tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36695413982690460852024-03-19T04:42:05.340+01:00a few words from mirandaMiranda Richmond Mouillothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02481616547087367013noreply@blogger.comBlogger51125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3669541398269046085.post-53996764316943285132014-05-15T10:05:00.005+02:002014-05-16T11:46:06.274+02:00Exciting news!Hello friends! I have new and exciting things to report:<br />
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Crown Publishing Group will be bringing out my book, <i>A Fifty-Year Silence, </i>in January 2015! </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://www.randomhouse.com/book/236974/a-fifty-year-silence-by-miranda-richmond-mouillot" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6l4hRwfOp8HAynKfIzVqAfdrodoGqD-xSN26s7Lp9yHRAufoATIkIKXkh1KVRrZp8Fo3i-Cfn3G-JP2Q-jIEr5GzOltub6ufIvBIbbSoS5q1Vn3U0tTVRX8lIqdRnLCJOXsHHmY77k0JD/s1600/A+Fifty-Year+Silence.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.randomhouse.com/book/236974/a-fifty-year-silence-by-miranda-richmond-mouillot" target="_blank">You can pre-order it, too!!</a></td></tr>
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Those stars you see on the cover? THEY WILL BE SHINY. Because everything is nicer with shiny stars on it. </div>
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Also, I have migrated my internet activities over to an <a href="http://www.wordsfrommiranda.com/" target="_blank">actual author site</a>, and will henceforth be posting my blogs <a href="http://www.wordsfrommiranda.com/" target="_blank">there</a>, not here. </div>
Miranda Richmond Mouillothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02481616547087367013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3669541398269046085.post-68752246822311024812013-03-08T16:50:00.002+01:002013-03-08T16:50:49.369+01:00A belated Happy New Year<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2mQVeZIfG6BBY68VsSwlaCyPbMsVXaZjRkfpXKZUitd8JC77pOQFohlOird9n13eSysm6o3F7PqSfyLAud1kyU2QXVGOtXEWhHvHDpiwlmvOdWTULps1MMXhCigIYAlLTgtcIUWmX1N5S/s1600/albamoonW7921.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2mQVeZIfG6BBY68VsSwlaCyPbMsVXaZjRkfpXKZUitd8JC77pOQFohlOird9n13eSysm6o3F7PqSfyLAud1kyU2QXVGOtXEWhHvHDpiwlmvOdWTULps1MMXhCigIYAlLTgtcIUWmX1N5S/s320/albamoonW7921.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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--></style> I have been on hiatus from my
blog since last fall, in order to complete a manuscript. During that time, both
the Jewish and the Gregorian New Year happened. So here is a New Year’s
story, with a few important facts you should bear in mind as you read: <i> </i></div>
<ul>
<li><i>“</i><span style="font-style: normal;">Shanah tovah</span><i>” means "Happy New Year" in
Hebrew.</i></li>
<li><i> </i><i>“</i><span style="font-style: normal;">Ça va</span><i>” in the interrogative means “How are
you?” in French; in the declarative it means, “I’m fine.” A series of them – </i><span style="font-style: normal;">Alors, ça va? Ça va, ça va; ça va, et toi? Oui, ça
va, ça va</span><i> – is a typical casual conversation in French.</i><i> </i></li>
<li><i>The Ardèche has no major
highways, train stations, airports, or Jews. </i></li>
</ul>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
French, for the most part, are extremely discreet about religion. I grew up in
the Bible Belt, and so I find this cultural specificity rather restful, but
every so often it can lead to what (as you may recall from <a href="http://mirandaabroad.blogspot.fr/2011/11/french-vocabulary-nos-2-and-3-faux-ami.html" target="_blank">French Vocabulary Number 3</a>) the French call a <i>quid pro quo</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.
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One morning last fall, I walked
past the Alba grocery store and saw Marco, the owner, standing outside with an
older lady and her cellular telephone. He motioned me over. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Miranda,
maybe you’ll know,” he said. “What’s the country code for Israel?”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Off
the top of my head, it’s either 972 or 942," I told them. "Why? Who are you trying to call?”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<i>Madame</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> here is trying to call her cousin,” Marco said. “And
she can’t get through.” Marco did not require any rhetorical flourishes beyond
his own eyebrows to convey that </span><i>Madame</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> did not possess the technological know-how necessary to operate the
mobile device she was holding in her hands. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
so sorry to bother you,” said <i>Madame</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.
“She’s a long lost cousin – she found us doing research on our family, and
she’s supposed to come visit, and I can’t figure out how to get through to
her.” </span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No
trouble at all,” I told her, my thoughts whirling. A cousin in Israel? Could it
be true? Were there actually two Jews in the Ardèche? “Are you…” I trailed off.
I was in a quandary – what Americans call Jewish Geography the French call
indiscretion. Not wanting to seem rude, I decided to stick to innuendo and
eyebrow wiggles: “So you’re…” I trailed off, and nodded my head in what I hoped
was a politely Semitic fashion.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,
yes,” she said, smiling beatifically. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
smiled. “Wow, me, too! How did you end up here?”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My
husband,” she told me. “Funny, isn't it?”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ll
say!” I said. “Look, I have to go,” I went on, “but Marco has my number. If you
give me a call this afternoon I’ll find you the dialing code for Israel.” </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
didn’t hear from the lady for a week, so I figured she must have gotten through
to her cousin. Then, the day before Rosh Hashanah, the phone rang. It was <i>Madame</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. I was tickled pink – after all these years in the
Ardèche, someone from our neighborhood was finally calling to wish me a happy
new year. “Shanah tovah!” I exclaimed. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<i>Ça
va, ça va</i><span style="font-style: normal;">,” she said. “</span><i>Et toi?</i><span style="font-style: normal;">” </span></div>
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Before I could try again she
rushed on. “I was wondering if you could help me with that country code,” she
said. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sure,”
I said. “I checked; it’s 972.” Still not wanting to violate any rules of
subtlety, I said, “But you might want to wait to call until after the
holidays.” </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
holidays?”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
know, it’s Rosh Hashanah tomorrow.”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
sorry?”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
New Year. It’s the Jewish New Year tomorrow.”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh
goodness, dear,” she said. “I wouldn’t know about any of that. I’m Catholic.”</div>
Miranda Richmond Mouillothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02481616547087367013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3669541398269046085.post-26300528712312460492012-11-09T16:37:00.001+01:002012-11-09T16:37:19.761+01:00The knife sharpener<div class="MsoNormal">
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--></style> Once a year, when the weather gets cold, a small man of
indeterminate age knocks at our door. He is not a prepossessing person. His
black watch cap is too small, his weathered blue parka is too large, he has
fewer teeth than nature intended, and he is clutching a handful of knives,
poorly concealed in a plastic bag. “Need anything sharpened?” he asks. </div>
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The first year he came I only gave him two little Opinels, in case
he decided not to come back. But he did, and now I wait for him, and I hand him all the
knives and scissors I can find, and he spirits them off for ten or fifteen
minutes, and when he brings them back they are sharper than when they were new.
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His name is Jean-Baptiste, and he likes to travel. Not for
the scenery, because one village is just like another, but for the people. He
likes to talk to people. Alba is just like any other place, for example, but it
stands out in his head because the people here have a sort of a cultivated way
of talking. I ask if he enjoys that, and he says no, it is tiresome. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS4dXpl26Ib2ErkOKEi77HHDEck4WKIQqGdozqCc5bjp3N1-W1j1CPUNcrDGmHWHHYb5cwMktHEYLCZtdsztL3bhh_sC7iaakOQOIuUStrAxMthTxBllwvvgEV69hEGOKj0Ihyphenhyphen67ZqafFr/s1600/DSCN8623.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS4dXpl26Ib2ErkOKEi77HHDEck4WKIQqGdozqCc5bjp3N1-W1j1CPUNcrDGmHWHHYb5cwMktHEYLCZtdsztL3bhh_sC7iaakOQOIuUStrAxMthTxBllwvvgEV69hEGOKj0Ihyphenhyphen67ZqafFr/s320/DSCN8623.JPG" width="320" /></a>Toulon is where Jean-Baptiste was born and it is the place he names when asked where he’s from;
Le Teil, down the road from Alba, is where his six kids live; and if he had his
druthers he’d settle down in a town he calls Ameragues, which I have never
heard of and cannot find on any map. He assures me it is calm and restful there. He spends most of the year on the road, in a little caravan hooked to
the back of his truck. Every six months or so his truck breaks down and he plies
his trade on foot until he’s raised enough for repairs. </div>
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Sharpening knives is what he does, but poetry is what he is.
He likes poetry because it is beautiful, direct, and natural: it just comes to
him, just like that, an inexplicable gift. He doesn’t write it down – doesn’t
know how to write – but once the poetry is in his head it stays there, and he
carries it with him. </div>
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I ask him what it’s like to be a Gypsy in France today,
since Gypsies are in the news all the time over here; French policy and public
sentiment have been particularly angry and inhospitable to them in the past few years.
I ask if things have gotten harder, if he encounters any distrust or hostility, and he is very tolerant of my question and its boring lack of imagination. Lightly,
he says that there are all kinds of Gypsy, then finishes his coffee, stands up,
and leaves me with a battery of sharp knives and a poem about a rose. </div>
Miranda Richmond Mouillothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02481616547087367013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3669541398269046085.post-65153068710091006792012-09-06T14:24:00.001+02:002012-09-06T14:25:10.813+02:00In other newsExotic, art-nouveau-inspired decorations are starting to sprout in our house, and Julien has completed the brick wall in our future living room.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFoYDvfGJ3YZWEzRz1PvZElGoobm1WB3014fI5tVCe0HHJ6ze_yt6fUi8n1BesUb6CeAHG-9Ez8wU9Jf4CFwqKz4ZEwLAAVQdOPqMiV4hu5-np062MHu2cfP7oW9kcdIDzdzaHgeUzaI6O/s1600/DSCN8452.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFoYDvfGJ3YZWEzRz1PvZElGoobm1WB3014fI5tVCe0HHJ6ze_yt6fUi8n1BesUb6CeAHG-9Ez8wU9Jf4CFwqKz4ZEwLAAVQdOPqMiV4hu5-np062MHu2cfP7oW9kcdIDzdzaHgeUzaI6O/s400/DSCN8452.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our future kitchen.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX-KXQjKRcz51atGnzZLROqSZWe7ToaDR0VKVY7_YKA1LHPu32uCdu18P_QB8oxh8RcaJETvIeS-t65fUhB3BGRW1xlcPu-FlDJ2Ss6eajnWhOVkHBxmyotzZplYXrNvUw0wWLDtUT31yi/s1600/DSCN8453.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX-KXQjKRcz51atGnzZLROqSZWe7ToaDR0VKVY7_YKA1LHPu32uCdu18P_QB8oxh8RcaJETvIeS-t65fUhB3BGRW1xlcPu-FlDJ2Ss6eajnWhOVkHBxmyotzZplYXrNvUw0wWLDtUT31yi/s400/DSCN8453.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our future living room.</td></tr>
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The flashing and waterproofing on the terrace are complete, and
Julien just laid the tiles (you can see one of them on the far left)
that will go under the big bay window.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw-QXm4kFQPtVUyxdYAdQLAQyqVvK8z1038d9Pf6tt1aMrIAqv9ELPyypcK4cG6q-d3rDOLZGOLj5n6EQimMGk-rqYERJtxhrMuweOV49iOFty4VMIKz5xiP3l94avc4DWsWpk1Q1ltLF3/s1600/DSCN8458.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw-QXm4kFQPtVUyxdYAdQLAQyqVvK8z1038d9Pf6tt1aMrIAqv9ELPyypcK4cG6q-d3rDOLZGOLj5n6EQimMGk-rqYERJtxhrMuweOV49iOFty4VMIKz5xiP3l94avc4DWsWpk1Q1ltLF3/s400/DSCN8458.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
The end may still be a ways away, but it is in sight!!Miranda Richmond Mouillothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02481616547087367013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3669541398269046085.post-59403080579269576002012-08-30T16:01:00.004+02:002012-09-05T13:07:01.712+02:00Circle games: la rentrée and la vogue<style> <!--
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France has five seasons: Spring,
Summer, Autumn, Winter, and <i>La Rentrée.</i><i> </i></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Our neighbor's grape harvesting machine emerges from its shed.</i></td></tr>
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<i>La rentrée</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> means “the return,” and refers to the period during
which economic, educational, and professional activities start up again after
the summer holidays. </span><i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>La</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>rentrée
</i><span style="font-style: normal;">is a nebulous, liminal time. In Alba you
