A few other favorites
I’m just scratching the surface when it comes to French gestural ingenuity. They were coming at me so frequently in le Midi that I began making a list. Here are a few more of my favorites.
1. J’en ai ras le bol. I’ve had it up to here. Shade your eyes with your right hand and “slice” across your forehead.
2. À peu près. It’s just an estimate. Place your hand in front of you as if to shake hands and rotate your hand back and forth.
3. Que dalle! The expression means “absolutely nothing.” You might use it when someone asks you what you have been doing lately. Close your hand, but stick out the thumb in typical hitchhiking form. Then place the nail of your thumb behind your front teeth. Finally, snap your hand forward, allowing the nail to make a clicking sound against the teeth.
4. Alors là. This has many nuances: There’s nothing I can do about it. It’s not my fault. I don’t know. Raise both hands to shoulder height, palms open. You know the gesture: “Stick ‘em up.”
5. Il a un poil dans la main. He has a hair in his hand, meaning “he is lazy.” Open your hand and pull an imaginary hair from the middle of your palm.
6. Aïe, aïe, aïe! Someone is in trouble. Hold your hand in front of your stomach, allowing your fingers to be loose, and then quickly shake your hand.
7. Il est cinglé. He is crazy. There are two ways to express this sentiment: (a) Tap your temple with your index finger or (b) “screw” your index finger into your temple.
8. Passer sous le nez. The literal translation is “it passed under my nose” but means, “it slipped through my fingers.” Slide your index finger under your nose.
9. C’est facile. It’s easy. We say, “It’s so easy, I could do it with one arm tied behind my back.” The French say, “It’s so easy, I could do it with two fingers up my nose.” (I know, it’s strange, but there you have it. But, just to be fair, the French rightly think it’s pretty weird when we say, “It’s raining cats and dogs.”) Directions: Place your index and middle finger in the opening of your nostrils.
10. On s’en va. Let’s go. This is a great gesture when you want to indicate to your wife across the room that it’s time to leave the party. Place your hand in front of you as if you were going to shake hands and tap your wrist bone. Be careful with this one. Remember, your hand is vertical with the floor, not horizontal. If it were horizontal, palm down, and you tapped the inside of your wrist, you would be telling your wife across the room to *#!%^ off, which is never a good choice.
* * *
AFTER THE FIRST TWO MONTHS, I began to notice small changes. First, I noticed I was comprehending more—reading the paper, listening to the radio, talking to friends. Suddenly, I could take in an entire French movie and actually understand! It was amazing. Then, I noticed I had more phrases in my repertoire—a lot more. I knew how to comment on the weather, my health, or even the state of human affairs. And then, little by little, I was aligning these phrases into full sentences. Sure, I was still making mistakes, but I was being understood. The language was coming along after all.
Some of the most dramatic improvements came in understanding and respecting the rules of language that have been embedded in the culture for hundreds of years. For example, I no longer used the informal “you” for everyone—from the youngest child to the oldest grandparent. I’ve learned my lesson on that score.
In 1971 Nita and I made friends with Pierre Michel, who at that time was a fifty-five-year-old educational supplies salesman. Monsieur Michel was a very proper and traditional Frenchman. He was well educated and very articulate. His home was cluttered with stacks of books, including all the classics, and fine traditional paintings, particularly an astonishing self-portrait by his grandfather. The French have the interesting term “BCBG,” meaning bon chic bon genre (chic and conservative). It is a term that refers to a particular French stereotype: one who is upper middle class, well dressed, well mannered, well heeled, and somewhat bourgeois. Pierre Michel was definitely BCBG.
During our one-year stay in Grenoble, we had the Michels over for dinner, and they returned the favor. We truly enjoyed each other’s company although I think that Pierre was particularly smitten with Nita, who has always been a beautiful and charming woman.
Over the years, we corresponded with Monsieur Michel, sending him a card or letter at least once a year. His letters were always warm and very newsy.
