FRENCH WORD-A-DAY

Entertaining Angels & French for “Time to eat!”

Une cabane in La Ciotat

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TODAY'S WORD: À table!

    : Time to eat!; Lunch (or Dinner) is served! 

A DAY IN A FRENCH Life by Kristi Espinasse

Ever since we lost our picnic table in a fire last year, we’ve struggled to find a suitable replacement.  With no place to gather for outdoor meals, we resorted to lugging our dining table outside that first summer, enjoying lunch or dinner under the open sky whenever the weather was good. We managed this way until Christmas when eleven of us gathered around for le repas de Noël. In the new year, when it became too cold pour dîner dehors, we carried our dining table back into the house, where it belonged.

Come springtime, we rustled up a round metal table from our garden, in time to enjoy meals out on la terrasse again. Finally, by summer’s end, Jean-Marc saw an ad in Facebook Marketplace—and there she was, a wooden beauty that would become our new centerpiece for l'heure de l'apéro, lunch, dinner, or even work.

As fast as you can say à table! my husband bought it. “Our jeep isn’t big enough to transport it,” Jean-Marc explained, on returning from the seller’s house. “But the man said he would be able to help.”

Ricci and I were heading to Mom’s around the side of our house when the table arrived. Jean-Marc had invited the seller to sit down for an ice-cold mousse after he had generously assisted with the delivery. (He had a more spacious fourgonnette). Beyond just transporting the table, the man had taken the time to treat the wood with l'huile de lin—a courtesy that didn’t go unnoticed.

The older man was somewhat winded as he took a seat at his former table, his salt-and-pepper locks damp from the oppressive heatwave. He wore a classic white marcel and a pair of shorts. “Bonjour, Monsieur!” I said, breezing by. “Oh, que c’est belle cette table. Merci!” After a hasty hello, I disappeared to Mom’s for some trivial matter, leaving the men to finish up business. I made it as far as the driveway when a gnawing feeling inside made me realize I'd ignored our visitor. I brushed it aside, reminding myself he was but a stranger.

Before long, we were enjoying meals around our second-hand table. Nickel! Max said, admiring its oval design, which rounded out the seating to 8. "We could even squeeze in two more,” Jackie noted. Everyone was enthusiastic, but none more than Jules, who spontaneously slipped her son-in-law 200 euros to pay for it. "It's beautiful! I love it!" she said. Jean-Marc had truly outdone himself, finding the perfect table for just 180 euros—and with 5 chairs included, à ce prix-là, c'était une aubaine! (And with the extra cash he could buy Grandma some more ice cream, to thank her for picking up the tab!)

One morning while we were having our coffee, I asked Jean-Marc about table's history. “Why was the man selling it?” 

"Oh," Jean-Marc sighed. “He was being evicted from the property, where he was renting a little cabanon."

“Evicted. That's terrible!”

Jean-Marc explained that the man had a home in Marseille, but this modest cabin had been his pied-à-terre for thirty-five years. Like many Marseillais back in the day, he would escape the city for "la campagne," sharing this seaside terrain with a few other families, each with their own petite cabane on the property.

Now those buildings will be demolished, with little regard for the people who once made memories there. All to make room for yet another programme immobilier—brand new condos. With the growth and rising popularity of our town—a former industrial shipping hub now catering to yachts—the demographics are shifting, and the demand for real estate is soaring.

Sadly, this longtime resident has to leave. With the help of his daughter, the elderly man listed his few possessions and packed up his modest abode to return to the outskirts of Marseille.

As Jean-Marc told the story, I pictured the man at this very table, where he and others had once gathered after returning from la pêche or a hike in the fragrant hills above La Ciotat. They might have enjoyed a round of pastis followed by a homemade soupe de poisson. A doze under the shady parasol pine completed the perfect journée.

Those halcyon days were fading, and soon the pine tree would be gone too. When Monsieur sat at the table for the last time, sharing a refreshment with Jean-Marc, a chapter of his life was coming to a poignant close…

…Yet, a new chapter for the table was just beginning, with the man forever intertwined in its story. His soul—and even his sweat—became part of it over the years, and again at the farewell delivery, as salty droplets mingled with the condensation from the men’s cool beers, anointing the wood below...

We will all enjoy this table, even more than the one we have lost. Though I missed the chance to connect with a venerable character, my hasty hello now serves as a reminder to focus on what matters most in life: the people we meet and their stories. As the saying goes:

Ne négligez pas de pratiquer l’hospitalité.  Car certains, en l’exerçant, ont accueilli des anges sans le savoir.

Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it.