know it has begun when the food stands outnumber the souvenir stands at the
Sunday market, and you can find a seat on the terrace of the <a href="http://mirandaabroad.blogspot.fr/2012/08/a-rare-word-conjurer.html">café</a> at 11am. That
following week you see the vintners drag their harvesting equipment out of the
sheds and barns, and the pharmacy marks the sunscreen for clearance. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">The </span><i>rentrée</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> is something of a relief, because it’s tiresome to
wait in line at the <a href="http://mirandaabroad.blogspot.fr/2011/10/french-vocabulary-no-1-la-recup.html">grocery store</a> while a tourist in flip-flops buys the last
carton of your favorite ice cream to take back to a camper that’s parked in
your spot in the parking lot of La Roche. It’s also a bit sad, because you know
that life is about to get much colder, and much quieter. </span><br />
<br />
The <i>rentrée</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> is a fleeting season, which ends as soon as the
air starts to smell of fermenting grapes and the sycamore leaves take on a
silvery sheen. It’s then that a troupe of white, unmarked trucks inches into
our village like a silent invasion of furniture deliverymen, filling up all the
parking spaces and blocking the views of the houses on main street. If you peer
beneath the trailers’ flaps, which are half-lifted to let in the light, you’ll
see they’re not actually full of furniture, but rather of carnival people
lining up rows of stuffed animals, BB guns, lava lamps, beach balls, and
toasters; filling gambling machines with piles of glittering tokens, tubs of
plastic ducks with water, and frying vats with grease; and unfolding machines
for people to whirl and spin and bump around in. The occasion of this invasion
is the </span><i>vogue, </i><span style="font-style: normal;">also known as the </span><i>fête
votive.</i><i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>Vogues </i><span style="font-style: normal;">are a traditional event in our corner of southeastern
France, and their two names indicate their two purposes: </span><i>fête votive</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> because they celebrate a village’s patron saint (</span><i>votive</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> from the verb </span><i>vouer</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, to promise, to vow, to devote, to consecrate), and </span><i>vogue</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> because they are organized for the benefit of a
village’s youth (a </span><i>vogue</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
describes the forward motion of a boat, made through the coordinated effort of
multiple rowers). Long ago, </span><i>vogues</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
helped raise pocket money for the young men departing for their military
service; now they’re a kind of going-away ritual for the kids who graduated
high school earlier in the year. Each year’s crop of eighteen-year-olds raises
money by going door-to-door selling </span><i>pogne</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, a sweet, eggy bread flavored with orange flower water, and then,
during the </span><i>vogue</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, by selling
drinks at the </span><i>buvette</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. For that
one weekend, Alba is transformed into a glittering array of frivolities, and
though adults and children frequent the </span><i>vogue</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, too, it truly belongs to the teenagers. It’s their
last interlude of giddy freedom before the </span><i>rentrée</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> and adulthood begin.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcNDKhPu6QCPQ12FSfktPB1WwkbksJcpUIYwg4JhA8Ch0WH5rcsvaF2DUc_iojw3HosbPQFKDP6BYA6gayP0Na2n5Fi0nsv3EzrTWuqv5yFlOGRNbNQdcf1Q5IUDhDhyJfN_8K_C3J_oIN/s1600/marquisette.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcNDKhPu6QCPQ12FSfktPB1WwkbksJcpUIYwg4JhA8Ch0WH5rcsvaF2DUc_iojw3HosbPQFKDP6BYA6gayP0Na2n5Fi0nsv3EzrTWuqv5yFlOGRNbNQdcf1Q5IUDhDhyJfN_8K_C3J_oIN/s320/marquisette.jpg" width="320" /></a>During the day, a <i>vogue </i><span style="font-style: normal;">offers various ways to demonstrate strength and
skill, ranging from bumper cars and </span><i>petanque </i><span style="font-style: normal;">competitions to donkey races and tractor pulls. After
9pm, you’ll notice that it’s difficult to move your limbs at a normal pace,
because the air is laden with a mixture of fry grease and sexual tension. The
official drink of the </span><i>vogue </i><span style="font-style: normal;">is </span><i>marquisette</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, a mixture of white wine, rum or vodka, carbonated
lemonade, and chopped up citrus fruit. As the night wears on and you drink more
and more of it, someone is sure to remind you that the vats of </span><i>marquisette</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> are mixed by foot, and someone else is sure to tell
you a story of an unsavory thing that took place in the </span><i>marquisette</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> vats the year of their </span><i>vogue</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
Each village’s <i>vogue</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> takes place on a different date in the summer, and
Alba’s is the last of the season in our region. Even though it’s a festival of
departure, in many ways it is really a celebration of eternal return: no matter
how many years you are away from home, when you come back again, the </span><i>fête
votive </i><span style="font-style: normal;">will be the same. The same families
of carnies return every year with the same stands and the same rides. On the
carousels, children grab at the same pompoms their parents grabbed at a
generation ago. When the disco balls come out at night, the songs, with few
exceptions – </span><i>I Told the Witch Doctor </i><span style="font-style: normal;">is now played in a dance remix – are the same as they always were, too.
</span></div>
<br />
<br />
Alba’s <i>vogue</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> is one of the region’s more sedate ones, but it is
still a raucous, unruly event: it lasts into the wee hours of the morning, and
when day breaks the village is full of stink and debris. Flowerpots get broken,
trash gets strewn, people urinate in unseemly places. Half the village flees
the weekend the </span><i>vogue</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> comes to
town, and last year the town council voted to move the whole thing to an
unpaved parking lot outside the village. But though you might be able to
displace it or flee from it, the </span><i>vogue </i><span style="font-style: normal;">in Alba isn’t a phenomenon you can escape. </span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW2cgouLvw0CQyo41FSPRbzyU5Mus6FlXXwLEQklEHWq_o0cUBZVjud0Lsm5nlctRPkJ0Nhv8zPwbKymzWfMugrZagOSa8darm8bRrblt31yxlJQaB3TUU0997JAYdgfPSC58Lh6T2Qngp/s1600/DSCN8446.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW2cgouLvw0CQyo41FSPRbzyU5Mus6FlXXwLEQklEHWq_o0cUBZVjud0Lsm5nlctRPkJ0Nhv8zPwbKymzWfMugrZagOSa8darm8bRrblt31yxlJQaB3TUU0997JAYdgfPSC58Lh6T2Qngp/s320/DSCN8446.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-style: normal;">Love it or hate it, behind
the brash music and the flashy lights and the cloying sweetness of the </span><i>marquisette,</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> the </span><i>vogue</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
in Alba is the ultimate symbol of the </span><i>rentrée</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, the ever-recurring return: the grapes will ripen
and be picked, the last of the blackberries will harden on their canes, the
figs will soften and fall to the ground, and children will head to school on
Monday with memories of merry-go-rounds whirling in their heads. And this
year’s crop of eighteen-year-olds will start rowing toward adulthood knowing
that wherever the </span><i>vogue’s</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> forward
motion takes them, there will always be another </span><i>rentrée</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, and another </span><i>vogue</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. For them this was the year everything was
different, and next year it will be exactly the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>
Miranda Richmond Mouillothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02481616547087367013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3669541398269046085.post-64654276903699989172012-08-23T14:01:00.003+02:002014-02-05T10:42:59.854+01:00Sad words: faire son deuil<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>August 21 was the seventh anniversary of the passing of my stepfather, Robert Moog, who was what the French would call "mon papa de coeur" (my "heart-father"). This is in memory of him. </i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNiEZiME4vaoLFH1XeoSAe07JHlwoEVYz8X6SfJbYdpEML00S7wp2I9MHqAn_u0JvBhLoT5mdr7Vkzfa8P38lRv2bkMYLE8FeqBK3_Zh5QcnOlz8JcuNvs_DlgJ4cSh1W2vvUEHqR27QsQ/s1600/babu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNiEZiME4vaoLFH1XeoSAe07JHlwoEVYz8X6SfJbYdpEML00S7wp2I9MHqAn_u0JvBhLoT5mdr7Vkzfa8P38lRv2bkMYLE8FeqBK3_Zh5QcnOlz8JcuNvs_DlgJ4cSh1W2vvUEHqR27QsQ/s320/babu.jpg" height="320" width="269" /></a><i>Deuil </i><span style="font-style: normal;">comes from the Latin </span><i>dolor.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> Until the fifteenth century it signified the pain
caused by a death. After that it began to refer to the outward signs of grief.
In the 19<sup>th</sup> century, when mourning was all the rage, the expression
“</span><i>faire son deuil</i><span style="font-style: normal;">” was born. Now
it means to go through the grieving process, to mourn someone or something, to resign oneself to loss. Pop psychology has overused the phrase </span><span style="font-style: normal;">to the point that it now borders on tacky: “</span><i>faire son deuil</i><span style="font-style: normal;">” is something people do for junked cars, no-good
relationships, and full fat milk in your coffee.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
Nevertheless, it’s a verbal
phrase I’m quite attached to, because I find it so expressive. It seems much
truer to life than its English equivalent. In English you are “grieving,” or
“in mourning.” Outside certain religious traditions, it is a nebulous state
with no beginning our end. “<i>Faire son deuil,</i><span style="font-style: normal;">” on the other hand, uses the active verb </span><i>faire</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, “to do,” and the possessive “</span><i>son</i><span style="font-style: normal;">:” it is yours to do, and no one can tell you how or
where or when. It is your grief, not anyone else’s. In my synaesthetic head the
word </span><i>deuil</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> is the color of
violets and cream and egg yolks, opaque, mottled like a bruise, and more or
less cubical. Doing your grief is a real puzzle, exponentially harder than the
melted Rubik’s cube I see when I say the word.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW1OKyZgMCQAvS-StjiHtlFYs-ZTMC3ifTqGlfkzm3Rbnwt0cZ0eFGhF4rEAOK-wVkvaxNMjM9sJtKsXolp1LHeX_kTtLY7srjVAE3jk7HXWZZ3AzJd5MC84Qe6iJ6f0eeVbB94cEGUEgp/s1600/hands10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW1OKyZgMCQAvS-StjiHtlFYs-ZTMC3ifTqGlfkzm3Rbnwt0cZ0eFGhF4rEAOK-wVkvaxNMjM9sJtKsXolp1LHeX_kTtLY7srjVAE3jk7HXWZZ3AzJd5MC84Qe6iJ6f0eeVbB94cEGUEgp/s400/hands10.jpg" height="227" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
When my husband Julien and I came back
to Alba after the death of my beloved stepfather (the man who drove me to
school, fixed my breakfast, and sat up with me at night when I was sick), I was
at the outer edge of all the grief I had to do. Scenes from his illness
flickered constantly in my head. From time to time one of them would pop into
sharp focus and wreck my attempts to get on with life. I recoiled when those
scenes appeared; I did not want to remember my father with sunken cheeks and
strangely livid skin, a man so full of life stricken flat by a tentacular brain
tumor. But I was afraid to ignore them, for fear that if I let go of them, all
my memories of him would float away, too. I felt exhausted and confused,
whacking and tapping and tugging at the Rubik’s cube of my grief.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVk7i_3YqN-VkWzJvhvNB_e9rQVERvFsondAs9mDvBueuuL5GvYvlQtHvEdT8r_3OCv0mFvcUVGKgeOdBqJ5gyqy6hH48dlxnpREC3gDKIdEc_XqVE_VPnz6_Mk_7D4ztCCJFPRla51E05/s1600/hands06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVk7i_3YqN-VkWzJvhvNB_e9rQVERvFsondAs9mDvBueuuL5GvYvlQtHvEdT8r_3OCv0mFvcUVGKgeOdBqJ5gyqy6hH48dlxnpREC3gDKIdEc_XqVE_VPnz6_Mk_7D4ztCCJFPRla51E05/s400/hands06.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
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The week after we came home was
the <i>fête votive</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> (<a href="http://mirandaabroad.blogspot.fr/2012/08/circle-games-la-rentree-and-la-vogue.html">more on that next week</a>),
and though I didn’t much feel like partying, Julien and I went out for a
late-night stroll around the village to take in the flashing lights and have a
drink with friends. We stood around the plane trees by the </span><i>buvette</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> (which is what the French call anything outdoors
that sells things to drink), and I tried to enjoy myself. I watched the crowd
and felt oppressed by the hard sides and sharp corners and ugly complexities of
my new </span><i>deuil,</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> angry that no one else
could even see it. And then a childhood friend of Julien’s leaned over to me.