On our reentry into the country in 2002, Nita and I revisited our old friend in his Grenoble apartment. Pierre, now an unusually spry eighty-six-year-old, served a wonderful five-course dinner. We talked animatedly for hours around the formal dining table. I used the informal you—tutoyer—from the start. I figured that thirty years was long enough to be on a casual playing field. Later in the evening, Pierre said with a wry smile, “I am a little surprised that you are using the informal you with me.”
He caught me off guard. “Why, yes,” I said haltingly. “I think of you as a dear friend, and I tutoie out of genuine affection.”
Pierre smiled. “But, my American friend,” he said, “it is not a question of affection. It is a question of respect. To vouvoyer (formal you) does not mean that you feel less affectionate toward another. In fact, in some old families, spouses will often vouvoyer each other. To use the formal you is to hold the other in high regard.”
“Vraiment, je suis désolé. Truly, I am sorry,” I said sincerely. “I would never want to be disrespectful, and, of course, I hold you in high regard—the highest. From this point on, I will use the formal you.”
“No,” he said with a smile, “it is too late now.”
It is true that once the informal “you” is employed, using the formal “you” is a little like calling your best friend Ziggy “my dear Mr. Finkel.” But it can happen. Monique gave me an example. She and Jean-Marie became friends with a man who later became her boss. As a friend, she used the informal tutoiement. But when she became his employee, she suggested—and he agreed—that she should revert to the formal you. Still, there was a twinkle in Monique’s eye each time she used the more formal pronoun with her old chum.
For me, I now follow two simple rules.
1. Tutoyer children, cats, and dogs.
2. Vouvoyer the rest of the world unless (or until) they invite me to tutoyer them.
That way, I am never wrong.
As the months rolled by, there were other signs of improvement. I didn’t fake understanding nearly as much. In those early days I could be caught grinning like a golden retriever, nodding my head in agreement when, in fact, I didn’t understand a word. Nor did I have to control the conversation with a constant stream of questions (a trick I learned to assure tracking a topic).
I even learned to detect the broadest French accents, like French with an Italian or Spanish inflection. Of course, as usual, I became cocky with my newfound skill.
One day, I was writing a letter at the dinner table while Nita was watching a sci-fi movie on television. Someone was speaking with an unusual accent.
“That person is not French,” I pronounced to Nita proudly.
“You’re right,” Nita said, “it’s a robot.”
“There you go,” I said. “I’m getting better. I can now tell the difference between a Frenchman and a robot.”
So yes, there is much work to be done, but I finally see some progress, and that’s encouraging. And maybe, just maybe one day, when I least expect it, speaking French will read more like the following headline:
Opening Night
Standing Room Only
Johnson’s Performance Flawless
Rave Reviews
Bof.
CHAPTER 4
Finding Lodging
THIS WAS MY VISION FOR A HOME IN FRANCE.
A stone farmhouse nestled in the countryside with a fireplace big enough to stand in. The farmhouse floor would be a burnt golden tile, and in the kitchen there would stand an enormous stone oven for baking bread. In the master bedro
om I would sleep in a four-poster canopied feathered bed, and at the foot of that bed would repose a brindle Great Dane, his head on his paws, his eyes following me, his imperious master, as I pulled on my Italian-leather knee-high boots.
Outside, a courtyard would be shaded by a grand oak tree—planted during the Crusades in commemoration of the boys who died on pagan shores.
The house would be surrounded by five-hundred-year-old vineyards. And within the split-rail fenced pasture, a few shaggy white goats would munch on their breakfast, their kids frolicking in the morning sun. Along the side of the house would be a cavernous wine cellar, stocked with lightly dusted bottles whose labels sang out like a love song: Riesling, Chardonnay, Sauvignon, Merlot, and Pinot Noir—wines so exquisite that Bacchus himself would recite rapturous odes of joy.
