I've been rather slack of late. The reason, though no excuse, is that Aude has been experiencing a bit of a heatwave during the last few weeks - almost unbroken sunshine and the bluest of blue skies. Finding the time to sit at the PC when I could be on our third-floor terrace or out walking hasn't been easy. Everything is in blossom and the plants on the terrace, which had been in a resentful sulk all winter, seem almost delerious in the heat. Their appreciation of the change in season is clear as they burst and bloom, spread and extend. All, that is, except the marigolds which are being eaten by a visiting migrating locust. This lengthy ramble hasn't much to do with language but does explain my silence. And I do take an unwholesome delight in talking of the fine weather, especially when I have to assure relatives shivering in the UK that I am taking good care of my sunburn.
We had some friends round for dinner last evening. It was a rare occasion when none of our guests was French. In general, we have a "mixed bathing" rule i.e. always ensuring a mix of French and non-French but as we know more expats than French, we sometimes run out of locals. And I must confess that I'm more than happy, once in a while, to leave French at the front door and to indulge my enthusiasm for English. I've been intrigued by and enjoyed most of the languages I've come across in my travels but my love of language I reserve for my langue maternelle. With English I'm on home ground. I have to work hard at French but I can play with English. In the course of a Brit night, I get the chance to enjoy to the full, the height, depth, breadth and almost limitless possibility of my mother tongue. I delight in it's colour, shading, it's multiple layers of meaning. I can spin words with a shift in accent, rhyming and phrasing and searching for alliteration, while relishing it's vulgarity and poetry. Finding myself back in English, I can begin to imagine how a penguin must feel, finding itself back in the water after waddling with little elegance on land. Learning and speaking French, I feel awkward, as if my natural exhuberance is curbed and disciplined, like a well-behaved dog; with the freedom that comes with MY language, I'm that same dog, taken to the countryside and let off his lead to run and career without any hindrance, concern or constraint.
Please note that I'm taking here of my delight rather than of my competance; my grammar, syntax and spelling can be ropey, to say the least.
Among our French-speaking English visitors were two who had lived here for many years and are very proficient linguistes. A discussion arose as to the appropriateness of adopting local accents. My question was "Which local accent?" We are blessed here with all sorts of variations.
First of all, the most common is the accent of the Midi, elements of which are heard from the Pyrenees, throughout old Languedoc and almost as far as the Alps. Amongst it's characteristics is that habit of adding the letter G to any unsuspecting words ending with N. Hence words like bread, wine and tomorrow are heard as "peng, veng, dimeng". If you haven't seen the film "Jean de Florette" (Gérard Depardieu and Yves Montand, superb!) rent or buy it for the accent as well as the Provençal scenery.
A linguistic idiosyncracy I've noticed around here in the Vallée de l'Aude is the penchant for adding extra syllables, the favourite being "er" to words ending with E and sometimes to words that don't. In the bakery: "Une-er baguette-er courte-er, svp" "Allez, au revoir-er. Bonne-er Dimangche-er!" Now this one I like. I find myself slipping into this style as easily as I slip into...well...slippers. It lends the words an ease that I find attractive and reminds me of Maurice Chevalier and other boulevardiers from the hayday of French cabaret and comic operettas. Who can forget "Valentine"? - "Elle avait un tout petit menton, Valentine-er, Valentine-er". I can almost feel the cane in my hand and the boater parked on my crown at a jaunty, even slightly rakish, angle.
Then there are those locals whose first language may even have been Occitan, the original langue d'Oc. There aren't as many native Occitan speakers here as elsewhere in the region but they are heard from time to time. Occitan is making a comeback. One of the schools in town is dual-medium, teaching both in Occitan and French. Our regional newspaper has an Occitan section.
Add to these three, a fourth option. In our street, most of the residents are Spanish migrants who came across in the 1950's and 60's. They were looking for work, or joining family members already here or leaving villages and town's where life under Franco was still uncomfortable for those on the 'wrong' side. So here we have fluent French-speakers with strong Basque, Catalan, or Andalucian accents.