Under cover of many drinks and a particularly loud disco song, he said, “I know
what you’ve been going through. We’re all thinking of you.” </span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidHvD7ojrsTdOmUD-wGYxms3iauvXrMb7LusLENg7krI_sLJp9YokqiiY1Du_JgVR7iPUxIXg2vP-WURltIDFzbKIyv1E-EKhQautJP8Gmg0PfmQTPXTw6LK_hAB246xL_mXQ2VkL1rUql/s1600/hands11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidHvD7ojrsTdOmUD-wGYxms3iauvXrMb7LusLENg7krI_sLJp9YokqiiY1Du_JgVR7iPUxIXg2vP-WURltIDFzbKIyv1E-EKhQautJP8Gmg0PfmQTPXTw6LK_hAB246xL_mXQ2VkL1rUql/s320/hands11.jpg" height="320" width="232" /></a></div>
<span style="font-style: normal;"> </span>And that right there is one of
the great advantages living in a village where everyone knows you. People
actually <i>can</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> see your funky Rubik’s cube
of grief. They know you’re working on it. That this feels comforting may seem
counter-intuitive, given how intensely private grief is, and given that one of
its hardest corners is how exposed and vulnerable it can make you feel.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I mentioned this seeming
contradiction to a friend of ours whose baby had died in utero in the last
weeks of her pregnancy, and whose grace with her own giant Rubik’s cube of
grief was immense. “Mmm,” she said, putting her hand over her mouth and shaking
her head the way some women do when they are recalling a thing for which words
do not come easily. “The first time I left Alba I thought I would collapse,”
she told me. “I went to get my hair cut in Montélimar and suddenly realized that
no one in the hair salon <i>knew</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. I almost
bolted. In Alba, I could forget my shoes or start crying in the middle of the
grocery store and I knew it was fine – I didn’t have to explain myself.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.4pt;">
“But wasn’t it a relief,” I asked
her, “being in a place where no one was inspecting you for signs of falling
apart?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.4pt;">
“I thought so,” she said. “I
thought it would feel good to get away and not be <i>me</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> for a few hours, to stop being the woman who’d just
lost her baby.” She shook her head. “But when I got to that hair salon, and
realized it was invisible,” she trailed off. “How do you even describe it?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.4pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: FR;">How do you? It may be <i>your</i></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: FR;"> grief, but it turns out that the long puzzle is a little easier when everyone knows it’s there.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.4pt;">
</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: FR;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: FR;"><i> </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>Grateful thanks to <a href="http://www.d-stolle.de/" target="_blank">Daniel Stolle</a> for permission to use his illustrations. </i></span></b></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: FR;"> </span></div>
Miranda Richmond Mouillothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02481616547087367013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3669541398269046085.post-54856860699801750792012-08-09T15:36:00.000+02:002012-08-09T15:36:40.751+02:00A rare word: conjurer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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--></style> You probably know the joke about
the Jewish Robinson Crusoe who, showing his rescuers around the island, points
to the two synagogues he has built. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
“Why two?” they ask, and he
replies, “This is the one I pray in, and this is the one I would never set foot
in.” </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuqhMV6dXOM670cPhwj_VCrev7S9yGf95XwBclWOQsfMF6X_jNw9wjhkmnWodMLmIbKnI2RaQaewjTch9HJpxUeG1YP4tA8uZF-tQO0ZeZ1XJ92Blktwbi4Ru93gOFzpXMPMEPfN8aUN-5/s1600/DSCN0830_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuqhMV6dXOM670cPhwj_VCrev7S9yGf95XwBclWOQsfMF6X_jNw9wjhkmnWodMLmIbKnI2RaQaewjTch9HJpxUeG1YP4tA8uZF-tQO0ZeZ1XJ92Blktwbi4Ru93gOFzpXMPMEPfN8aUN-5/s400/DSCN0830_2.JPG" width="212" /></a>Alba has two cafés. There is the
café everyone goes to, and the café no one ever sets foot in. The café no one
goes to has a checkered past. Years ago, no one went there because it was a
hangout for members of the extreme right. Then it was bought and cleaned up by
a nice respectable couple but no one went there because before it had been a
hangout for members of the extreme right. The nice respectable couple sold the
place to a man who acquired a reputation that involved stabbing, which tends to drive off your clientele. Recently it changed hands again, but no one goes there now
because why go to a café that was once owned by an alleged stabber when you
could go to the perfectly good café you’ve always gone to on the other end of
the village?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
The café everyone goes to is
called the <i>Bar du Château</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. Recently they
got a new awning and we all noticed it was actually called the </span><i>Café
du Château, </i><span style="font-style: normal;">but everyone still calls it “</span><i>le
bar</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
The bar is owned and run by two
brothers, Alain and Serge. Cafés and bars in rural France are
purely utilitarian, they serve a social function in the same way the post office
and the bakery do, and the décor in the <i>Bar du Château</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> reflects that: there is a zinc-topped bar,
some wooden chairs and tables, a linoleum floor, and a room in the back with a
pool table. The lights in the back room only go on for special occasions, so if
you feel like playing pool, you have to do it in the dark. The beauty in
the bar is on the terrace, which is shaded by four sycamores that were pruned
by Alain and Serge’s father so their branches would grow into one another to
form a living canopy. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
But I’m not actually here to tell
you about the bar. I’m here to tell you about the time I baked a chicken <i>à
l’etouffé</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> and scalded myself as I pulled
the dish out of the oven. The backs of my fingers swelled with ugly white blisters
the size of dimes. I ran to the pharmacy, and the pharmacist gave me some cream
and bandages and told me to watch out for infection. “It's going to leave a scar,” she warned me. </span></div>
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“We should go to the bar,” Julien
said, when I came home and related this to him. “I should have thought of it
sooner – they can conjure it for you.”</div>
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The word <i>conjurer </i>is nearly a thousand years old, and you won't find the definition<span style="font-style: normal;"> that I'm about to give you in the dictionary. </span><span style="font-style: normal;">Most
French people have never heard of it, and indeed t</span><span style="font-style: normal;">he verb “to conjure” has mostly gone out of use in the land of the
Enlightenment. If you employ it these days, it’s probably because your
exasperation has risen to a fever pitch and you find yourself in a lather of
erudition: you can conjure someone not to park in front of the mailbox, for
example, or to quit interrupting you, or to leave the toilet seat down.</span><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span></div>
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But at the <i>Café du Château</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, or, more precisely, in Alain and Serge’s family,
the word means something else, and has for generations. When Julien and I got
there the day I burned myself, Julien held my bandaged hand
out for Alain to see, and Alain pointed to his oldest brother, who never said
much and is now long gone. “Come into the light,” he instructed. He took my
hand in his and gently unwrapped the bandages. “You should have come sooner,”
he told me. “You should have come right away. Does it hurt?”</span></div>
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I nodded. </div>
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Still holding my hand, he circled
his thumb above the burnt skin, moving his lips almost imperceptibly. “There,”
he said, when he had finished. “You’ll feel better in a few minutes.” </div>
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“Should I put the bandage back
on?” I asked. “The pharmacist said I’ll have a scar.” </div>
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Alain’s brother shook his head.
“You should have come sooner,” he said again. “But I don’t think so.”</div>
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He let go of my hand and walked
back to his seat at the far end of the bar. I called out a thank you, but he
didn’t reply. </div>
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Within a few hours, the blisters
were gone, and by the end of the day my hand didn’t hurt anymore.</div>
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Alba doesn’t have any synagogues,
and attendance at its little church has been dropping steadily since the
mid-nineteenth century. Signs of the sacred are few and far between in our
village, but if you’re looking for succor, I recommend the bar where everyone
goes. Since my own adventure with the oven I have seen conjuring help burns
from chemicals, radiation, scalding, sunshine, and chemotherapy. And even if
your skin is unscathed, a cold drink on that shady terrace at the end of a hot
August day is enough to soothe even the most scorched of spirits. </div>Miranda Richmond Mouillothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02481616547087367013noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3669541398269046085.post-20824734831631162872012-08-02T11:47:00.000+02:002012-08-02T11:55:12.020+02:00Sour grapes<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbzXyAD6ti60UczQ_aD_ydexkr0WCE1OsYCyP6yFlqHGEdRpC_QkMO9qNvgvgJ_QjxG_r-1Q4fPQQ-RKCsAmd-iREmuIAhLwv1RaRwfNf81HfZLRIXuuPukuHhkx2lOKhiqXu7g2hrf4CN/s1600/ruedelaDoub2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbzXyAD6ti60UczQ_aD_ydexkr0WCE1OsYCyP6yFlqHGEdRpC_QkMO9qNvgvgJ_QjxG_r-1Q4fPQQ-RKCsAmd-iREmuIAhLwv1RaRwfNf81HfZLRIXuuPukuHhkx2lOKhiqXu7g2hrf4CN/s320/ruedelaDoub2.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grapes grow everywhere here.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In early August the grapes hide from the harsh sun <br />
rolling out over the vineyards every morning.<br />
Snug in the shade of their thick leaves <br />
they're rounded, not yet ready,<br />
packed in tight clusters,<br />
pendant, sightless, tart.<br />
Later, the taste of them will be good:<br />
dusky and sweet, with lightly bitter seeds.<br />
You can steal a few from along the road<br />
when the time comes.<br />
They're not grown for eating of course,<br />
not for your teeth to bite<br />
through the dusty, honey-sweet skin,<br />
not for you to brace your tongue<br />
against the tempting, puckery sour.<br />
All these grapes will be trampled down to their hints,<br />
to swigs and swallows, to berry, oak, and flower. <br />
In the summer I feel great kinship with those grapes,<br />
sitting with my dusty feet, my shiny, muddy mind:<br />
someone spray me down, let me ripen on the knobby vines.Miranda Richmond Mouillothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02481616547087367013noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3669541398269046085.post-72783122391883648982012-07-26T15:20:00.002+02:002012-07-27T10:13:59.988+02:00Le Cacophonium<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLSeUTF5KXR6zX4LYRjon0DcFHqdl1vGnZ3M3hqsq3jYz7AeOBJ2DvRXAo2N3Y_dsI-Y67tnw8C0AOPPJFVD0GycRNnUtFVk1f-Y-SnGaVJPnd3JdQ42uOvoc4QAK2zk3YgFL3li7zuhOh/s1600/numerisation0006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLSeUTF5KXR6zX4LYRjon0DcFHqdl1vGnZ3M3hqsq3jYz7AeOBJ2DvRXAo2N3Y_dsI-Y67tnw8C0AOPPJFVD0GycRNnUtFVk1f-Y-SnGaVJPnd3JdQ42uOvoc4QAK2zk3YgFL3li7zuhOh/s320/numerisation0006.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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</style> Alba may not have an ATM or a dentist, and cell phone
reception here is spotty, but for all time we will be able to boast that we
were one of the first villages in France ever to be visited by the Cacophonium.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz_i8dDho3D7kwzN2MpIzY0CVlbfR4-cSPIgX1ZlSbWUaE6udxePTsOPFzDp1Jtw2nVg8FQJRsFMrmTnIBUVjEbYbBsJfwBaI-tCK0qLT8pwCTyJTZNzzCmemBSiU6l-8N12655EGyC2l-/s1600/Par-ici...jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz_i8dDho3D7kwzN2MpIzY0CVlbfR4-cSPIgX1ZlSbWUaE6udxePTsOPFzDp1Jtw2nVg8FQJRsFMrmTnIBUVjEbYbBsJfwBaI-tCK0qLT8pwCTyJTZNzzCmemBSiU6l-8N12655EGyC2l-/s200/Par-ici...jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
The Cacophonium (or "Le Cacophonium," as it is called in French) was invented by a lady named Céline,
requires four square meters of floor space, and seats a half dozen children
under the age of six. A turn costs €1.50, in exchange for which you get a
zinc-plated 2” washer to slide on and off your fingers, slip into your pocket,
or twirl around your thumb while you wait.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSWx7TqVgbKTVeUQRZykhe8nBw6ijpP_UCcvUEJRWcwUDZRy1dk1bFwR8mkXjuX1ONCkJgbVtA1Gpd0mwBRlnAjCJtLKAFJ8g8Yw4JJGzET5isNMw3yFkfrsauavdFhJiOCOuDYJCeLiRx/s1600/crab.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSWx7TqVgbKTVeUQRZykhe8nBw6ijpP_UCcvUEJRWcwUDZRy1dk1bFwR8mkXjuX1ONCkJgbVtA1Gpd0mwBRlnAjCJtLKAFJ8g8Yw4JJGzET5isNMw3yFkfrsauavdFhJiOCOuDYJCeLiRx/s200/crab.jpg" width="150" /></a>When it’s your turn to ride, you take your pick: you can