 

À table! = Everyone to the table! Scroll to the end to see Jackie studying at the table, and news of her classes.

COMMENTS
Your comments are a joy to read and your corrections help me so much.
Thanks in advance! Click here to leave a message.

FRENCH VOCABULARY

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

le repas de Noël = Christmas meal
pour dîner dehors = to dine outside
la terrasse = patio, terrace
l’heure de l’apéro (f) = aperitif hour
à table! = to the table!
la mousse = beer (informally)
la fourgonnette = the van
l’huile de lin (f) = linseed oil
le marcel = tank top
Bonjour, Monsieur! = Hello, sir!
Oh, que c’est belle cette table. Merci! = Oh, how beautiful this table is. Thank you!
Nickel! = Perfect!
à ce prix-là, c’était une aubaine! = at that price, it was a bargain!
le cabanon = the cabin
le pied-à-terre = second home
la campagne = the countryside
la cabane = the hut
le programme immobilier = real estate development
la pêche = fishing
le pastis = anise-flavored spirit
la soupe de poisson = fish soup
la journée = the day
Ne négligez pas de pratiquer l’hospitalité. Car certains, en l’exerçant, ont accueilli des anges sans le savoir. = Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it.(from Hebrews 13.2)

 

A municipal poster along the boardwalk in our seaside town

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

Anne U.
Julie C.
Edward G.
Sheryl W.
Holly R.-J.
Claudia-Marie P.

My daughter, at the new table and in the middle of a finance class. (Can you see Jules's doves, center?) Wish Jackie bonne chance! This week she began her Masters at Kedge Business School in Marseille, the very same école de commerce where her father graduated in 1991. 

Repose en Paix: Signs, Wonders, and a Smile from Above

Today, we say goodbye to a longtime reader, Lou, who also helped with a few harvests in his ninth decade of life!

TODAY’S WORD: Repose en Paix

  : rest in peace

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

It is just after 6 a.m., and my husband is on his way out to harvest at a friend’s vineyard in Bandol. Ever since we sold our last domain, Jean-Marc has managed to keep his feet consistently in (or near) a bucket of grapes. I’m happy for him, and seeing the smile on his face as he kisses me goodbye reminds me to always encourage him to follow his path.

As Chief Grape left the room, I felt an inkling to pray for him. Though it's been years since he struggled with le cafard, our emotional needs and spiritual growth don't suddenly end when we feel better. Positive thoughts and prayers are strengtheners, and faith and hope are what keep us going. My wish for each family member is always the same: that they will grow closer to leur source de vie.

I hear the jingle bell on the front door signaling someone's left the house. "Lord, as Jean-Marc goes out into the vineyard today, his sacred place, please speak to his heart." I didn't have further instructions for God, only one additional request: "Could you also please show me a sign? I know we are not supposed to ask for signs, but anything at all, God, to let me know you are working in his heart."

With that, my day began. I wrangled with family members, trying to get everyone—from my dog to Grandma—settled so I could eventually find some peace and quiet to meet my deadlines. Besides these weekly blog posts, I have a bi-monthly column due soon for France Today and a book project I'm struggling to keep up with.

First order of the day: get my stubborn dog out for a walk. With Ricci straining against the leash, I reached down and scooped her up. "There! ON VA MARCHER!" After fits and starts around the neighborhood, we made it home in time to quickly scramble a few eggs (I hear protein is a good mood stabilizer. Hopefully it helps with female hormones too—mine, this time, and not Ricci’s…).

I now needed to get Mom sorted out—not that Jules felt the same need. But she couldn't deny she needed groceries, and it was time to help change her sheets. Only, after Mom's new helper, Fiona, returned from the store, Mom threw a wrench in my plans by deciding the bed linen change would have to wait. What’s more, she sent Fiona back to my place to change my sheets. (It turns out this was all a lack of communication, which happens often in a bilingual household!)

Tensions were growing, lunch preparation loomed in the air, and I tried to focus on my writing, as story ideas superimposed one over the other, adding to the confusion. Just when I settled down to sort things out, Jackie asked if I could hang out her laundry as she was running late for work. Then Max telephoned for a favor: would I follow him to the repair shop to drop off his company car? And just like that, rebelote!—we were back on the jungle train again!

Somehow, we monkeys managed to get through the day: Jean-Marc processed more grapes, Mom got clean sheets, Jackie made it to work on time, Max’s car was fixed, and I wrote a workable draft for this blog. As usual, the pressure began to ease when I checked in to say goodnight to Mom, and found her in a happy mood (watching horse videos on YouTube does that). "Kristi! You'll never believe what happened!" she said. "Earlier, I was lying here in bed, wishing for something sweet to eat after dinner. A moment later, Jean-Marc came in with two ice cream bars! Isn't that incredible?"

