Kristin. Your newsletter is a blessing. --John and Jana M.

I always enjoy your lovely e-letters Kristi (whenever I find the time to read them!). They highlight the commonality of our human experiences, beautifully expressed. . . . and I am right at home, being Franco-American! Take good care, --Cecilia


In the neighborhood near the flat rocks, les roches plates.

FRENCH VOCABULARY

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

la mauviette = sissy
la saison estivale = summer season
la photo du jour = photo of the day
de plus = moreover
les douleurs articulaires = joint pains
le laurier rose = oleander
la balade matinale = morning walk
les roches plates = flat rocks
les chiens = dogs
la pharmacienne = pharmacist
c’est fini la grasse matinée = no more sleeping in
c’est l'âge = it's age
suivez-moi = follow me
le confort articulaire = joint comfort
la flexibilité = flexibility
la mobilité = mobility
c’est juste l’effet de grandir = it’s just a fact of growing up
c’est ça = that's right


On the way to the beach. Photo of Jean-Marc and Izzy (Ana's dog) from last summer. Cultural note: here is another popular car in our beach town: the Méhari by Citroën. There is a Méhari club in nearby Cassis. I love to see them and wouldn't mind driving one just inside the limits of La Ciotat. Forget navigating on the freeway in one of these!

La bignone or trumpet vine along the narrow passage above the flat rocks beach. And that’s Ricci, bounding forth, her happiest ever in the ninth month since we adopted her at the age of three-and-a-half.

We've had unusual weather, lately, and local businesses have suffered from the lack of customers. But today is a perfect day to head outside. Update: At the time of this posting, it is pouring cats and dogs (il pleut des cordes)! 

TODAY'S WORD: Le BONHEUR

 : happiness

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

Mom and I are lounging in the garden. It’s late afternoon, or la fin de l'apres-midi according to the language of Molière. All around us the birds, the trees, and the sweet-scented breeze offer their own poetic expression in a tongue understood by all. It is nature's intoxicating melody, and we are floating in it now.

“Where is everybody?” Mom wonders, surfacing from the bucolic trance.  

I take a deep breath. Mom's frequent questions—'What time is it?' 'What day is it?' and 'Where is everyone?'—keep me busy. Perhaps she’s exercising my reporting skills? In reality, she’s experiencing short-term memory loss, something we're both familiar with. "Let's see...Jean-Marc is in Marseilles, giving a wine tasting. Jackie is in Cassis, working, and Max…Max reminded me just this morning, via text, he is in Croatia." 

"Croatia? With Ana?" Mom wonders.

"No, with his friends."

Mom sighs peacefully, leading me to understand a restful vacation can be found right here in our front yard. Jules reclines on a chaise longue beside the snapdragons and flowering onions, while I sit nearby on a wooden chair next to the fountain. In the water, the first white nénuphars are budding and dragonflies hover here and there.

Ricci is doing figure-eights around us, delighted her mother-daughter meute has moved outside. From here our little shepherd can wander over to the hedge where she loves to slip under the flimsy fence and visit the neighbors, just like Smokey did. Only, unlike our dearly departed golden retriever, she barks at les voisins. 

"Ricci! Reviens!" With that we go over the drill: "Ça c'est chez nous et là c'est chez les voisins." I can almost hear my dog's thoughts: Yes, but the cats are over there. Little does Ricci know her forays next door are only adding insult to injury: for the day we brought Ricci home, 18-year old Lili The Cat moved back to the neighbor’s (where she decamped when the previous owner of our house (who also owned Lili) left, only to return when Smokey passed away two years ago). When we got Ricci last fall, it was déjà vu: there was no way Lili was sharing this yard with un toutou! 

Back here in the garden, beside the fountain, Mom reaches down to pet our proud protector who is leaning against the side of the lawn chair. "She is so soft," Mom coos. "How can a dog be this soft?" 

"I don't know," I admit. It boggles the mind. Then again, just about anything boggles the mind when you are seeped this deep in peace. I wonder how I could ever be so worked up, as I was a few times earlier today, over everything and nothing. What does any of it matter in the grand scheme of things, beyond this garden wall? Sinking back into my chair I relax, inhaling jasmine floating over from the flowering vine beside the bougainvillea. We need to sit out here more often, I think, turning to gaze at Mom.

Though it is the second week of June, Jules is wearing a light parka and a woolen cap. I'm beginning to understand why she is cold all of the time and it’s not because she lived in Mexico all those years. We’ll have more information on Tuesday, when we return to see the internist in Marseille for The Final Report. I’ve driven back and forth to the city so often, Jean-Marc says I could do it les yeux fermés. I feel proud about my new road skills even if it scared me driving home in a storm the day I took Mom back to the hospital. 

“The weather has been strange,” Mom remarks.

“It sure has,” I agree.