climb into an old cello that has been rebuilt into a sort of a swan, sit tight in the
body of a bass drum that’s gripped in the pincers of a tambourine-playing crab,
straddle a harp in the shape of a whale, or take a ride on a steed made of old
wind instruments. </div>
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Once everyone has clambered on, Céline begins to pedal, for Le Cacophonium is not just any merry-go-round made of recycled musical
instruments and shaded by a big black café umbrella: it’s bicycle-powered by
its inventor, a slender lady in a polka-dot dress and a top hat.</div>
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As a child, Céline dreamed of being a clown. </div>
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She watched the circus on television every chance she got,
and whenever she had to pick something to dress up as, she picked a clown. </div>
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When she grew up she went to circus school, became a
professional musician and juggler, and joined the circus. </div>
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That was before she had children, back when she liked to sit
quietly in the morning with a cup of tea and honey. </div>
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Once her children came along, she gave up on tea and quiet
mornings and began looking around for a project that mixed clowning, music, and
motherhood.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglHktZUn7t__K-N7VHlz1N-60yu1WgwkpXVa1hl1Js3u0SNmq-z72CduA_YOCeAV_nBNWSiOLRyTzocp5LfW12Esjqntnd1v70x2fjdfeZ87qB9RpJQm-LC7TZO4RyX7JR_UgblpbJseYh/s1600/whale.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglHktZUn7t__K-N7VHlz1N-60yu1WgwkpXVa1hl1Js3u0SNmq-z72CduA_YOCeAV_nBNWSiOLRyTzocp5LfW12Esjqntnd1v70x2fjdfeZ87qB9RpJQm-LC7TZO4RyX7JR_UgblpbJseYh/s200/whale.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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It was then she had the idea of the Cacophonium.<br />
At first, she imagined a carousel mounted on the back of a fantastical bull that would make farting noises as it went around -<br />
she figured children would appreciate the resulting "caca-phonie."<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglMELzn1yPFTC4y3HS-yGey4U6mKC5LSDvn0MpRiWUE1IU1ShmTTozb1WLi137cNU2rdanY_vfUvKxXxURZFRPuD3JkBwbTOADzGaqnQ4yekmBhY8nSkpCAN8pkIO83WWPAJpFXPQ_DAjI/s1600/steed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglMELzn1yPFTC4y3HS-yGey4U6mKC5LSDvn0MpRiWUE1IU1ShmTTozb1WLi137cNU2rdanY_vfUvKxXxURZFRPuD3JkBwbTOADzGaqnQ4yekmBhY8nSkpCAN8pkIO83WWPAJpFXPQ_DAjI/s200/steed.jpg" width="153" /></a>As her idea evolved, she thought of a tuba (official name, "euphonium") and of the merry chaos of noise her invention would make, and settled on "cacophonium" - perhaps someday every orchestra in the land will include a child-and-bicycle-powered cacophonium in its ranks.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5eBw7-hVjmE_1BcXF1pknRnDHYZpUQ9oYhfmzOrO1hKQhvwTwJoOjU03il5fMV-ASBc6THAKkLNPxw0cab80S-tS31-pjvnXzSHPAbgUnmh1MMhbUnryl9kA9jA9fcs4YK2bbST766vyu/s1600/swan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5eBw7-hVjmE_1BcXF1pknRnDHYZpUQ9oYhfmzOrO1hKQhvwTwJoOjU03il5fMV-ASBc6THAKkLNPxw0cab80S-tS31-pjvnXzSHPAbgUnmh1MMhbUnryl9kA9jA9fcs4YK2bbST766vyu/s200/swan.jpg" width="138" /></a> Upon seeing
it for the first time, one man smiled and said, “If that’s what happens to my
old bugle when I die, that’s fine with me.” </div>
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Going around and around and around, says Céline, is the
basis for all childhood magic, and she loves to see the wonder on children’s
faces when they first lay eyes on her invention. </div>
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Once they’ve climbed aboard, she begins pedaling and extends an old trumpet to
her passengers; the children drop their zinc-plated washers into the mouth of
the trumpet as they whiz by. The next time around she hands out musical
instruments for them to play as they move, in addition to the noises they can
make by pulling levers and pushing pedals on the carousel animals. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGZs3QLqXSrlcpir0eU1jFaLA-d4KQu_jrq9Pn4X1hDWLbSh7wmj8QTnmUmwlMeTs3CfYVF6Ejzqrn5ko48eDp4791tZPoGe1OWB35SErQKsfL3ELvv50CE0udt4Y4nuhCxljiUL1toWJw/s1600/squirt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGZs3QLqXSrlcpir0eU1jFaLA-d4KQu_jrq9Pn4X1hDWLbSh7wmj8QTnmUmwlMeTs3CfYVF6Ejzqrn5ko48eDp4791tZPoGe1OWB35SErQKsfL3ELvv50CE0udt4Y4nuhCxljiUL1toWJw/s400/squirt.jpg" width="261" /></a>Originally, Céline had wanted to play saxophone while she
pedaled, but between collecting tokens, dangling a velveteen fish on a
fishing rod for some lucky child to catch, and squirting cool water on her
passengers, she realized she didn’t have enough hands for the sax. Eventually,
she’d like to have the carousel make music as she pedals, but for now she’s
content to watch children watching the world fly by.</div>
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If you’re the right age at the right time, you can catch a
ride on the Cacophonium this fall at the <a href="http://www.labassecour.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=184&Itemid=64" target="_blank">Féstival de la Basse Cour</a> in Nîmes or
the <a href="http://www.artpantin.com/" target="_blank">Art’Pantin Marionette Festival</a> in Vergèze.<br />
<br />
<br />
Images courtesy of the gracious lady herself, and <a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_2114165209">Le Cacophonium/</a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_2114165209">La </a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_2114165209" target="_blank">Compagne du Bastringue</a><a href="http://lecacophonium.blogspot.fr/" target="_blank">.</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>Miranda Richmond Mouillothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02481616547087367013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3669541398269046085.post-28808090116674607012012-07-19T13:48:00.001+02:002012-07-27T10:15:43.317+02:00Some thoughts on math, or why I'll never be an efficient waitress<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7CuhCnjbBX2_Hod50PZZRnH8nttzo5j4BipDd5pX3z6R0YDyKh1CtjdLYXsjlHt7Whyr2aqA31ABHdcjabKOcCm74fN4_qStzf88N3Kv3qePuPi4YmWlj4S8cA-d2DLiZPVSwz_KjpXaM/s1600/fifty-six.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7CuhCnjbBX2_Hod50PZZRnH8nttzo5j4BipDd5pX3z6R0YDyKh1CtjdLYXsjlHt7Whyr2aqA31ABHdcjabKOcCm74fN4_qStzf88N3Kv3qePuPi4YmWlj4S8cA-d2DLiZPVSwz_KjpXaM/s320/fifty-six.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
My time in France has included two stints as a waitress, once in Paris, and once in Alba. In both places, the owners were my dear friends, and in both places, they teased me mercilessly about how slow I was at doing the checks, and how often I made mistakes. <br />
<br />
They were right, and I was terrible, but I would like to take this opportunity to say that my problem was not mathematical, it was synesthetical.<br />
<br />
People accept as a general truth that a nice thing about numbers is their universality.<br />
And I am here to tell you, friends: that is one cruel misstatement of reality.<br />
<br />
As a general rule, there's little difference in my head between French and English:<br />
In both I can dream, swear, ruminate, babytalk, argue, bake, bargain, joke, gossip, and tease. <br />
<br />
But <i>hell</i> if I can do math.<br />
<br />
As long as I live, I will never be able get my head around the idea that<br />
seven times eight (pictured up top)<br />
and sept fois huit (pictured below)<br />
both come out to 56.<br />
How is that possible??<br />
It will never, ever make sense to me.<br />
<br />
Right there is the real reason I am self-employed: I can take all the time I need to make sure that cinquante-six and fifty-six really are the same thing. As you can see from the calculations pictured above, I'm still dubious.Miranda Richmond Mouillothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02481616547087367013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3669541398269046085.post-37015951009648492032012-07-12T11:39:00.001+02:002012-07-12T13:04:46.968+02:00French vocabulary no. 5: SUBLIME<br />
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The French language is fond of things sublime in a way that
English never is. Maybe it is the influence of the Protestant ethic on our
collective unconscious, but in English, we tend to keep a damper on our enthusiasm
for things “of such excellence, grandeur, or beauty as to inspire great
admiration or awe.” If the adjective is kept in the shadows, the verb is nearly
nonexistent: these days, chemists are the only English-speakers who get to
sublime things, and unless you’re in psychoanalysis you probably don’t have
much opportunity to sublimate, either. Whereas the French are always looking
for ways to <i>sublimer</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> – everything from
their fingernails to their pool parties. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihJDVfnFIfoer6K-tZMqGPENqzwoRQ0fgIVm2H_tyXo3m4Ok4aO3tjKBypYijU4gE3k8yBXoWYmNgE36pSnsP24v_PJTQLtvQZjhuhGju2W2deLfXMfF70eMtNyVPTpzfPOkIevSLstU0M/s1600/DSCN8410.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSPUhEfZEzUM_mgiIzPEdgpINPVZXGu6J_dj8GuksaJZRhsUmi-uRXWWqD81Ub-ZlRhIgXi4H2PqrSqe1H3BtYn4uDJXolNPyrYtkCWD7qpUDmlZT2MgtQewmhy8s-Zsy4yV0FuoNRW-lk/s1600/DSCN8408.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSPUhEfZEzUM_mgiIzPEdgpINPVZXGu6J_dj8GuksaJZRhsUmi-uRXWWqD81Ub-ZlRhIgXi4H2PqrSqe1H3BtYn4uDJXolNPyrYtkCWD7qpUDmlZT2MgtQewmhy8s-Zsy4yV0FuoNRW-lk/s320/DSCN8408.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Perhaps the French are comfortable with the sublime because
they know it lives just a step away from the ridiculous (indeed, it was
Napoleon himself who discovered the pair’s official headquarters, in an
undisclosed location on the outskirts of Moscow). Here in Alba, we devote an
entire week each summer to mixing the two, as you can see from the photograph to your left,
which was taken from our kitchen window. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihJDVfnFIfoer6K-tZMqGPENqzwoRQ0fgIVm2H_tyXo3m4Ok4aO3tjKBypYijU4gE3k8yBXoWYmNgE36pSnsP24v_PJTQLtvQZjhuhGju2W2deLfXMfF70eMtNyVPTpzfPOkIevSLstU0M/s1600/DSCN8410.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihJDVfnFIfoer6K-tZMqGPENqzwoRQ0fgIVm2H_tyXo3m4Ok4aO3tjKBypYijU4gE3k8yBXoWYmNgE36pSnsP24v_PJTQLtvQZjhuhGju2W2deLfXMfF70eMtNyVPTpzfPOkIevSLstU0M/s200/DSCN8410.JPG" width="200" /></a> </div>
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During the Alba circus festival, the streets are garlanded
with red ribbons, and our hamlet is transformed, quite literally, into a
theater. My husband has shut down the worksite in honor of the festivities;
otherwise, it would be overrun with tourists, too. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg37Xd-XJDpxAa9D7f3nO2Mu7LJOl2HVui1g8VIlLKBIZbjm8TCn5IIwmEba2x8zSx7xqzL7QDoQvMXrFh20etR2XUAIGBpiliN7lj6cuXBHZvEFNJMX-5UuaC3hb5lLuA3Z5gyZlzg4I_l/s1600/DSCN8215.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg37Xd-XJDpxAa9D7f3nO2Mu7LJOl2HVui1g8VIlLKBIZbjm8TCn5IIwmEba2x8zSx7xqzL7QDoQvMXrFh20etR2XUAIGBpiliN7lj6cuXBHZvEFNJMX-5UuaC3hb5lLuA3Z5gyZlzg4I_l/s200/DSCN8215.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
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Just the other day, Julien
surprised a Dutchman wandering around the lower floor of our house and snapping
pictures. Luckily, the man knew just what to say when Julien asked what he was
doing. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfZm8DCyn-1BiWsk_7HRc6OFjBLuvcwhz08fsVdVM81vbs9Em4w6UJi0YWzaZ2qsHb4U-DFXWUsfkcoOH2wa98afZTDQIxJndlvxPjg8jfvSs9B6BAmn3QFbk92_LWYbIoUSC7oTw2s99e/s1600/DSCN8210.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfZm8DCyn-1BiWsk_7HRc6OFjBLuvcwhz08fsVdVM81vbs9Em4w6UJi0YWzaZ2qsHb4U-DFXWUsfkcoOH2wa98afZTDQIxJndlvxPjg8jfvSs9B6BAmn3QFbk92_LWYbIoUSC7oTw2s99e/s320/DSCN8210.JPG" width="320" /></a>“Excusez-moi!” the man exclaimed, </div>
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“Mais c’est –” he waved his hand to
take in Julien’s poured concrete staircase, the curve of the dining room wall,
the soft gray of the hemp insulation on the walls, and the sunlight pouring
into our future bay window – “c’est SU-BLIME.”</div>Miranda Richmond Mouillothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02481616547087367013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3669541398269046085.post-69236235850021507502012-07-05T12:01:00.000+02:002012-07-12T13:05:14.800+02:00Slippery words: goûter, doudou, and pique<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHmlSfhqhbxomWGpdbq-oCoG3fhFx5zEIKmRI_C3hFRvF-BtpIy3cSl5FmTiSlm-Ifa2hwMh6LubBRXlwkIFx3TWWkRXJaezrCZN2sAQPVmOwZpM3jSg4mvIhtMoDlz65hsLlsWgX8wBdp/s1600/Chardin_brioche.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHmlSfhqhbxomWGpdbq-oCoG3fhFx5zEIKmRI_C3hFRvF-BtpIy3cSl5FmTiSlm-Ifa2hwMh6LubBRXlwkIFx3TWWkRXJaezrCZN2sAQPVmOwZpM3jSg4mvIhtMoDlz65hsLlsWgX8wBdp/s200/Chardin_brioche.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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</style><span style="font-size: 12pt;">My husband, as I
mentioned in an <a href="http://mirandaabroad.blogspot.fr/2011/10/worlds-most-powerful-word.html">earlier post</a>, once expressed his theory that language would
eventually be boiled down to a single, highly expressive syllable, which he
predicted would be <i>bah</i></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">. </span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">These are things you
think about when you live in a bilingual household. Hard as you try, the one
language begins to make incursions into the other; compression and spillage are