Incredible? Yes, on so many levels. Suddenly, I remembered the prayer I had said earlier and hurried home to tell Jean-Marc about le signe de là-haut. He smiled, more in amusement than conviction, but that was good enough for me. As I once read, "Le sourire est chez l'homme l'empreinte de Dieu"—the smile is in man the imprint of God.

But, dear reader, our story doesn't end here, nor do God's mysterious ways. When evening came, I asked Jean-Marc if he happened to have a photo of the vineyard where he was harvesting that morning—something to illustrate the blog post I was working on.

"The only photo I have is with Lou Bogue."

"Lou Bogue?"

"Yes, Lou harvested with me at that same vineyard several years ago."

That's when I recalled a visit from one of my readers, Lou. At the age of 83, with shoulder-length silver locks and a boyish grin, he helped us harvest at our first vineyard, Domaine Rouge-Bleu. When we moved to La Ciotat, he traveled to visit us. By then, he was in his early 90s. I'll never forget taking Lou to lunch and leaving him to explore le centre-ville that afternoon. He insisted he’d find his way back to his Airbnb, but by early evening, Jean-Marc had an inkling of his own and felt a strong urge to get in his car and go searching for Lou…

Lo and behold, there at the old port, Lou was standing on a corner, waiting for a bus back to his rental. Only there were no more buses that evening. Just when a stranger wandered up to Lou, soliciting for something, Jean-Marc quickly pulled up to the curb.

He reached over to open the passenger door and Lou, ever chipper (and a little pompette after leaving one of the local bars…), thanked him for the ride home. Lou eventually returned to Florida and kept in touch with me via Facebook, as he had for years. In fact, he was one of my first blog readers! As always, he said he was planning a trip to see us. He was 95 the last time he made this promise.

After Jean-Marc reminded me of the harvest with Lou, I went over to Facebook to contact him for permission to post his photo. Only, instead of his usual update, there was a message from his daughter:

"…We want to thank all who've shared cards and their prayers after the recent loss of my dad, Louis Bogue, in Dunedin, Florida. He lived a full 96 years and passed in peaceful sleep after being surrounded by family on February 15, 2024. We will celebrate his life on Father's Day in Atlanta with a book we are creating of his golf journey and adventure-filled life. We invite you to share sentiments and photos…"

I am so sad to learn Lou is no longer among us, and upset I missed the chance to say goodbye. It all brings me back to my driven nature, as I crack the whip at the beginning of another day. Why do I always feel so rushed to get everything done “on time?” Just what is “on time” when you are on a schedule of your own making?

I ask myself, finally, “Whether I get the sheets changed today or whether I’m late saying adieu to a dearly departed friend —what is time in the face of eternity?”

I can almost hear Lou's voice, his wisdom echoing back an answer: "Time, mon amie, is eternal when you do everything with love. So sit back, smile, and remember your husband, your family, and your friends. Have a little more fun in life. Get out there and enjoy some adventures. Love life!"

Thank you, Lou, for keeping in touch and for always promising to get back to France. I love you! I did not tell you directly or often enough how much you impressed me with your plans. If I’m honest, this middle-aged mess was a little suspicious of your endless youth—and now regret not asking you your secret (which may have been shared in the paragraph above)! In your mid-90s, your excitement and verve for life, for friends, and your love for France were stronger than ever. You wore a permanent smile, l'empreinte de Dieu. Sign of signs!

I like a story to come full circle, so let’s return to that glorious vignoble in Bandol, where my husband was just beginning the harvest. In that paradisical setting, I prayed that God would work in his heart and send me some kind of message. I know we’re not supposed to ask for signs from God—perhaps that's why I received one from an old friend instead. Repose en paix, Lou. In memory of you, I’m going to try to slow down, chill out, and follow in your loving footsteps.

After typing the last line of this story, I stumbled upon an old email reply from Lou:

"Yes, a young girl’s dreams of finding that way of life that will bring all those dreams to fusion is a hard journey. Sometimes it's long and tedious, and sometimes a move to a completely new environment opens the door to understanding what you really want out of life. As the saying goes, NOTHING VENTURED—NOTHING GAINED. Another big secret of life: KEEP MOVING forward, never backward."