“Look at that blue sky now!”

Above the pepper tree, I see the doves flying in. Zut! I'm all out of bird food. I go and get some bread, breaking off pieces and dropping them beside the geraniums unaware Mom is studying me from her chair.

As I scatter bread for the birds, Mom watches me closely.“You are like a little Julie,” she remarks, her eyes twinkling with a mix of nostalgia and pride.

"I'm trying to be," I smile. Mom is and will always be my model, no matter how many things we don't agree on, including who should be president or how often to feed the birds (whenever they're around, Mom would argue). More and more I am coming around to Mom's ways. 

When I’m done feeding the birds I go over to investigate a curious shape in the pond. With any luck, it’s our resident frog! Kneeling down to stir the water, I see it is only a leaf.

"You have not changed," Mom smiles, sharing a razor-sharp memory from my childhood when I would go exploring in the wash (the empty river bed) behind our trailer. I loved returning after the rain, to sit along the bank and search for tadpoles. 

Fifty years later we are worlds away from the trailer park, here in the South of France. Whoever would have guessed such a future? I settle back into the chair beside Mom and we sneak glances at each other. These are like little pinches to the arms reminding us how lucky we are to be here, together. A moment of quiet pervades our union in the garden, as the fountain gushes, the perfume of jasmine wafts past, and the soft fur of Ricci, resting between our chairs, caresses our skin. The concerns of the day have disappeared into this peaceful moment. A few more moments float by with only the sounds of nature when Mom’s voice gently punctuates the silence.

“Kristi, this is what it’s all about.”

I savor Mom's profound declaration, internalizing exactly what it means. It is a soulful revelation that, should we think too much about it it might smother us in meaning. Maybe that’s why God invented comic relief…

Running my fingers through my hair, my thoughts return to the present. "I can't figure out what's happened to my hair," I say to Mom. "It so stiff and dull! I think I forgot to rinse out the conditioner!" I finally admit.

“Welcome to the club!” Mom laughs, acknowledging our shared absentmindedness. And we sink back into our chairs, lighthearted, as the birds, the dragonflies, the dog, the frog, the flowers, and all of the trees carry on effortlessly, oblivious to the time or the date. If only we could live on forever this way, in this carefree garden, free from worries and the march of time.

Jules and the tourterelles. These doves, who Jules calls "Mama" and "Papa", befriended Mom back in 2018 when she moved in with us. While workers renovated the garage (Mom's future studio), Jules escaped the pounding and hammering by finding a quiet spot in a corner of the garden. A feathered friendship was born! We are amazed at how tame these doves are, and how much company they give Mom (and all of us).

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Merci pour vos articles interessants! --Julie G.


Is it a fountain or is it a pond? I often hesitate when referring, in my stories, to this "water feature". Seven years ago, thanks to an initiative begun by Jeanne in the UK, this broken "bassin" was restored as a housewarming gift from my readers. A haven for fish, birds, dragonflies, and frogs, we enjoy it so much, even if we still haven't figured out how to control the green mossy water. Should it be crystal clear? Or is this what a fountain-pond looks like? Either way, it is a joy to listen to the falling water and to see the activity inside the little green pool.

FRENCH VOCABULARY

Listen to the French and the English terms via this sound file

le bonheur = happiness
la fin de l'apres-midi = late afternoon
la langue de Molière = the language of Molière
la meute = pack
les voisins = the neighbors
reviens = come back
ça c'est chez nous et là c'est chez les voisins = this is our place and that is the neighbors' place
un toutou = a dog
les yeux fermés = with eyes closed
zut = darn
les nénuphars = water lilies

Local culture: You'll see these Moke cars here and there, in La Ciotat, Cassis, and other beach towns. They are part of the culture and it is always a pleasure to see them go by.


More local charm outside this friterie, or French fry stand, currently closed for vacation.

C'est bientôt l'été. It's almost summertime! To stay cool we'll keep these volets closed and the ceiling fans spinning. Now to find a solution for summer pests, following a recent slew of piqûres... Read on, in today's word fest.

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TODAY'S WORD: LA PIQÛRE

    : sting, bite

EPHEMERA WINE TASTING in Marseilles 
Jean-Marc will be pouring his 2023 Ephèmera wine at Le Vin Sobre Mazargues at 5 pm.
Adresse: 2 Av. du Maréchal de Lattre de Tassigny, 13009 Marseille
If you are in the area, don't miss this chance to taste his wine! 

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

"Ça gratte!" It itches! I say to Jean-Marc, waking up with fresh bites on my arm. I can't believe it! They've struck again! But just who are they is the question. What, exactly, is biting me every night? My skin is swollen and I see red bumps, ici et par là, across my arms, stomach, and legs. It's an exercise in willpower not to scratch them, so I claw at the skin on either side and wake up my husband. La misère aime la compagnie!