inevitable. </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4EuIRkRnpAKYTTV6tye9AzMzKoeLKZO1uVo0AmSz61AHFhMeINHWHQlXkLAEmWO-8Rkg1Sa8FwfDZwnjN1nZAKQYcNaOrU5UZoo-pXKLwHzyXAVyI5PfRGRxPb8h2TevQuIRgqQLumx2h/s1600/DSCN8095_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4EuIRkRnpAKYTTV6tye9AzMzKoeLKZO1uVo0AmSz61AHFhMeINHWHQlXkLAEmWO-8Rkg1Sa8FwfDZwnjN1nZAKQYcNaOrU5UZoo-pXKLwHzyXAVyI5PfRGRxPb8h2TevQuIRgqQLumx2h/s200/DSCN8095_2.JPG" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: 12pt;">This happens for a
number of reasons. Some words get folded into your vocabulary because they are
cultural institutions: <i>goûter</i></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> is not the same as "teatime," nor is it
quite an "afternoon snack." My grandmother fed me <i>goûters</i></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">, never snacks, and that’s
what they will always be to me. With other words, it’s because there’s no
translation quite as convenient as the original: there's no good catch-all in
English for <i>doudou</i></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">, the soft security objects children carry around and sleep with (blanky
and teddy are rough translations, but they're too specific). If you have ever
wondered why the French don’t make sense it’s because there’s no way to say
that in French, although there is a growing movement in favor of “<i>faire du
sens.”</i></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg15GZw6FnVPlombOIh4xNzuOTii1hlv021gTwujrF_eT_pxj8g7v4P57PuU4MF6V5Fp1NDptEfCgcP9TKXgtlIJGUBabE4svw1Q0eGqKsoyGHi_XlO24MMpPNlyc1ndsPmBqVSZR6e9msw/s1600/fizzy-water.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg15GZw6FnVPlombOIh4xNzuOTii1hlv021gTwujrF_eT_pxj8g7v4P57PuU4MF6V5Fp1NDptEfCgcP9TKXgtlIJGUBabE4svw1Q0eGqKsoyGHi_XlO24MMpPNlyc1ndsPmBqVSZR6e9msw/s200/fizzy-water.jpg" width="113" /></a><span style="font-size: 12pt;">And then there are
words that are just too tempting, too wonderfully versatile, to confine to just
one language: "<i>Ça pique!</i></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">" is a good example. Its connotations are both
positive and negative; among other things it can be spicy, prickly, pinchy,
tickly, stabby, pokey, rancid, or bubbly; it may refer to a pepper, a beard, a
cactus, a crawdad, a fork, a toothpick, a mosquito, a bed of nettles, a
carbonated beverage, or bad wine. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Naturally, when our
daughter was born I wondered how she would adapt to the separation and the
spillage of bilingualism, how she’d deal with the cultural, the versatile, and
the irreplaceable. Would she discover peekytoe crabs and think they are named
that because their toes can pinch you? Would she be traumatized to discover
that <i>doudou</i></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">,
when you pronounce it with an American accent, becomes smelly and
distasteful? </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">So far, it’s hard to
tell. She has a roughly equal number of words in French and English, which,
right from the start, she acquired more or less at the same time – <i>bain</i></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> and bath, <i>banane</i></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> and banana, <i>biberon</i></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> and bottle: all of these she
has boiled down to a single, highly expressive syllable, which, just as my
husband predicted, is “bah.”</span>Miranda Richmond Mouillothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02481616547087367013noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3669541398269046085.post-79321129448016532622012-03-23T15:25:00.004+01:002012-07-12T13:05:30.807+02:00An indispensable writing tool<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwUCKUD85wNsjztpUmeChZJjWebaDsbWQ9ZT8QCwr-BZHkXIsGB-oIjis6OCzN43nW0XhYQt_tryKRA_FgW4XqRQAS9WAY-bJIsAUJuTCPbLmZlB1x7I9RDEPaV4HxtCfxv1nH-8Xg6YYw/s1600/DSCN8204.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwUCKUD85wNsjztpUmeChZJjWebaDsbWQ9ZT8QCwr-BZHkXIsGB-oIjis6OCzN43nW0XhYQt_tryKRA_FgW4XqRQAS9WAY-bJIsAUJuTCPbLmZlB1x7I9RDEPaV4HxtCfxv1nH-8Xg6YYw/s320/DSCN8204.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
I love marbles. They are pleasant to hold and they make a good noise when you rattle them around. They look like they are made of pure color, compressed and contained beneath a tiny, shiny surface. They are totally unassuming in their beauty, modest infant moons, perfect little planets. When you find one on the sidewalk it is as if you have stumbled upon a pocket-sized replica of the world, or the residue of a magic spell. And - if you have synaesthesia - they are ideal for arranging your thoughts.Miranda Richmond Mouillothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02481616547087367013noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3669541398269046085.post-84500630236007681052012-02-24T16:23:00.008+01:002012-07-12T13:05:44.502+02:00Steadfast friends: the tonneau killer and the pince-monseigneurThe Trappou is only one of many interesting characters in our new house.<br />
<br />
<br />
To the right, for example,<br />
is our pince-monseigneur. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggtjybZhYClSk_oAwnxmia-WL1vNXpwgRBXfZnFxfV7FmlmaP2zRVA2HobjNlNsY9w_BXttugkF7_Ma9w9xr3EyCYp7Qhyphenhyphenu5rqejycuEyJiS-g2-Oek5saw2lCEUUKP8hOSTjyZMp194Wc/s1600/DSCN8091.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712723481126758850" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggtjybZhYClSk_oAwnxmia-WL1vNXpwgRBXfZnFxfV7FmlmaP2zRVA2HobjNlNsY9w_BXttugkF7_Ma9w9xr3EyCYp7Qhyphenhyphenu5rqejycuEyJiS-g2-Oek5saw2lCEUUKP8hOSTjyZMp194Wc/s320/DSCN8091.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 240px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
He weighs about thirty-five pounds<br />
and if you are feeling blue or are tired of sitting and typing words at a desk, you can just mosey on over and pick him up and snip yourself a piece of iron or so.<br />
<br />
Pince-monseigneur means "pinch-my-master" and was originally used to designate a cat's claw of the type burglars used to force locks, but our pincher is very well-behaved and far too busy clipping metal for reinforced concrete structures and helping frazzled translators let off steam to engage in any kind of criminal activity.<br />
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<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm1xCRwxxU3UfeH20RTlMkG_jd-XAap3agAszLQescS6IOTmAJ8I20dUI7v5lYN5cKVATOWH-i60mgfdHLQ_hf87gM01BX0EQqfP7BmNuXY1MhvsMvx7An1ZbsUnxO1zHGMIfhPlFVTw0M/s1600/DSCN8088.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712726302036154162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm1xCRwxxU3UfeH20RTlMkG_jd-XAap3agAszLQescS6IOTmAJ8I20dUI7v5lYN5cKVATOWH-i60mgfdHLQ_hf87gM01BX0EQqfP7BmNuXY1MhvsMvx7An1ZbsUnxO1zHGMIfhPlFVTw0M/s320/DSCN8088.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 240px;" /></a>To your left as you walk in our front door is a rough-and-tumble character known on the street as "Tonneau Killer."<br />
<br />
Julien picked him up at the dump, and while at first glance he seems like a ferocious and desperate receptacle, he is actually a very humble, very generous, very self-deprecating rain barrel.<br />
<br />
The Tonneau family has a long and storied past: there are the illustrious wine containers, the shelters for merchants and public writers, the horse-drawn conveyances, and some distant cousins in professional swimming (the little flip you do to change directions when you get to the end of a lap is a Tonneau) but they have fallen on hard times, so we try to be discreet with Tonneau Killer (TK or Tony for short) about his past.<br />
<br />
In addition to acting as our doorman, TK keeps an eye on our rockpile, helps Julien wash his tools, and trades fashion advice with the Trappou. And if ever the pince-monseigneur gets any ideas, TK will be on hand to talk him out of it.Miranda Richmond Mouillothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02481616547087367013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3669541398269046085.post-9104025757893748142012-02-17T16:13:00.009+01:002012-07-12T13:05:57.189+02:00The suspense is over.All this week, yo<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1XPCmQvgLGa24bYiif4mJdMtz7dv_Luhr4LgkarlcuhoqI4Dku8Jq4QvJhdKTPEVwaOqMzkgHXv2FeB9c7eGwAOGyBLSAanjUPK0iITu1tO4FN0lM64Tr-UT_zGVwZsPzsfvXcuDGnWf7/s1600/DSCN6988_2.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5710132142644456434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1XPCmQvgLGa24bYiif4mJdMtz7dv_Luhr4LgkarlcuhoqI4Dku8Jq4QvJhdKTPEVwaOqMzkgHXv2FeB9c7eGwAOGyBLSAanjUPK0iITu1tO4FN0lM64Tr-UT_zGVwZsPzsfvXcuDGnWf7/s320/DSCN6988_2.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 201px;" /></a>u've been thinking,<br />
"MY GOD, WHAT IS A TRAPPOU?"<br />
<br />
That is normal.<br />
There is,<br />
as far as I know,<br />
only one Trappou in the world,<br />
<br />
and it lives under our house.<br />
<br />
Probably, you had decided that<br />
a Trappou is a saddish kind of lizard,<br />
one that belches fire<br />
and then feels embarrassed about it,<br />
and worries about its weight,<br />
and hates to dance in public.<br />
<br />
<br />
That is not the case.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjUFehlJ2Yz5sgvrNbQIfEVns7MtIr3ziQ_UzTcrn9XDV201klcHJIHgcBBqR84ZXwmdgHinAOWgqVP_MGuV-l2PfkjcpUtTIhqmWz84mhJ-CVef_c0yrynvdPXQ3gwKkX2B4AUXuk2pmS/s1600/sc00135141.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5710124305307188578" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjUFehlJ2Yz5sgvrNbQIfEVns7MtIr3ziQ_UzTcrn9XDV201klcHJIHgcBBqR84ZXwmdgHinAOWgqVP_MGuV-l2PfkjcpUtTIhqmWz84mhJ-CVef_c0yrynvdPXQ3gwKkX2B4AUXuk2pmS/s320/sc00135141.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; height: 148px; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
Our Trappou's full name is "La Rue du Trappou."<br />
People who know it just call it "Le Trappou."<br />
But its origins are a mystery.<br />
<br />
In 19th century Lyon, the word "trabouler" meant<br />
"to perambulate, to walk through,"<br />
and the little covered passageways<br />
that connect Lyon's medieval streets to one another<br />
are called "traboules."<br />
We amble through the Trappou quite regularly,<br />
as it connects (the only) two<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkb9y2u8vButILuEF_k__mykfXB3EbQj9kZnlfjdm-ryEQu9Gq9UhHRt-9Z2xeId5ToOR0PeuBd_85jKH2RkIFcD1NTU_TTNTJcP0YJ1FNH5KvTWEq3abOccIvqX3BOcBuKk8ZgNU9DdHd/s1600/DSCN8087.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5710132719327139618" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkb9y2u8vButILuEF_k__mykfXB3EbQj9kZnlfjdm-ryEQu9Gq9UhHRt-9Z2xeId5ToOR0PeuBd_85jKH2RkIFcD1NTU_TTNTJcP0YJ1FNH5KvTWEq3abOccIvqX3BOcBuKk8ZgNU9DdHd/s320/DSCN8087.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 240px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
streets in La Roche,<br />
and is the fastest way to get to our favorite neighbors' house.<br />
My husband, not ambling, has pushed all the building materials for our house<br />
through the Trappou on a little wheeled platform.<br />
<br />
So maybe our Trappou was attempting to give itself<br />
city airs, but got tripped up by the spelling.<br />
<br />
Then again, the French adjective "trappu"<br />
means "short and stout" which is quite an apt<br />
description of our Trappou, and of the size you have to be to fit in it comfortably.<br />
Trappu, if you were wondering (I know you were)<br />
comes from the old French "trappe,"<br />
which means "short and crude,"<br />
and before you get any ideas, I'll just point out that this is probably<br />
a deformation of the old French "tarpe"<br />
which means "big fat paw" or "big fat hand."<br />
Anyway, don't tell that to our friend the lizard.<br />
He's already worried about so many things.Miranda Richmond Mouillothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02481616547087367013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3669541398269046085.post-19259037417576981302012-02-13T14:04:00.003+01:002012-07-12T13:06:15.428+02:00All manner of wild beasts<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgiyWlmqh4QfHvNjheyLk4-PSWg01mGzXOgyL0k-qwgJyaBO7Ek3ReJjX4b5ehVvb_g7zST84nvuvFUvA3wvE5plLgU_vj-7DSFKEO5OeVVt4H_GFhyphenhyphenE8J90iq596-OQFWz16pEOp9LQk8/s1600/melwe_rhino.png"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5708607420233196482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgiyWlmqh4QfHvNjheyLk4-PSWg01mGzXOgyL0k-qwgJyaBO7Ek3ReJjX4b5ehVvb_g7zST84nvuvFUvA3wvE5plLgU_vj-7DSFKEO5OeVVt4H_GFhyphenhyphenE8J90iq596-OQFWz16pEOp9LQk8/s320/melwe_rhino.png" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 174px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 250px;" /></a><br />
The French language is fond of many things.<br />
<br />
Among them:<br />
<br />
technical-sounding terms<br />
and<br />
nicknames.<br />
<br />
Run-of-the-mill illnesses are a good example of this.<br />
<br />
In English, my silence last week was due to<br />
a stomach bug and a bad cold.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyMQXjb_tsYo9WjhX4uRKexlIrDs_SjUbVyD_qWh-hwj1y5QO4gZHvoNz-lhZw6r-2yMOFHnaOGo_LGNiBpxooZ63IuZaaePpm_aBvam8fAANOBIVCbFP9T9yHO_XGBcla5-ymLGDoRGrI/s1600/Gastropod.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5708607491572343554" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyMQXjb_tsYo9WjhX4uRKexlIrDs_SjUbVyD_qWh-hwj1y5QO4gZHvoNz-lhZw6r-2yMOFHnaOGo_LGNiBpxooZ63IuZaaePpm_aBvam8fAANOBIVCbFP9T9yHO_XGBcla5-ymLGDoRGrI/s320/Gastropod.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 204px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<br />
In French, I was afflicted with a <span style="font-style: italic;">gastro-entérite</span> and a <span style="font-style: italic;">rhinopharyngite</span>;<br />
<br />
or, for short, I went to bed with a <span style="font-style: italic;">gastro</span> and a <span style="font-style: italic;">rhino</span>.<br />
<br />
Either way, I'm in fine fettle now and almost ready to tell you about an exciting creature called<br />