Here’s another of the many notes I received from Lou: “Hope all is well with you and family, basking in 80 degrees here in Fla., playing golf 3 days a week, working 3 days a week, keeping in good health, goal is to see my GREAT GRAND Children, do with their lives, they are 4, 6, 8 and one on the way!!!! Remember key to long life, KEEP MOVING!”

Back when Lou harvested at Domaine Rouge-Bleu (story here), and a note he wrote:

I've just been able to send an e-mail. I read your book, which I enjoy and get your word a day, which is helping me try and learn French, as I'm planning on spending a month next Sept. in the Provence area celebrating my 80th, hope to try your wine. I'm from Casa Grande, AZ., also a desert rat, much good luck to you and to your family. I'm sure, like most of your readers, you feel like family.  Au revoir.

COMMENTS
Your comments are a joy to read and your edits help me so much. Thanks in advance! To leave a comment, click here. 

Lou harvesting at Domaine Rouge-Bleu. Don't miss fellow harvester Sandy Maberly's post about Lou, and how he inspired everyone. 

FRENCH VOCABULARY

Click here to listen to Jean-Marc pronounce the French
le cafard = the blues, depression
leur source de vie = their source of life
On va marcher = we are going to walk
rebelote = here we go again
le signe de là-haut = the sign from above
le sourire est chez l'homme l'empreinte de Dieu = the smile is in man the imprint of God
le centre-ville = the town center
pompette = tipsy
adieu = goodbye forever
l'empreinte de Dieu = the imprint of God
le vignoble = the vineyard
repose en paix = rest in peace

*The smile quote is by Robert Choin

REMERCIEMENTS
When I receive a donation from a reader, I always send a thank-you email. However, there are times when I don’t have the correct address, or worse, my message ends up in a junk folder, never to be seen. To the following readers, I hope my note reached you, and I want to express my gratitude once again for supporting the blog!

Bob M.
Phil J.
Trina S.
Vicki B.
Nancy M.
Michele C.
Nancy S.
Marilyn W.
Lori K. C.
Maureen D.
Crystal and Greg A.
Midge and Dick Fleming
Natalia, Rod, Elley and Ari 

Lunch with Lou, the last time he came to visit. Read one more story about Lou, here.

Love, Épanouissement, and Ricci Turns Four

Ricci totally ignores the words "marcher" and "nager" (walk and swim). Her favorite words are English: "cookie," "Grandma," and "Jackie." More about favorites in today's story. Thank you for reading and sharing this post with a dog lover.

TODAY’S WORD: l’épanouissement

   : blossoming/flourishing; fulfillment

Un chien trouve son épanouissement dans les petites joies du quotidien, tout comme nous trouvons le nôtre en partageant ces moments avec lui.

A dog finds its fulfillment in the small joys of everyday life, just as we find ours in sharing those moments with them.

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

Ricci is about to turn four, and it is remarkable how much she has enriched our lives since she bounded into our home from a remote barn in central France. What began as a leap of faith has evolved into a profound complicité—one that makes me confront an unexpected dilemma: the deep, sometimes surprising love I feel for Ricci compared to the affection I had for our previous dogs. It feels almost taboo to even talk about un chien favori when you’ve had two lovely dogs before her. As I process these feelings, I wanted to take a moment to honor our rescapée on this, the week of her birthday.

I still can’t believe how lucky we are to have this beautiful, funny, stubborn, and adorably clumsy American Shepherd as our new family dog. Jean-Marc and I regularly remark: “It’s a good thing I found her!” While we enjoy teasing each other, the uncomfortable truth is Ricci’s fate was decided by a flip of the coin. Heads, we bring home this unknown, possibly problematic dog. Tails, we leave her…to her fate. I couldn't bear the thought of that. The decision was quickly made! 

To think I ever had doubts about how it would all work out the day we collected Ricci from a dog, cow, and cannabis farm in Auvergne. The owner was phasing out the puppy side of her business, and that’s how we ended up bringing home this blue-eyed mama. Strangely, she did not resist as we carried her away without a leash, a collar, or even the slightest idea of who we were and where she was going. Throughout the 5-hour ride home she was silent, barely moving from my lap, which soon became a pool of drool from her unspoken stress.

She perked up upon arrival! In those early days, our adoptee was so unpredictable: she tried to escape, trembled for weeks, growled at other dogs, nipped at family members, and peed all over our home. To top it off, she had the most offensive breath—haleine so bad it rivaled les Epoisses de Bourgogne, one of the stinkiest cheeses in France.

Then there was her prénom, which was difficult for me to pronounce (I've never been good at rolling those French "r"s. I thought to change her name, but given how disoriented she was, it didn't seem like a good idea).