Walking distance from the home—across the arched Roman bridge and down the cobblestoned road rutted by ancient chariots—would be a boulangerie stocked with baguettes and brioches and croissants and a myriad of fruit tarts.
The baker would greet me with a warm Mediterranean smile. “Ah, Monsieur Johnson,” he would say, “Johnson” sounding more like Jah-soh, which would make me smile. “I am so happy you have come this morning. I have created something especially for you. Regardez, a chocolate crisp with layers of a flaky crust and a strawberry center that whispers, ‘Let me be your temptress ce soir.’ I have named it ‘Monsieur Johnson’ in honor of my great American friend.”
* * *
THAT WAS MY FANTASY. There must be a hideaway like that somewhere in France, but I have not found it. Sure, there are thousands of picturesque villages and hamlets scattered across the mountainsides and valleys of France. But finding one with a house or apartment available for rent is another story.
Our search for lodging took a little over a month—thirty-six days of scouring the cities, villages, and countryside. Admittedly, a major setback was our timing. We arrived in Montpellier on the fourth of August, the absolute worst time to be looking for a rental in southern France. Why? Because all of France is on vacation in August—in le Midi. If you can find a villa, a maison, an apartment—shoot, if you can find a boxboard lean-to—in southern France in August, you have either phenomenal good luck or, more likely, inside connections. We had neither.
However, we did have a lifeline: our trusted friends, Jean-Marie and Monique, who were gracious enough, courageous enough, to find room for us in their lovely home in Pérols. Without them I would have been strumming my guitar in the town square with a sign that read WILL WORK FOR SHELTER.
The Ducros are a kind and generous family, no question, but even saints have their limits. We figured a one- or two-week stay would be the very most we could impose on our dear friends. So we immediately began our search for a place of our own. It was our single mission in life.
Very quickly, we learned that there were three traditional housing resources: real estate agents, gîtes, and the offices of tourism. We assaulted all three. Not since the D-Day invasion have Americans been so committed.
Our search began by visiting the local estate agents—agences immobilières, they are called. Each new exchange was like the last.
“Bonjour, madame.”
“Bonjour, monsieur.”
Their eyes begin to gloss over before I finish my opening sentence. “I am looking for a house or apartment to rent.”
That’s when they would hit me with that uniquely French way of expressing either disdain or impossibility: a little puff of air exploding from the side of the mouth. (Yes, it’s a distant cousin of the “phutt” sound described in Chapter 3.) My wife makes that sound when she is sleeping. Her lips, perfectly sealed, cause her breath to build up in her mouth until her lips can no longer contain the pressure and—poof—the air bubble bursts from the corner of her mouth. It’s cute when she does it. But coming from an agent immobilier, it is crushing: the terrible French air puff.
“Puff. There is nothing,” the agent would say.
“Nothing?” I would repeat morosely.
“Nothing, nothing. Rien, rien.”
“But if something becomes available, you will call me,” I pleaded.
“Ben, mais oui,” they would say, visibly placating me. (I knew when I was being placated. Their baby browns transformed into drooping dead-fish eyes drifting over the Mediterranean.) Still, they would deferentially take down my name and phone number.
That conversation was repeated dozens of times—little puffs of air exploding all over southern France.
There were other variations:
“Désolé. I’m sorry, we only sell.”
“We only have studios.”
“We only rent for three years at a time.”
“It is the high season, you know.”
When it comes to lodging, it is definitely a seller’s market in le Midi. As one agent explained to me, “Everyone is looking for the sun.”
Because the demand is so high, agents have the upper hand. Writing three-year contracts for rentals is not uncommon. Nor is it uncommon to demand hefty fees. The apartment we finally landed was a one-bedroom, sparsely furnished 460-square-foot, third-story apartment (no elevator). The price was $568 a month, and we were delighted with the bargain. That is the off-season price, from September to June (often May). The price for the same apartment in July and August is a whopping $3,200 a month—or more.