The Trappou.Miranda Richmond Mouillothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02481616547087367013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3669541398269046085.post-86273564683578720042012-02-03T16:01:00.005+01:002012-07-12T13:06:23.831+02:00Tricks of the trade<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhCRvq9hG-gmNI2bwFKX40ddB7JWsTsuaearWebfitkIm0u-4PV5D2UAT42beM-6RHv0J1kgKExl_IrWPsKvPUBiBli__PjSrJUD_7aqbLniNDgr7_XKlDerWDRvriocGOHvCw0-1-SSdj/s1600/NurembergInterpreters.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704928379239917602" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhCRvq9hG-gmNI2bwFKX40ddB7JWsTsuaearWebfitkIm0u-4PV5D2UAT42beM-6RHv0J1kgKExl_IrWPsKvPUBiBli__PjSrJUD_7aqbLniNDgr7_XKlDerWDRvriocGOHvCw0-1-SSdj/s320/NurembergInterpreters.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 259px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
My grandfather was a translator and interpreter, too.<br />
<br />
He worked for the United Nations and the International War Crimes Tribunal (in this picture you can see him at the Nuremberg trials; he's the third interpreter from the left).<br />
<br />
He used to be the most punctilious person I knew.<br />
<br />
He penciled corrections into the margins of his books<br />
and drove me crazy when he'd pause a conversation to go look something up in the dictionary.<br />
<br />
Now, he suffers from senile dementia,<br />
and the pauses in our conversations<br />
are longer<br />
than the conversations themselves.<br />
He no longer looks things up,<br />
and he can't remember how to hold a pencil.<br />
<br />
A few months ago, my mother cleaned out his apartment and gave me some of those dictionaries he used to drive me crazy with,<br />
including the Historical Dictionary of the French Language <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUvNwZidkFgXICkttMIkQDqno603PMeGIC8LnGgQaxSy0zJs5UCzlLqxSLKAOO30i2E2FNCn5GM_l7u5hnPeQ_lNZzimPH8-uH3Rm5UWRFN2GjPuiG_B8-aiDzKF2QZ92FXpatMFcPzqDy/s1600/DSCN8049.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704929011785702946" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUvNwZidkFgXICkttMIkQDqno603PMeGIC8LnGgQaxSy0zJs5UCzlLqxSLKAOO30i2E2FNCn5GM_l7u5hnPeQ_lNZzimPH8-uH3Rm5UWRFN2GjPuiG_B8-aiDzKF2QZ92FXpatMFcPzqDy/s320/DSCN8049.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 320px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 226px;" /></a><br />
in its bright red case.<br />
(Now of course, in large part due to my grandfather, I have developed my own punctilious dictionary obsession.)<br />
When I set it on my desk, beside my other reference books, I wondered why on earth my grandfather had put little plastic flaps at the bottom of each volume.<br />
<br />
They looked ugly, and I planned to remove them.<br />
Then I sat down to work and reached for the dictionary,<br />
at which point I understood that the flaps made it easy to flip the volumes in and out of their case - something I do all the time when I'm working.<br />
<br />
Every time I see those flaps, I am moved in a dozen different ways. My grandfather may seem lost to me when I sit with him in the nursing home, but even now, he's got a few tricks left up his sleeve. No matter how far gone the people you love may seem, there's usually something left to learn from them if you look.<br />
<br />
(Nuremberg photo credit: <a href="http://www.ushmm.org/wlc/en/media_ph.php?ModuleId=10007089&MediaId=5202">The United States Holocaust Memorial Museum</a>)Miranda Richmond Mouillothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02481616547087367013noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3669541398269046085.post-81028031780466116712012-01-27T14:48:00.008+01:002012-07-12T13:06:43.730+02:00Faux ami no. 3: Scotch and Scotch<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6tXMk3nOLLRrHpneRyKMhC2_JmsHymv2iJxnJxPNs6iZSZcVwwXkx6xLoDivGz52D3NvCel9sHoYEmwJaoTxnEoLR00_Tk34bZXx772dD0FUN_ykb0_qAzfiVFvXWU6ZSU_5z2Ig-2tr3/s1600/scotch_tape2a.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702309679815581826" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6tXMk3nOLLRrHpneRyKMhC2_JmsHymv2iJxnJxPNs6iZSZcVwwXkx6xLoDivGz52D3NvCel9sHoYEmwJaoTxnEoLR00_Tk34bZXx772dD0FUN_ykb0_qAzfiVFvXWU6ZSU_5z2Ig-2tr3/s320/scotch_tape2a.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 179px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 253px;" /></a><br />
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<address style="text-indent: .5in;">
If you look up “tape” in a bilingual dictionary it will tell you that the French say “ruban adhésif,” but if you ever find yourself in a situation like the one below, it’s good to know that’s not the word they use in real life. </address>
<address style="text-indent: .5in;">
The first time I ever stayed in my grandparents’ house in La Roche, my grandfather warned me to watch out for shady characters. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQvs1mkfWYmjF46F7BEfcFmgDCuas39EZ7IeYYgZ72LW65xNwDhb76TmYoype936VvqpawHoHI8Z8PqmMlMUsQ6AYIPTf3l_MwKU_rJYsOT9hiDsr2D8-bw45rEh9SvziVjnmBLW71br4C/s1600/whisky-glass.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702309755892860994" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQvs1mkfWYmjF46F7BEfcFmgDCuas39EZ7IeYYgZ72LW65xNwDhb76TmYoype936VvqpawHoHI8Z8PqmMlMUsQ6AYIPTf3l_MwKU_rJYsOT9hiDsr2D8-bw45rEh9SvziVjnmBLW71br4C/s320/whisky-glass.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 163px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 250px;" /></a></address>
<address style="text-indent: .5in;">
It was the summer after my sophomore year in college, and I was going to spend six weeks in La Roche with my friends Matt and Harry, and whoever else happened to wander through (Alba may be in the <a href="http://mirandaabroad.blogspot.com/2012/01/french-vocabulary-no-3-boonies.html">boonies</a>, but you’d be surprised). The weeks went by and we didn’t see any shady characters, and I forgot all about my grandfather’s warning until one night Harry came into the kitchen and whispered to me that there were two people standing in the street with blackface on. </address>
<address>
I was doing the dishes and wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. “What did you say?” I shut off the water and turned to face him. “Why are you whispering?” </address>
<address>
“There are two people standing in the street with blackface on,” he repeated. </address>
<address>
“Blackface?”</address>
<address>
He nodded. “Down below the window. They have on black robes, they’re holding spears, they’ve got bones tucked into their belts, and they’re wearing blackface.”</address>
<address>
“Bones?” </address>
<address>
“Yes. Bones in their belts. Like some kind of tribal thing or something. Also knives. They’re stuck in the belts, too. They look like steak knives.”</address>
<address>
Harry is a great raconteur, and I suspected him of pulling my leg, but steak knives seemed like the kind of detail you wouldn’t make up. “Are they druids?” I asked. I abandoned the dishes. “You’re making this up.”</address>
<address>
“Why would I be making it up?” he asked. “People in the street with blackface? How would I even have thought of that?” </address>
<address>
“How could you <i>not </i>be making it up?” I countered. “Blackface and robes and spears?”</address>
<address>
“They asked me if I had any Scotch.”</address>
<address>
“Any what?”</address>
<address>
“<i>Du scotch</i>.” He imitated their accent.</address>
<address>
“Why would they want Scotch? Are they drunk? Is it for some kind of ritual?”</address>
<address>
Harry shrugged. “Ask them yourself.”</address>
<address>
I remembered my grandfather’s warning. “Do they seem dangerous?”</address>
<address>
<br /> Harry shrugged again. “Not really.”</address>
<address style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /> I crept out of the kitchen and up to the window in the front room and peeked out. There were, as Harry had promised, two men in blackface leaning against the rampart walls below the house. The green streetlight cast eerie shadows over their faces, and their pale, knobby knees peeped out from knee-length black tunics tied at the waist with a piece of rope, which gleamed a little when the men moved. The steak knives, tied to their rope belts with string, were smudged with red.</address>
<address style="text-indent: .5in;">
It took me a second to realize that tunics were made from large plastic trash bags. Along with the knife, each man had a cardboard cutout of a bone stuck in the front of his belt. They also each had cardboard-tipped spears, one of which had lost its tip. I gave up hiding and stuck my head out the window to get a better look. </address>
<address style="text-indent: .5in;">
The one with the broken spear saw me. He waved hello. “<i>Excusez-moi, est-ce-que vous auriez du Scotch, par hazard ?</i>” </address>
<address>
Matt had come over to the window, as well. “I don’t think we should give them any alcohol,” he whispered.</address>
<address>
“For your spear?” I yelled down, and they nodded.</address>
<address style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Scotch like Scotch tape,” I said to Matt and Harry, in English. Someone went and found a roll of tape and we tossed it down to them. </address>
<address>
The three of us stood at the window and watched them try and fix the cardboard point back onto the end of the spear handle. It wasn’t going very well. Even with several layers of <i>scotch</i>, the point flopped in a manner not really befitting a spear. It was a hot night, and their blackface was getting smeary from the exertion. </address>
<address>
We got tired of being squished up at the window, and we went back out onto the terrace. “I want dessert,” Matt said. “Is there any more of that pudding?” </address>
<address>
“Nope. Harry and I finished it yesterday.”</address>
<address>
“Jerks.”</address>
<address>
“We have Nutella,” I suggested. “And white wine.”</address>
<address>
We agreed this would do in a pinch, and Harry went inside to fetch it. When he came back, he went and peered over the side of the terrace. He waved politely. “Ask them if they want some wine,” he said to me.</address>
<address>
“Wine,” Matt said. “Wine –– why don’t you ask them what the hell they’re doing in our street at ten o’clock at night in <i>blackface</i>, for God’s sake.”</address>
<address>
<br />I sidled over to the terrace wall and looked down. They waved. “Want some wine?” I asked. </address>
<address>
<br /> “Not with the kids,” said Droopy Spear.</address>
<address>
“We’ve got to be in good shape for the kids,” Pointy Spear agreed.<br /></address>
<address>
I turned back to Matt and Harry. “They can’t drink because they’ve got to wait for the kids.”</address>
<address>
“Are they going to do some human sacrifice?” Harry inquired. </address>
<address>
I turned back to the guys in the street. “What kids?”</address>
<address>
“At the summer camp in Aubignas,” Droopy Spear explained. “We always bring the kids over to Alba and do a scavenger hunt with them.” </address>
<address>
I related this to Matt and Harry.</address>
<address>
<br /> “Ask them when their <i>Birth of a Nation</i> reenactment is,” Matt said.</address>
<address>
<br /> “A scavenger hunt in costume?” I asked, not sure how to broach the whole blackface issue.</address>
<address>
“You know, an African princess gets kidnapped, and the kids have to go all over Alba and la Roche and ask questions, to find out who did it,” said Pointy Spear, as if he were going over the rules of Simon Says with a mental patient. </address>
<address>
“We’re the king’s guards,” Droopy Spear added. “They can only ask us yes or no questions.”</address>
<address>
We heard footsteps clattering down the street, and Droopy Spear hid the Scotch tape and snapped to attention. A group of kids and with a bored-looking counselor straggled to stop in front of the guards, and we ducked behind the wall of the terrace. </address>
<address>
“Those aren’t real bones,” a kid said.</address>
<address>
“QUIET!” Droopy Spear thundered. “WHO GOES THERE?”</address>
<address>
The kids giggled. “Where’s the princess?”</address>
<address>
“You may ask yes or no questions.”</address>
<address>
“Why is there blood on your knife?” </address>
<address>
“You may ask <i>yes</i> or <i>no</i> questions,” pointy spear repeated.</address>
<address>
“Where is the king?”</address>
<address>
“You may––”</address>
<address>
“Remember, the king’s dead, we just found out,” the bored counselor reminded them. </address>
<address>
<br />“Ask them since when it’s okay to wear blackface,” said Matt.</address>
<address>
“That’s not a yes or no question,” Harry pointed out.</address>
<address>
<br /> “Is the princess with you?”</address>
<address>
“No.”</address>
<address>
“Have you seen the princess today?”</address>
<address>
“Yes.”</address>
<address>
Droopy spear cleared his throat. </address>
<address>
<i>It shall ever thus be told</i></address>
<address>
<i>what some bad men will do for gold. </i></address>
<address>
<i>The king is dead, the princess gone, </i></address>
<address>
<i>In this plot she is a pawn.</i></address>
<address>
<i>Before the young girl’s life’s cut short,</i></address>
<address>
<i>Look for her inside the fort.</i></address>
<address>
Silence. "What is that supposed to mean?”</address>
<address>
“The <i>fort</i>,” the counselor sighed. Silence. She pointed up the hill. “You know, like a castle,” she added.</address>
<address>
The kids clattered off towards Alba’s castle. Before we had time to say anything else, Droopy Spear and Pointy Spear had packed up their arsenal, shouted goodbye, and disappeared into the shadows beyond the rampart walls.<br /></address>
<address style="text-indent: .5in;">
I have lived in Alba on and off for many years now, and though I have encountered more than a few scorpions, I never saw those two young men again. So if ever you’re in the Ardèche and you run across someone in blackface, would you do me a favor and ask for my tape back? And please, for the sake of the kids, don’t give them anything to drink. </address>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> </span></div>Miranda Richmond Mouillothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02481616547087367013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3669541398269046085.post-31937040944360196212012-01-20T14:46:00.010+01:002012-07-12T13:07:01.760+02:00French vocabulary no. 4: the boonies<style>