So back to the discussion at dinner. How far can you go when taking on a French accent? What is acceptable? What is expected? It was argued that the most natural thing would be to adopt the sounds around one. On the otherhand, one doesn't want to be thought to be taking the p***. (We've heard French tourists in Carcassonne doing just that as they snigger while practicing "peng, veng, dimeng" - not friendly, not nice.) And yet again, someone suggested, we might be taken for snobs if we end up talking like presenters on "France Culture". Fat chance! At this point we realised the ridiculousness of our concerns. Such a debate should be left for the time when we appear to be at risk of speaking French with some confidence and fluidity. We all agreed that a degree of local adaptation is inevitable but you can't adapt what you haven't got.
In the meantime I'll work hard, attend French classes, enjoy the newfound fecundity of my plants and decide whether having a pet locust is worth the sacrifice of my marigolds. Hmmm.....decisions, decisions.
Today felt like a promise of the summer to come. I could almost smell wild thyme, taste the summer dust hanging in the air and hear cicadas. I pottered around some friends' garden, the sun on my back and no sign of the brisk breeze usual at this time of the year. This false-sense of a mid-June day was further enhanced on returning home. Out in our street, The Ladies (our elderly neighbours) were taking the sun, and we knew they were serious as they had gotten the chairs out. From now until the end of May they'll bask like geckos whenever they get the chance. Come June and the seriously hot weather, they'll slowly move the chairs, nudged by the sun, from the top of the street to the bottom, looking for whatever shade they can find. From the end of August they'll be geckos again until the first chills of autumn drive them indoors. They have a spare chair kept for passers-by who might know something they want to hear and the assembly is governed over by Mme La Presidente, the woman outside whose house they happen to be sitting, so that they all get a turn.
Whenever we return from an outing, we're expected to relate every detail - where, when, how long, how much. They know what we had for our picnic lunch, the temperature of the lake we swam in, our fascination with the odd combine-harvesters used in vineyards, which map we used on our walk, everything. My schoolboy French is stretched to the limits.
Nothing is missed. The Ladies scrutinise every bagfull of Leclerc shopping. They can count full bottles going in, empties coming out and up to the bottle bank. Its impossible to do any DIY without them knowing what shade of magnolia the bathroom's going to be, or what new plant we've bought for our third floor terrace. "C'est comme Versailles en haut là, vraiment!"
They can be immensley helpful too. A couple of years ago I had a generalised allergic reaction to the steering wheel of the hire car but didn't know the cause till later. Coming back from a long drive, my hands, arms, legs, ears and mouth were swelling alarmingly. How on earth could I get help at 3pm on a Sunday? The Ladies gathered around and agreed that 15 should be called. They explained that this was the emergency doctor service. I started to head off to the nearest public phone, "But wait, Monsieur. You must use this one", said Madame reaching inside for the cordless phone. This kindness saved me a walk and meant they could hang on every symptom. They were agog, both horrified and relieved. The matter was sorted within the hour. I was seen at the on-call surgery within ten minutes and the Gendarmes had the chemist open up so my prescription could be filled . Twice daily medical bulletins were expected (and given) until the end of that holiday.
In September of the hot summer of 2004, "Quel canicule!!!!", it was still 80/24 degrees at 2am. The heat wasn't the only cause of insomnia. The fair was in town, the rides and sideshows being lined up the length of Le Tivoli which runs parallel to our street. We were taking adavantage of the relative cool by sanding and repainting our shutters. Returning from fetching something from the car, I was called over to The Ladies to explain what we were up to. "We're repainting the ...erm...comment c'est dit en français?....the.... doors of the windows"
"Ah, les volets!"
"Yes, that's the word, 'volets'"
A couple of days later, as I passed the group, I was invited to take The Chair. Never before had I been offered it and sat down rather nervously expecting a grilling. Silence. As one, they all leaned closer. Seven pairs of eyes searched me, probed me. Then La Presidente informed me that my French was odd. They all agreed that it was so, for who could know the French for combine-harvester and NOT know the word for shutters? With that I was dismissed.
Coming from London, I'm not used to talking with my neighbours. Over here, and in French, I find it a bit scary, very challenging, occasionally irksome, but generally a good thing to do. I don't mind their curiosity, scrutiny, benign interest and care. I realise how much I've missed these things since The Ladies retired indoors last autumn. Its been a cold and lonely winter. Seeing the sun-hungry group this afternoon reminded me that spring and summer are only a matter of a few weeks away and with that, more human contact.
And, just in case you ever need it, combine harvester?....moissoneuse-batteuse.