FRENCH WORD-A-DAY

Témoignage: Why I Don't Drink Alcohol in France (or Anywhere)

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.

Sabots: Clogs, Sabotage & Standing Your Ground in France!

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!

Inébranlable: Unflappable in French (A Mother-Daughter story)

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)