Despite the negatives, we saw Ricci ("RRREE-CHEE") for what she was, a displaced dog who, once we earned her trust, would get better. Around that time a reader named Lin shared the "3:3:3 Rule" for rescue dogs: in three days, she would become familiar with her new surroundings, in three weeks she'd be comfortable with her environment, and in three months she'd feel secure and set in her routine. I hung on to this promise as our newest family member progressed through the various étapes. With every day that passed, we watched Ricci slowly blossom from a skittish, uncertain dog into a confident, affectionate companion. The first time her little nub of a tail wagged (you had to look closely because her queue had been docked), the moment she finally slept through the night, the day she jumped into my lap—each of these was a sign that the 3:3:3 Rule was working. It was a gradual transformation, but each step was a victory, for Ricci and for us.

Just when things were coming together, there was a crisis. Ricci panicked after a sudden bruit at the farmers market and ran off. During the chase, with Ricci fleeing beside traffic, our short life together flashed before my eyes: all the progress she'd made, all the trust we'd built...only for her to be running away when she needed me most!

When finally she landed in my arms, saved by the quick action of a few locals, I wasn't about to let her go again. It took weeks before I began to trust her. I learned our little Houdini could wiggle right out of her harness as she did when Jean-Marc brought her to the dock, to wait for him while he worked on his boat. 

Eventually, we felt confident enough to give her some slack while strolling along the boardwalk. She's gradually adapting to le grincement of delivery truck doors, the pop! of a deflating paddle board, and the whir and grumble of the big, bad streetcleaner truck.

These days she leaps with joy onto our couch (sometimes slamming into the side of it, completely unharmed if aerodynamically challenged...) where she eventually settles in the curve of my legs to fall asleep. I love her so much I could burst. "Mom," I say, seated next to Jules, Ricci cuddled in between us. "I... I think she is my favorite dog." I could only admit this to my own Mom, as saying it to anyone else seems taboo. It would be as shocking as choosing a favorite kid.

We sit in silence, stroking Ricci, remembering our beloved golden retriever, who passed away two summers ago. "I think Smokey picked Ricci out for us," I whisper. The idea is comforting and takes away some of the guilt I feel for loving Ricci so much. Suddenly, I am reminded of the day I realized I loved Smokey more than our first dog, Breizh...I remember feeling bad about that, too!

I’ve come to realize that with each new dog, my heart has grown bigger, not because one dog is better than the other, but because each has taught me to love more deeply. As someone once said: Un nouveau chien ne remplace jamais un vieux chien, il ne fait qu’agrandir le cœur.  A new dog never replaces an old dog, it only enlarges the heart. 

Seeing Ricci’s (and our own) épanouissement over the past year has only reinforced this truth. No wonder my heart is bursting with love. Joyeux Anniversaire, Ricci, et merci!

***

Jean-Marc's boat, a 1925 pointu, is the first one on the left. 

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

FRENCH VOCABULARY

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

la complicité = the bond/connection
le chien favori = favorite dog
un(e) rescap(é)e = a rescue dog 
l'haleine (f) = the breath
les Epoisses de Bourgogne = Epoisses cheese from Burgundy
le prénom = first name
les étapes = the stages
la queue = the tail
le bruit = noise
le grincement = the creaking
Un nouveau chien ne remplace jamais un vieux chien, il ne fait qu’agrandir le cœur = A new dog never replaces an old dog, it only enlarges the heart
l’épanouissement = the blossoming/flourishing
Joyeux Anniversaire, Ricci, et merci! = Happy Birthday, Ricci, and thank you!

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

Sally B.
Ingrid S.
Cerelle B.
Martha S.
Phoebe E.
Pamela H.
Michele C.
Richard H.
Robinelle C.

Love from your Phoenix friend! --Cerelle B.

Merci, Kristi! Vos pensées sont toujours intéressantes et utiles. --Phoebe E.

Just love your style of writing and meaningful missives! They can easily connect with one’s life and provoke thinking more deeply. It is especially nice to connect often with the South of France, I love France so much! Bon Soir! --Ingrid S.

A Fleur de Peau, Le Cafard, and The Blues

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.

l'Embarras du Choix: Surrender and "an embarrassment of choices"

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. 

A YEAR IN A FRENCH LIFE (Help Choose The Book Cover)

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.

Caregiver in French: Un Auxiliaire de Vie

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.

Postcard from Brittany

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.

La Robe de Mariée: My Wedding Dress Conundrum

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.
Mary B.
Rick C.
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!

"Mauviette": Getting Old is Not for Sissies

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.