To find a furnished apartment in southern France, you must go to the resort towns—Grand Motte, Carnon, Palavas, Frontignan—and eighty percent of these are studios or one-bedroom apartments. Finding a furnished, two-bedroom apartment—especially one with a decent view—is a rarity. Most of them have been tied up for years. The small apartments are popular because they are easily sold to vacationers during the summer and to university students during the school year—yielding a good return on a reasonable investment.
A second option is gîtes, country farmhouses that have been converted into furnished holiday apartments, but the tariff can be steep: four hundred to seven hundred dollars per week for a two-bedroom. And, more often than not, you will find that gîtes are only available during the summer months. The locations are often lovely, but you must be willing to adjust to a very quiet rural setting.
A third option—after estate agents and gîtes—is to go to the Office du Tourisme that is located in almost any town with over ten thousand inhabitants. These offices are always helpful, and, more importantly, they offer a list of studios, apartments, and occasionally villas that are rented directly by the proprietor—avoiding the agences immobilières altogether.
This is my preferred way of looking for lodging. You sidestep many of the problems that accompany a transaction with an agent (more about that in a moment). Usually owners are very anxious to show you their apartments. The downside is proprietors can sometimes overstate their property’s appeal. Nita and I were once lured into driving thirty miles to see an apartment with “a direct view of the sea,” only to discover that “a direct view” required hanging over a balcony (Nita holding on to my legs) to get a glimpse of blue the size of my fist at arm’s length. Still, I have had better luck with individual owners than with agents.
* * *
IN ONE MONTH I was let down a half-dozen times by French estate agents. My first disappointment was with an agency in Carnon, which I will call Seaside Rentals. The first time I walked into Seaside Rentals, it was mid-August, the high season. I was directed to a young lady who, as I was to discover in a moment, spoke English. To protect the names of the innocent agents (there must be someone somewhere), I’ll call her Annette.
“I’m looking for an apartment with two bedrooms,” I told Annette in French.
Annette recognized my American accent immediately. “Would you prefer that we speak in English?” she asked in French.
I smiled. “No,” I said, “I really prefer to speak in French. It is good practice for me. Thank you for asking for my preference.”
“It is only natural,” Annette said. “I
think we may have just the right apartment for you. It is en première ligne (first line, meaning directly on the beach). There are two bedrooms, a washing machine, a dishwasher, a television, a telephone, a balcony, and a garage.”
Annette had just rattled off my list of requirements. “Parfait,” I said. “When can we see it?”
“Not for two weeks,” Annette said. “Renters are there until the end of the month. But I think you will like it very much. It is very bright and airy.”
“I’m sure we’ll love it,” I said. “Now, we are first in line to see it, right?”
“Absolutely.”
“That’s good,” I said, “because, as you know, finding an apartment is next to impossible.”
“Oh, yes, I know,” Annette said.
So we shook hands, and I left with the promise that we would have the first chance to see and rent the apartment on the beach. But, just to be sure, I would call Annette every four or five days to confirm our understanding.
“Oh, yes,” she would say. “You are first in line. Don’t worry. I will see you at the end of the month.”
In the two weeks that followed my visit with Annette, Nita and I combed the beach and countryside for apartments—just as a backup precaution. There was nothing. “It is very difficult to find an apartment these days,” they would say, stating the obvious. And then they would add, “Did you know that the price of apartments has doubled in the last two years?”
“Really?” I would say.
“Oh, yes. C’est comme ça. That’s the way it is.”
So when the end of the month finally arrived, Nita and I were very anxious to see “the airy and bright two-bedroom apartment on the beach.”
I practically danced into Seaside Rentals. “Bonjour à tous,” I called out.
Annette came to the front desk to greet me. “Bonjour Monsieur Johnson,” she said. “May I help you?”
May she help me? Of course, she could help me. Why was she talking to me like I was a stranger off the street? I was ready to move into what I considered to be our apartment; the current residents were merely squatters.
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