To really begin to make the quantum leap of understanding the French. one must cultivate, especially in the rural areas, a major attitude shift. The list of where to begin, is full of subtleties. It has no beginning nor end. Perhaps this is why, for ions, franocphiles have been in love with France. She (often referred to as a feminine culture) remains an elusive, charming, elegant, maddening, earthy temptress. For these and countless other reasons, we love her dearly.

Here, for matters of brief discussion, let’s begin with the art of conversation.

Our American need for need for clipped efficient conversation gets one no where in France. Additionally here in the states, the notion of la politesse, being polite, simply saying hello, goodbye and thank you, does not really exist. In fact, thinking about it, the actuality of connecting with the person across the counter, frighteningly moves one a step away from anonymity. Heaven forbid, it might add a few nanno seconds to an interaction to boot. Most inefficient.

But the French value, even insist, on these small offerings of acknowledgment, these pearls of civility. La politesse and the natural, rightful ending of a conversation, no matter what the length, are what count.

In France, you must immediately throw out any notions of vitesse, (speed) in conversation. These will get you no where. While waiting in line at the bank or the post office, in a hurry at the boulangerie, my advice, surrender. And surrender also to the fact, that once they get going, they speak reams and with vitesse amongst themselves.

The French speak in paragraphs. They cultivate conversation, no matter what the topic. Discourse is key and time is not of the essence. You may think so, but not the person in front of you who is talking with the maitresse of the establishment. Remember, the French love their language and love to use it.

So, to quote Polly Platt, author of Savoir Flair! and French of Foe?, the key is to “take time for time” This little phrase, when put into practice will open up a whole new world to you. This is truly a foreign concept for we type A’s.

Take time for time. Repeat it 3 times slowly. Not only in France, but in life. I used this little travel mantra a lot this fall, and it really gave me a deeper perspective. What’s the hurry?

The French language is like a subtle flower. Like an aural scent, it is full of chewy mellifluous sounds. It doesn’ t matter if you can not understand what is being said. Just listen, its musical. The cadence is so different than English. And even if your comprehension in limited, you realize, more and more, the poetic dimension of the language, the nuance and subtlety.

Mais oui, discourse rules. Those never ending paragraphs. No place to breathe! Think of it this way. The French examine the contents of a conversation as if lifting a finely cut goblet to the light, and turning it in all directions. Ah, those bon mots, bursting forth like fragrant fruit.

(Originally written after waiting in a very long line at the Souillac Post Office- everyone had their day and say! Fall, 2005)

As Thursday evening approaches, the shutters close for the night and the fire is lit, I find myself getting a bit excited. Why? Expectation! The Christmas morning that happens every Friday. Market day in Souillac, my nearest large town, 10 minutes away. Even after more than 20 years of visits, I never tire of it. Bien sur, things change, vendors come and go. A few years back the fish stand moved to the opposite side of the plaza. But as they say in French, plus ça change, rien ça change. Everything changes, nothing changes.

Markets in rural France are a way of life, an institution. Not only are luscious comestibles sold weekly, but neighbors gather, even on the coldest, most damp days. They chat, exchange the news of the week. There is a vocal lilt in the cold air as one moves past these jolly souls bantering, as only the French can do

The first and third Fridays of each month are extra special. It’s the Foire. Extra merchandise, extra traffic, less parking and more animation. Need a new mattress, sewing machine, sweater, house dress or hunting jacket? Knives sharpened, chair recaned? Then have a stroll through and see what you can discover.

No Yves St. Laurent here, but much curious anachronistic styling. I always wonder, who buys this stuff? But then, l’après-midi, in the afternoon after lunch, you need only to walk though a small hamlet to find les mesdames gathering their wood or chickens and sporting their cotton house coats.

Fair enough. The old and new worlds collide. Sure, you can hop in the car and be at a major shopping center with Costco sized stores that will amaze you, all within 20 minutes of this reminder of rural bliss. But here, wondrous piles of leeks and cheese you never knew existed, flavors of sausage to boggle the mind, all reign supreme. All tempting you and at every turn weighing down your basket.

One feels nourished by the sheer possibility of each and every Friday holiday. And, were that not enough, what about all the other nearby towns whose markets fall on every other day of the week?

(Originally written, one very lovely warm Friday afternoon, sitting on the terrace, thinking about the bounty I had brought
home from the morning Souillac market. Fall, 2005)