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</style><span style="color: black;">In English you’d say Alba was in the boonies.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">In French you might say it was <i>paumé.</i></span><span style="color: black;"> <i>Paumé</i></span><span style="color: black;"> comes from the word for "palm"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">and it took a while for it to mean what it does today:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">in 1290 (around when our hamlet first appears on the historical record)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">it meant laying your hand on the bible to swear to something;</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">by 1649 (which is probably around when the </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7jF7y3iJ-2GcTnnrO1_zYnFEz9Rwiz5b4y1kvADa0M164tuCKX3tMagq2l78lmFNk6Kvt3AlAnF4TR5mpzHNvVizfIc15YxdfUxHCyr6b8G-P_9WKejo4Qfv-KwKanSs1-FOAlGIq3Jna/s1600/ChateauAlba.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5699723560473752866" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7jF7y3iJ-2GcTnnrO1_zYnFEz9Rwiz5b4y1kvADa0M164tuCKX3tMagq2l78lmFNk6Kvt3AlAnF4TR5mpzHNvVizfIc15YxdfUxHCyr6b8G-P_9WKejo4Qfv-KwKanSs1-FOAlGIq3Jna/s320/ChateauAlba.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 240px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 320px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">foundations of our house were laid)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">I guess people were getting a little vehement about their swears</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">and <span style="font-style: italic;">paumé</span> came to mean slapping.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">Two centuries later and slapping had become grabbing -</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">in 1815 you could "palm" (catch) someone red-handed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But in 1489, thanks to François Villon</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(who was probably keenly aware</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of how slippery swearing can be)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"<span style="font-style: italic;">paumé</span>" also came to mean "lost."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: italic;">P</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: italic;">aumé </span>is not the only way we have of saying we live in the boonies.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcO53diYgdXbz5796KNfDd5cyLhg0f22TIU2Q6A41Dvmiuzps4NTkoXZwle6SnxgI4_2P3aj3g_d9rlKDFxrusuwxUitF1k3Nl3IUpniQ5kQ_YWsiIasXd2SETswvDpV-bYRsnXQFbPHn6/s1600/Copie_de_IMG_0473_vue_sur_chateau_et_village.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5699718515891764658" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcO53diYgdXbz5796KNfDd5cyLhg0f22TIU2Q6A41Dvmiuzps4NTkoXZwle6SnxgI4_2P3aj3g_d9rlKDFxrusuwxUitF1k3Nl3IUpniQ5kQ_YWsiIasXd2SETswvDpV-bYRsnXQFbPHn6/s320/Copie_de_IMG_0473_vue_sur_chateau_et_village.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 213px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 320px;" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">French has lots of words for little villages like ours, perhaps because there are so many of them.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><i>Patelin</i></span><span style="color: black;">, which makes a green and orange sound in the mouth, jolly and plump,</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">is the most affectionate. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><i>Bled</i></span><span style="color: black;">, which was brought back to France by colonial troops stationed in North Africa,</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">is usually paired with <span style="font-style: italic;">paumé </span>to mean a place in the middle of nowhere,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">though <span style="font-style: italic;">mon bled</span> can also be a way of saying “back home.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Perpète</span> (from perpetuity) was once slang for a life sentence,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">but it bled (sorry, no pun intended)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">over into spatial infinity,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">so when someone lives in<span style="font-style: italic;"> perpète</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">you know it will take a while to get to their house.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">And from there we come to whole collection of made-up places that sound far off when you roll them off your tongue: going to Perpète-les-Oies or Pétaouchnok means going to a place that is inconveniently far from everything.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Once, my husband and I stopped to buy a postcard in the tiny village of</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">Sospel (pictured bottom right), which sits perched on a mountainside</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">on a twisty, windy road</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">battered by wind and snow</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMXDWlueLS-DSBV2GSbvDEvwWmS-tNtHCQsCBXbCYgAoohdrhx3gbI5Od9XtZPn09jb7m6vAt00Ked8Jh9RxIhpHwMgeaicK9aU5Inr4Wi66CXIrjRJCgILbm1FmL6rFa_xigeWgJvOKel/s1600/alpesmar-sospel-01.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5699721214022066146" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMXDWlueLS-DSBV2GSbvDEvwWmS-tNtHCQsCBXbCYgAoohdrhx3gbI5Od9XtZPn09jb7m6vAt00Ked8Jh9RxIhpHwMgeaicK9aU5Inr4Wi66CXIrjRJCgILbm1FmL6rFa_xigeWgJvOKel/s320/alpesmar-sospel-01.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 212px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 320px;" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;">in the middle, of, well, nowhere.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">"Where do you come from?" asked the lady selling the postcards.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">"Alba la Romaine," we told her.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">"My god," she cried. "I've been <span style="font-style: italic;">there. </span>How can you stand to live in such an isolated place?"</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Which goes to show that like everything else,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">boonies are in the eye of the beholder.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>Miranda Richmond Mouillothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02481616547087367013noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3669541398269046085.post-19596458376974612922012-01-13T11:34:00.008+01:002012-07-12T13:09:46.238+02:00It's cold enough to crack a stone<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1-ptHL72oJcACpBFCoOBSYU5Qc_autpJvighqUVL7iVVJGY2hB6_9DgDRrthrEiFZWoaxycduaAWVWB7BSWOw0IoxDHlPs3VW0e2N2nzYW1hE5YXfxT8C_VMXKNF6ejX0dfhEXPJBZJ8p/s1600/DSCN7746.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2efk3M7qwsKzlJGk_WB_3F_xX7vLAMQW9zV8dhThj-eNPQvrSarviQEgu0R7bD8Ptt9Cqh5_Hczisa1LLqkdRxiSJ5Te2yauu2criuigMyBA-yefi1hvVLF36SGA8akLTBy08QSjaDFhR/s1600/DSCN7986.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5697063346221761890" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2efk3M7qwsKzlJGk_WB_3F_xX7vLAMQW9zV8dhThj-eNPQvrSarviQEgu0R7bD8Ptt9Cqh5_Hczisa1LLqkdRxiSJ5Te2yauu2criuigMyBA-yefi1hvVLF36SGA8akLTBy08QSjaDFhR/s320/DSCN7986.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 240px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 320px;" /></a>That's what they say when it's very cold here (<span style="font-style: italic;">geler à pierre fendre</span>).<br />
<br />
It is cold,<br />
but it's my husband,<br />
not the cold,<br />
been doing the rock cracking around here.<br />
(In French, rock cracking<br />
- <span style="font-style: italic;">casser des cailloux </span>-<br />
is an idiomatic expression for<br />
working hard.)<br />
To the right, you can see where he,<br />
rock cracking all the way,<br />
has exposed<br />
the backbone of our back room,<br />
the summit of the vaulted cellar upon which <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheFMSLd3cp7-gB7p2I8MUicxXb3reoqby-50nsXv_5caeVBF7WCzhrSZ-lFbRwG3gx9ukGsKUnH3YxMjHJPD-u5t80rU5M9437MXlfbdv8aFyM2N1pG87qCEa4klBSu6D6gtGGbVBt9cg-/s1600/DSCN7984.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5697065094179557154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheFMSLd3cp7-gB7p2I8MUicxXb3reoqby-50nsXv_5caeVBF7WCzhrSZ-lFbRwG3gx9ukGsKUnH3YxMjHJPD-u5t80rU5M9437MXlfbdv8aFyM2N1pG87qCEa4klBSu6D6gtGGbVBt9cg-/s320/DSCN7984.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 240px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
this half of the house is built.<br />
<br />
Someday soon, it will be the living room.<br />
<br />
Since you can't get a car down our street,<br />
once the rocks are cracked,<br />
rock cracking all the way,<br />
my husband hauls everything out in buckets.<br />
<br />
Other good French expressions involving rocks are "sad as a stone" and "bald as a stone,"<br />
but they,<br />
thank goodness,<br />
do not apply here.Miranda Richmond Mouillothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02481616547087367013noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3669541398269046085.post-11943458529401298832012-01-05T15:08:00.005+01:002012-07-19T13:49:27.862+02:00What do you see in 583?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj339NKm1X4sJ-8GWTzklsh-N9qJtJtpjsl5P7BaHp-7JNVOH4szKcKoX1sBUed-vSOxEzu6sxzPIGrRfxBu2k3SoD7i670bGBv32LfTnLtSg1WJF_PfxD40X3zxQxfxFS5WYCYnCZyuFzh/s1600/DSCN7888.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5694155816020956818" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj339NKm1X4sJ-8GWTzklsh-N9qJtJtpjsl5P7BaHp-7JNVOH4szKcKoX1sBUed-vSOxEzu6sxzPIGrRfxBu2k3SoD7i670bGBv32LfTnLtSg1WJF_PfxD40X3zxQxfxFS5WYCYnCZyuFzh/s320/DSCN7888.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 320px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 240px;" /></a>The photo to the right shows you the colors that appear in my head when I think about the number 583.<br />
<br />
Nabokov called it "colored hearing."<br />
Most people nowadays call it synaesthesia,<br />
which the <span style="font-style: italic;">Oxford English Dictionary</span> defines as the<br />
"production, from a sense-impression of one kind,<br />
of an associated mental image of a sense-impression of another kind." Right.<br />
<br />
This is how I would explain it:<br />
<br />
When I hear a sound, I see a color.<br />
When I do mental math, I add colors together to get other colors.<br />
When I smell cinnamon sticks, I see swirls of peacock blue and violet. (If you are wondering, cinnamon powder is paler; it includes terra cotta, yellow, and peach tones.)<br />
When I taste a rice cake, it is pale blue marbled with pink and gray.<br />
<br />
My synaesthesia is particularly strong when it comes to words. To spell the word "house" I do not think "h-o-u-s-e," I see, "fir green-transparent-pale gray-yellow-pale orange," and write that down.<br />
But I don't like the word "house" much, since that color combination isn't too attractive. Furthermore, since my synaesthesia includes scent and texture, the word "house" trails an unpleasant smell produced by the combination of the yellow "s" and the green "h" - a musty, slightly acidic tang, like a lunchbox you left in the trunk overnight. For look and smell I prefer the scent and color of the French "maison." But for texture, "house" is smoother and more pleasant than "maison," which is warm and sticky.<br />
<br />
I therefore find certain words totally intolerable, and others irrationally pleasi<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0vADRq8WC6xVQv6fWiQ9eHVvQ1HQk7u7QJmS5Tukwaeif6-yVLwrgeqD5ZccHnuZyUd4_ShKbCrtOM2mJJB7B9a1hs1BNwDvAe8pvN3kU6eBZJAujfNXvWKMvIr2V4SV-u2JJAM01ITGM/s1600/chalumeau.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5694160867333425378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0vADRq8WC6xVQv6fWiQ9eHVvQ1HQk7u7QJmS5Tukwaeif6-yVLwrgeqD5ZccHnuZyUd4_ShKbCrtOM2mJJB7B9a1hs1BNwDvAe8pvN3kU6eBZJAujfNXvWKMvIr2V4SV-u2JJAM01ITGM/s320/chalumeau.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 197px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 240px;" /></a>ng. The word "chalumeau" (French for blowtorch) makes me quite giddy, the way you might react to tasting an ethereal bonbon (see illustration). The word "stagflation," on the other hand, evokes in me the same nausea you might feel when scraping something putrid off the bottom of your shoe (I will spare you an illustration). I can barely stand to look at it on the page.<br />
<br />
I only realized synaesthesia was a "condition" after stumbling on an article about it in a magazine - before that I thought that everyone's brains worked that way. To be honest, I still have trouble believing that they don't. So you tell me: does your brain work like mine? What does the number 583 evoke to you?Miranda Richmond Mouillothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02481616547087367013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3669541398269046085.post-91763089574133937172011-12-08T15:18:00.006+01:002012-07-12T13:09:36.588+02:00A hole in the universe<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2jPc_PWR0DLMVKuRC_0CILGEmLbCSnxgZxpzF8hDJmldnxg3CzynC-LjZm1Yk7dd140k2z3WLQxtIE0WlecEtUU_hrD5Y4KXwWmzLXY83aKvYu0gMsyT60NlgiQJZ_zUBageah9EITV7j/s1600/pepper.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5683775224126050866" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2jPc_PWR0DLMVKuRC_0CILGEmLbCSnxgZxpzF8hDJmldnxg3CzynC-LjZm1Yk7dd140k2z3WLQxtIE0WlecEtUU_hrD5Y4KXwWmzLXY83aKvYu0gMsyT60NlgiQJZ_zUBageah9EITV7j/s320/pepper.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 240px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
