Kristin Espinasse - Words in a French Life: Lessons in Love and Language from the South of France

TOUCHSTONE
Rockefeller Center
1230 Avenue of the Americas
www.SimonandSchuster.com
New York, NY 10020

Copyright 2006 by Kristin Espinasse

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction
in whole or in part in any form.

This Touchstone Edition 2007

TOUCHSTONE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact
Simon & Schuster Special Sales at1-800-456-6798 or business@simonandschuster.com.

Designed by Joy OMeara

Manufactured in the United States of America

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

Espinasse, Kristin, date.

Words in a French life : lessons in love and language from the south of France / Kristin Espinasse.

p. cm.

1. AmericansFrance. 2. FranceSocial life and customs. 3. French language. I. Title.

DC34.5.A44E77 2006

305.813'044dc22 2006040457

ISBN-13: 978-0-7432-8728-9
ISBN-10: 0-7432-8728-2
ISBN-13: 978-0-7432-8729-6 (Pbk)
ISBN-10: 0-7432-8729-0 (Pbk)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-3197-5 (ebook)

Portions of this book were originally published in France as part of
Words in a French Life: Volume One copyright 2004 by Kristin Espinasse, Words in a French Life: Volume Two and Words in a French Life: Volume Three copyright 2005
by Kristin Espinasse. All rights reserved.

For Aunt Charmly and Uncle Tucker,
with love

Introduction

My children have come up with a new game that sends them into fits of laughter. They ask me to say something, anything, in their native tongue.

Jadore la couleur rouge, I love the color red, I say, aware that the kids will have a linguistical one-up-on-mom heyday with all those screaming rs: adore-rouge-couleur.

My ten-year-olds face lights up and, with a grin, Max mimics me, Jadorrr la couleurrr rrrouge! he says, putting a lot of emphasis on the French consonant that I have mispronounced. My son is only teasing me. These days he is more fascinated by my American accent than embarrassed by it.

Next, eight-year-old Jackie gets the spotlight. JadoRRR la couleuRRR RRRouge! she says, amused to mimic my unrolled (un-French) r.

When its my husbands turn, he pronounces the sentence as hes heard it, further twisting my American accent.

ZHAH DORRRRR LAH COO-LERRR ROOZH! he says, batting his eyelashes for effect.

Max and Jackie are now snorting. At this point, Im holding my stomach as well, and wipe my eyes, laughing louder than even my children. Is my accent really that bad? How could that be? After twelve years living in France and conversing with the French it is as unchanged as the day I stepped off the plane in the Marseilles international airport straight from Arizona, to begin my new French life.

But however imperfectly, I can speak French! I can chew out and rattle off; I can small talk, sweet talk, and even talk back; I can crack a joke and, if need be, lay down the law, in a language that once intimidated me to the point of silence.

My love of all things French began sometime around the age of twelve. I dont remember what event preceded it, but Ill never forget my mother telling me, In your last life, you mustve been French! (This was a remarkable statement considering our religious orientation: though we were born-again we did not believe in reincarnation.) In high school I struggled through French class, receiving below-average grades. Though I loved French words, I did not like French grammar and rules. I still dont.

When I enrolled in the liberal arts program at Arizona State University, I was required to take two years of a foreign language. I gave French another try. A certain French teacher named Madame Wollamwho did not mark up all of my papers in red, but corrected the lesson in questionwould forever change my outlook on the language: she assured me that French was something I could eventually understand if I would relax and not get hung up on my weak points vis--vis the language. With Mme. Wollams encouragement, I signed up for an exchange program.

I spent fall semester in Lille, France. For a desert rat from Phoenix, the northern European city could have been an icy French hell. Thankfully, my host family, the Bassimons, provided a warm and welcoming home and I had another wonderful teacher, this time French. Mme. Rudio wrote out all of our grammar lessons in long hand before running them through the copy machine to hand out. It was she who would introduce me for the first time to French expressions, igniting my love for the language.

When fall break, or les vacances de la Toussaint, arrived, I joined a classmate and boarded an all-night train. Stepping off the platform in Aix-en-Provence, I knew instantly that the south of France was where I wanted to beforever. I stood in awe before the puzzle-skinned plane trees that lined an ancient cobblestone boulevard, the lively cafs that spilled out onto the bustling sidewalks, and the moss-covered fountains that acted as commas along an exclamation-packed boulevard.

After less than three months in Lille, fall semester ended and it was time to return home to the desert. While my classmates headed back to Arizona, I found a way to stay on in France, with permission from the department adviser to do an independent study. In exchange for college credit, I wrote about French culture as I had experienced it in Lille and in my new town, Aix, where I had moved. I was just buying time; for what, I did not know. What was sure was that I did not want to leave France. Not yet.

Back in Aix, I was dancing the night away wholly devoted to study when I met my future (French) husband. He barely spoke to me the night we met, but his first words to mebefore even Bonsoirwere Il faut quon se revoit, we must see each other again. His dramatic greeting stopped time. When he handed me his card, I thought I had stepped into the pages of a fairy tale. Beneath his name, Jean-Marc Espinasse, were the words Roy dEspagne, King of Spain.

All that following week, just days before I would return to Phoenix, Jean-Marc and I would rendez-vous for drinks at Le Grillon along Aixs historic tree-lined Cours Mirabeau and share spring rolls or nems at a Chinese restaurant tucked into a quiet quarter of the city Czanne once called home. Eager to share his love for the countryside, my royal companion whisked me away to the Provenal hinterland, to where the earth turned red and yellow in the town of Roussillon, and to Gordes, where the houses are made of local rock: souvenirs I would cling to during the separation that loomed before us.

The night before I returned to Phoenix, Jean-Marcs mother welcomed me with open arms at their home in Marseilles, located in an apartment complex known as Le Roy dEspagne. Like that, the title on the card beneath Jean-Marcs name turned out to be an address. King or not, I had already fallen in love.

The next day I said a teary au revoir to Jean-Marc and returned to Tempe to finish my final year of school. We had exchanged phone numbers and addresses, but no promises for the future; those vows had already taken hold somewhere inside of us.

When I graduated with an honors degree in French the following year, ads mentioning French language a plus werent exactly crowding the classifieds in Phoenix, so I seized the first opportunity I could find. I tried my luck as a receptionist for a construction company with ties to France. But the only ties to France it had for me turned out to be opening the mail that was sent from there.