"Are you sure you haven't been bitten?" I look over at Jean-Marc, who is groggy from sleep.
"Je n'ai pas de piqûres," he mumbles. Well, it can't be bed bugs then, can it? Besides, I would have noticed the intruders, having studied the situation since the famous breakout in Paris last year. Les punaises are visible.

Perplexed, I go down the culprit list, once again...

Could it be un moustique qui me pique? Mosquito season began a few weeks ago but it is unlikely a winged want-not has crawled beneath my covers to bite me on the bottom!

What about les puces? Could fleas be eating me? I look around my bed, scrutinizing the sheets, but les puces are nowhere to be seen. I'd recognize them having dealt with the little critters when we brought our dog home from the farm eight months ago. Our adoptee, Ricci, was covered in the bloodsucking parasites. During the 5-hour ride home from Aveyron I squashed as many as I could--proof that fleas are big enough to see. 

Et si c'était les araignées? Spiders are common around here, given we don't spray pesticides. Could these be spider bites I'm getting each night?

How about les mites? Mites don't bite Jean-Marc informs me. Maybe dust mites don't bite but other kinds of mites might! Bird mites? Could it be our family of tourterelles is sharing more than their good company?

What if it's un mechant taon? I saw one flying around my bed just this morning! Could a horrible horsefly be behind these itchy lumps and bumps?

Jean-Marc suggested it might be hives, which have, coincidentally, come up since my mom went into the hospital. According to Google, "Stress hives can resemble insect bites..." Is it all the nerve-racking driving to Marseille and beyond that’s gotten under my skin? Or the agonizing wait for Mom’s health insurance to kick in?

Until I know just what's biting me, physically or emotionally, I've sprinkled baking soda across my mattress (Mom says it will dry the suckers out!), changed my sheets, my pajamas, and sprayed lavender mist all over the bedroom after Jean-Marc vacuumed. This relieved things for a few days, but the itchy boutons returned!

As I sit here scratching beneath my chin (the most recent morsure), I think about another possibility: no-see-ums. The funny term refers to tiny winged creatures that bite. These gnats are called moucherons in French. But Jean-Marc says it can't be them because they can't fly under the covers. 

Could it be that all these bites, then, are happening during the day? Are "no-see-ums", finally, to blame? Even if this mystery is close to being solved, the solution to no-see-ums is nowhere in sight. And, frankly, apart from lavender and baking soda, I'm not going to put too much more energy into cette situation gênante. No, you won't see me running around swatting at some invisible enemy. Honestly, I've got other cats to whip at the moment. (Leave it to the French to save the day with an amusing idiom: avoir d'autres chats à fouetter) In the meantime I have a fine phrasal verb for the pests: BUG OFF! Va t’en!

Ricci, in her favorite hangout beneath the hedges.

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Thank you for your wonderful wide-ranging stories. -Karen H.

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FRENCH VOCABULARY

Listen to Jean-Marc pronounce the French words below. Click here

la piqûre = bite, sting
ça gratte = it itches
ici et par là = here and there
la misère aime la compagnie = misery loves company
je n'ai pas de piqûres = I don't have any bites
la punaise de lit = bed bug
un moustique qui me pique = a mosquito biting me
les puces = fleas
Et si c'était les araignées? = And what if it's spiders?
les mites = mites
la tourterelle = collared dove
un méchant taon = a mean horsefly
le bouton = bite
une morsure = a bite
les moucherons = no-see-ums (biting midges)
une situation gênante = annoying situation
avoir d'autres chats à fouetter = to have bigger fish to fry
va t'en! = bug off!

For more useful vocabulary and stories from France, check out Blossoming in Provence.

An update on Mom: Jules is enjoying being home. She will see her internist on Tuesday for un compte-rendu or report of all the tests she took, and hopefully a specific treatment. (In this photo, from 2007, Mom stopped by the local lavoir in Sainte Cécile-les-Vignes to cheer the women taking care of their family's laundry. Read the story "piquer" from the archives.

Last but not least, Happy Father's Day to all who celebrate. Bonne Fête, Papa! To my loving dad whose kindness, wisdom, and care touch my heart time and again! I especially love Dad's childlike delight in the simplest things. Here he is, below, in La Ciotat, having tossed his favorite borrowed beach towel over the table. "I reserved it for us," he smiled. I love this memory.. Thank you, Dad, for being a terrific father.

Above: Dad in his favorite cove near Mugel beach.


I leave you with a favorite story about my Dad called "Joie de Vivre". Click here.

Mom had a few rides in the ambulance these past few weeks. She loved every one of the drivers! Here she is with Sofiane, who stopped for a magnificent view of the Mediterranean. Merci!