At the age of eight,<br />
while seated at an outdoor dinner party,<br />
I discovered a hole in the universe.<br />
<br />
My mother,<br />
busy talking to the other guests at our table,<br />
had not noticed me<br />
sorting the red bell peppers<br />
out of my tabbouleh<br />
and pushing them neatly to the edge of my plate, so she did not make me finish them.<br />
<br />
Pleased with this small victory, I quietly ate around my abandoned pepper bits, then<br />
settled in for the Long Wait for Dessert,<br />
daydreaming and drowsy,<br />
lulled by a full stomach and the grownups' chatter.<br />
<br />
And then something happened.<br />
<br />
One of my red bell pepper bits began to move.<br />
<br />
In the blink of an eye,<br />
it had slipped off my plate,<br />
scuttled across the dinner table,<br />
slid down the tablecloth,<br />
and disappeared.<br />
<br />
It would be understating things<br />
to say I was astonished.<br />
<br />
A great wind had blown through my life.<br />
I remember feeling quite grave:<br />
I was going to have to reconsider everything I know about the world.<br />
Also, my mother and I were vegetarian, and<br />
I wondered what we were going to eat from now on.<br />
<br />
I felt a little excited. If bell pepper bits could walk,<br />
then the world must be brimming with hidden talents.<br />
<br />
I looked up to see if anyone else had noticed<br />
this dramatic turn of events,<br />
and noticed a family friend<br />
fiddling with his laser pointer,<br />
whose bell-pepper-red light was now dancing across the back of someone's chair.<br />
<br />
My disappointment was leavened by the arrival of chocolate cake.<br />
<br />
But I have always treasured that moment,<br />
that tiny sliver of time in which<br />
my world turned upside down.<br />
I have never forgotten what powerful magic<br />
is misunderstanding<br />
and what marvelous and unlikely holes it can rip in our realities.Miranda Richmond Mouillothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02481616547087367013noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3669541398269046085.post-37713078131380712282011-12-02T09:46:00.010+01:002012-07-12T13:09:24.348+02:00Pictures in words, needles in haystacks, and the price of a suntan<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEMBk5yz0oXLVuk6PaLL-B0duopa591pOlzBDeemXW3fQHmV47XSfHjguO3Jz39oa9ukRQCs0YM14J58dNDOHATkHOrHl7F3fEGfhWc1mFbyea8zYKrZJZIrt4L3oaBOR25u4sbgcP9rCz/s1600/DSCN4733_3.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5681479330830278866" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEMBk5yz0oXLVuk6PaLL-B0duopa591pOlzBDeemXW3fQHmV47XSfHjguO3Jz39oa9ukRQCs0YM14J58dNDOHATkHOrHl7F3fEGfhWc1mFbyea8zYKrZJZIrt4L3oaBOR25u4sbgcP9rCz/s320/DSCN4733_3.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 152px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfZwu5hFh2kZe1RyZ065UUvmQ1K9XcCqmxnMaO2S5xg5BAjVRNN2E04xRaAJmHLqZhk0Oa1QVaeu1RyeofrukftMLf1a3NHsLLR0gwiyH3Vf_rzKWt2DQUBCLIZtGlZ0qSc8YjnxT84yuw/s1600/DSCN4733_2.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5681479100291706530" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfZwu5hFh2kZe1RyZ065UUvmQ1K9XcCqmxnMaO2S5xg5BAjVRNN2E04xRaAJmHLqZhk0Oa1QVaeu1RyeofrukftMLf1a3NHsLLR0gwiyH3Vf_rzKWt2DQUBCLIZtGlZ0qSc8YjnxT84yuw/s320/DSCN4733_2.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 320px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 302px;" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr1jrNP66KZoBNy_DrYeVRSBNAocc5Ia8HTQtwHQnitAluEkdJv0l7fkF0MKSjxQ2I8mMQEmSrZsQR7Rc4L1a2EwDzI4DJaQC8Wr4qwqplfMdqc-lKWUREGegZzsAz0yiRwbmSE_mbAvA1/s1600/DSCN4733.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><br />
If you have ever done archival research, you know<br />
that it can be a bit like<br />
searching for a needle in a haystack.<br />
(which, by the way, the French do, too, though they prefer<br />
to look for their needles in bales, not stacks, of hay:<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">chercher une aiguille dans une botte de foin</span>)<br />
<br />
I would even argue that haystacks (or bales)<br />
are easier than archives:<br />
although the pen is mightier than the sword,<br />
it's hard to prick your finger on a word.<br />
<br />
Most of the people who generated all that paper disappeared without<br />
ever suspecting that the things<br />
they were scratching out on those pages would be preserved in a heavy box<br />
and trundled from dim shelf to dim research carrel<br />
by people wearing cotton gloves.<br />
<br />
And thank goodness they never suspected:<br />
the most unsuspecting of their pen scratches<br />
are the unexpected pinpricks that keep you awake as you work,<br />
winking reminders that the past isn't always a blur,<br />
that boredom has ever been the same<br />
and that no matter how dusty and dry the task,<br />
we all enjoy a bit of whimsy.<br />
<br />
This doodle was drawn by a list-maker in Tunisia<br />
at the turn of the last century.<br />
<br />
And speaking of mysterious words (see my <a href="http://mirandaabroad.blogspot.com/2011/11/all-that-glitters.html">last post</a>),<br />
his list is full of them:<br />
apparently,<br />
1 suntan, 1 khodfu, and 1 chasuch<br />
will set you back 3,360 francs.<br />
<br />
I'm sure such glittering treasures are worth the money,<br />
but the legs on that officer are really priceless.Miranda Richmond Mouillothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02481616547087367013noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3669541398269046085.post-54805149470931603402011-11-22T12:02:00.003+01:002011-11-24T17:17:33.842+01:00All that glitters<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzo2k2sxc-4jgj7m-TTViTHJcvw2n9Ri9p18E5sALnXcQPK6FesOQ5IHcfaZWZFohohdweBaAok1AjcfH4LATUegO05-BLE9l2nFEL0PEO8uFFscpR2J573nlXWaHesitoo1DxRYs02CKp/s1600/diamonds.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 203px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzo2k2sxc-4jgj7m-TTViTHJcvw2n9Ri9p18E5sALnXcQPK6FesOQ5IHcfaZWZFohohdweBaAok1AjcfH4LATUegO05-BLE9l2nFEL0PEO8uFFscpR2J573nlXWaHesitoo1DxRYs02CKp/s320/diamonds.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5678596121745155682" border="0" /></a><br />When I was a child, I thought a "chester of doors" was a complex and wonderful construction that promised to open the way to a million new worlds. I can still feel that magical possibility when I write those words, even though it's been years since I figured out that a chest of drawers was merely where my socks and undershirts lived. And I still love the mysterious glamor of a word or phrase whose meaning is completely obscure to you, whether it is because you have misheard it, have no idea of the context, or simply don't know.<br /><br />When your job is words, these moments become rarer and rarer, though technical terms do afford a certain pleasure: how lovely, the moments I spent imagining that "pléochroïque" was the era of rainbow-colored dinosaurs, rather than a crystallographic term. Charming, the few seconds I dreamed of "calandreuses," which in my mind ought to mean ladies who make calendars. (They're actually a kind of leather embossing press.)<br /><br />That is why I am so grateful to the fashion world. Just one fashion event can give you enough of these mysterious phrases to last a lifetime. My favorite of them all, the one I carry with me happy in the knowledge that it will never be elucidated, is one I picked up at a Lanvin runway show I attended last year. I was working for an agency whose job it was to transcribe and translate post-show interviews, which are so esoteric they require an eyewitness to make any sense of them at all.<br /><br />Seeing a runway show in real life is kind of like seeing the Tour de France in real life: an immense amount of hype and chaos for something that is over in a flash. After the show, it was my job to push through the crowd to listen to the press conference. As I was pushing I saw two men who looked like they'd been dressed by André 3000 from Outkast. For all I know, they may have been André 3000 from Outkast. In any case, as I pushed, I heard one of them say to the other,<br /><br />"Yeah, I need to get some more, though. It's like all my diamonds are falling out."<br /><br />I have turned this phrase over in my mind a million times, and it never looses its sheen. What must it feel like when all one's diamonds fall out? Sometimes I think it must be a chilly, shivery sensation, not entirely unpleasant. Other times I imagine it's painful, like those awful dreams where your teeth get wobbly and you can't keep them in your mouth. And what could you get more of that would keep them in place? How many diamonds do you need to have before you casually can say the words "all my diamonds"? Three? Seventeen? How big do they need to be? Oh, the possibilities are endless.Miranda Richmond Mouillothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02481616547087367013noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3669541398269046085.post-2428294828486479702011-11-10T14:59:00.007+01:002012-07-12T13:08:56.094+02:00Listen-if-it’s-raining<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMlyNKmNQDlM2AreDXgL_qx1WQjvItXzA5MpONJgAmi5B0CITN48pnXb2usNDquR8YFP3leRmhKH8mlVtEJk7R8MJbjcN6GZH2yG-YxzqF3PlL0nCH4MrZ8QEPOKOeqP-F8AceRmGOEICy/s1600/DSCN7814.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5673368071222931970" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMlyNKmNQDlM2AreDXgL_qx1WQjvItXzA5MpONJgAmi5B0CITN48pnXb2usNDquR8YFP3leRmhKH8mlVtEJk7R8MJbjcN6GZH2yG-YxzqF3PlL0nCH4MrZ8QEPOKOeqP-F8AceRmGOEICy/s320/DSCN7814.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 240px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirHt_FewSpnU0zXpH76jzGEcHjPJcV1oqXxR6NMYdk7a_1tPxDEf_cvSMfCFRCyWuFl76fSG0oF0ZFDErCJ1mHNcHc42LFnR0UpcS4L7yg56xs_o7U7t92vzzfY8Qf1D15uwWxy0nUW2sg/s1600/DSCN6023.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5673367861540107682" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirHt_FewSpnU0zXpH76jzGEcHjPJcV1oqXxR6NMYdk7a_1tPxDEf_cvSMfCFRCyWuFl76fSG0oF0ZFDErCJ1mHNcHc42LFnR0UpcS4L7yg56xs_o7U7t92vzzfY8Qf1D15uwWxy0nUW2sg/s320/DSCN6023.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 240px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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</style>Rain has been a major preoccupation this week in Alba: we’ve had nearly a foot of it. <br />
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<i>Il pleut</i><span style="font-style: normal;">: it’s come down hard – in buckets, you’d say in both English and French. It’s been pouring, as we say – or raining spouts, as they say. (</span><i>Il pleut des trombes</i><span style="font-style: normal;">) The French find it amusing that we English speakers complain it’s raining cats and dogs; I hope you find it amusing that here in France it rains ropes (</span><i>des cordes</i><span style="font-style: normal;">), and, if things get really bad, it comes down like a cow pisses (</span><i>comme vache qui pisse</i><span style="font-style: normal;">). </span></div>
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Over the past week we’ve had it in ropes and buckets and cats and cows. In a village full of farmers and broken down old houses, you feel torn between happy for the crops and sad for all the cooped-up stonemasons, and of course irritated you left your laundry out on the line. </div>
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But then on Friday morning we woke up and began to feel nervous. We live right next to the River Escoutay, which, on most days is barely more than a cheerful trickle. But early Friday morning there was a lull in the rain, and we realized the roaring we heard was the Escoutay. It rose and rose. On Saturday night, my husband filled up sand bags for my mother-in-law, who lives on the ground floor and didn’t sleep much listening out for the river to stop roaring and begin to clank, which is how you know it has rolled all its rocks right up into to the back yard and is about to flood your kitchen. </div>
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Luckily, the river subsided, and the rain died back down to a drizzle (which the French describe in diminutives of <i>il pleut</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, as if we were saying “it’s rain-ish-ing” – </span><i>il pleuvine, il pleuviote, il pleuvasse</i><span style="font-style: normal;">). </span></div>
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Lying in bed with the sound of those drops falling and falling on our skylights has made me realize how much country living is full of listening for rain; it has made me nostalgic for a French expression that died away as we and our language have drained out of the countryside and flooded into cities, with their clothes dryers and indoor jobs. </div>
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The expression is <i>ecoute-s’il-pleut </i><span style="font-style: normal;">(listen-if-it’s-raining). It was what people would call a river like the Escoutay that runs slow and lazy until it roars up into your back yard, or a mill that didn’t work too well in the dry seasons. By extension, it was used to describe the a kind of lazy person who sat around waiting for a stroke of luck, or who was too busy listening for the rain to get out and get anything done. Or someone like me, who’s waiting for the sun to come so she can get those wet clothes in off the line. </span></div>Miranda Richmond Mouillothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02481616547087367013noreply@blogger.com0