EASY EXPAT TAX FILING
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TODAY'S WORD: LA BELLE AU BOIS DORMANT

    : Sleeping Beauty

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

I had a dream last night that Mom was driving us in our jeep. We were going up a dirt road, and when we reached le sommet and came over the other side, the path dropped unexpectedly into a swamp, along with our bagnole!

I remembered, with relief, that our vehicle had 4-wheel drive, that is, until our tires lost contact with the ground and we began to sink.

Just when all hope seemed lost, Mom looked over at me with confidence, revved the engine, and the Jeep swam forward enough for the wheels to catch on the rocks below. Alléluia! We climbed right out of the mire! On the other side of the water, there was a farm, and the couple living there had a family of hedgehogs. They kindly gifted us the baby hérisson. Not only had we survived, but we surfaced from the mire with a gift--a newborn!

If dreams were premonitions, what a hopeful sign this would be! As it is, we are still bogged down in this mire of medical testing and administrative imbroglio. Meanwhile, we had a momentary reprieve from the situation when, on Thursday, Mom’s internist released her from the hospital for the weekend.

During her three days at home in her cozy studio, Jules read each and every comment readers have left on my blog following her hospitalization. Mom was filled with energy from your thoughts and prayers and amazed by my extended family of readers, whose affection and care were palpable. I assured Mom I appreciate all of you so much and hope you feel this gratitude in these weekly updates.

Tucked into her own bed, Ricci cuddled beside her, Mom told me all about the care and attention she’s receiving at the hospital. Les infirmières have even given Mom un nom d’affection: Jules is called “Sleeping Beauty” or “La Belle Dormante” for the way she sleeps around the clock. This is one reason she went into the hospital—to find out why she is so tired.

For her first PET scan, La Belle Dormante was transported via stretcher to a tiny room, where she received a catheter in her arm. To take her mind off the needle, I promised Mom that when this was all over, we’d go off on an adventure somewhere.

“Oh, Kristi,” Mom began.

I turned to focus on what she was saying, quieting the chatter in my mind that droned on: I need to pick up Mom’s medication…It’s close to 2pm! I’ve got to get the car back to Jackie who’ll need it for work!

“Kristi, this is an adventure!” Mom smiled. “Aren’t you proud of France?!”

Me? Proud of France? But I’m not even French. Can you be proud of something that is not your own? Mom’s expectant look had me reflecting. Just what did she mean?

“I cannot believe how dedicated and professional everyone working here is. They all know they have an important job. They are saving lives!”

I took my mom’s precious hand into my own. “To this adventure,” I said, kissing Mom before they wheeled her into the next room. When the door shut behind her, I saw the number 7. Mais bien sûr, of course she would have room number 7. It’s her favorite number—le numéro sacré. Not only is Mom lucky, but she is truly blessed!

Just before Mom disappeared into the PET scan, she tried to calm my doubts and fears. “How else would we witness God’s miracles if it wasn’t for these uncertainties?”

For her daughters and those who know her, Jules is proof that faith, like our trusty Jeep, can move us out of the deepest mire. And in this medical care adventure, the gift we surface with is the unwavering love and support from those around us, a reminder that even in challenging times, we are never alone. Not even as a stranger in a foreign land. Oui, Maman! Je suis fière de la France!

With Mom and Ricci in Mom’s studio

COMMENTS
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Congratulations to Jean-Marc for completing the "Triathlon des Lumières" here in La Ciotat last weekend!


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FRENCH VOCABULARY

Click here to listen to the French read aloud by Jean-Marc

le sommet = the summit
la bagnole = car 
Alléluia! = Hallelujah!
le hérisson = hedgehog
l’imbroglio = mess
au fait = by the way
les infirmières = the nurses
le nom d’affection = a term of endearment
La Belle au Bois Dormante = Sleeping Beauty
le numéro sacré = the holy number
jamais tout seul = (we are) never alone
Oui, Maman = Yes, Mom
Je suis fière de la France! = I am proud of France

June 5th. Last day for Jules in the hospital. We picked up Mom and brought her home last night, to her delight! The next few visits to Hôpital Europeen will be day visits only. In a few weeks, we'll meet with Mom's internist for a summary of all the exams--and hopefully a course of treatment for what the doctors think is sarcoidose (sarcoidosis). 

Mom has been a trooper throughout this experience, including two weeks in the hospital and over 11 tests! Tuesday she went  under anesthesia for a lung biopsy. She also had a lip biopsy which left a mark below her lip. She also came home with a black eye! I'm wondering if it is from the breathing mask she wore during the intervention?

I did not get a picture of the other ambulance drivers, who Mom adored. When her shoe fell off on the way into the hospital, they called her "Cendrillon" (Cinderella). What with two storybook names given to her by the medical team, you might say Mom's life in France is a fairytale. I think La Belle Dormante would agree!