Amuse-Bouche No. 23:
by Julia Frey (julia.frey@aya.yale.edu)
I learned that song in Girl Scouts. The reality is somewhat different.…
You know how all of France vacations at the beach in August? Not Auguste (my husband). We go to the mountains— (off-season). As a (n., denizen of St-Germain-des-Prés in Paris), the only I know well is the . So we’ve rented a (literally, rural shelter, a self-catering cottage). Originally were inexpensive and extremely primitive. Nowadays, they come in all sizes and levels of luxury. Our “” even includes —literally, a toad, here meaning the smallest size of grand piano, so called because of its squat shape. Lucky. Auguste’s (hobby) is the piano. (The painter Ingres was a serious amateur violinist.)
Our is in an (summer pasture), and this (meadow) is definitely not St-Germain. At twilight, farmers drive a snappy red (, i.e., 4x4) to the (electric fence), open it, and honk discreetly to a herd of (the local breed). The cows, rising gently from their ruminations, obediently follow the motorized cowherd down the hill to be milked.
Digression: seems to have a meaning for any occasion, from “ ” (said admiringly), to (adv., very), to the expression “” (her French is incomprehensible). Most common is (adj., vindictive, mean). During the May,1968, student revolts, demonstrators carried signs reading “”—“death to cops,” although in the United States, “off the pigs” was the consecrated insult.
But r (let’s get back to the subject). Looking up from piano practice, Auguste announces, “.” A ballad? I’m no composer. The dictionary bails me out— (to take a walk without a goal). Sometimes the t in is not pronounced, so watch your u. Don’t say , meaning without end, and a homonym for (without mud).
When Auguste says balade, it’s He means (hike), as in , not to mention (exhausting). “Mountain climbing is serious,” warns Auguste. He uses , official French hiking maps, which identify trails like the nationwide complex of (zhay-AIR) or . is masculine, from s, even if is feminine. Mapped trails are (blazed) with metal markers or blazes. But cutting into the bark is . Now they’re tacked or painted on posts, trees and rocks.
Auguste’s maps are full of mysteries. How do you tell a (path) from a (path) from a (path)? Even the French wonder. A is a footpath, a can be wider, a might be anything from drivable to skiable. Serious (mountaineers) often want more: (rock climbing), (scrambling), or (Italian—a cliff-front with pitons for roped climbing). Anxious about linguistic and geological pitfalls, I look up (streams), (small plateaux), and (flat limestone with narrow, eroded crevices). Then I assemble my “ten essentials” for the hike: (compass), , (foul weather gear), (emergency rations) (water), first-aid kit, (sunglasses), (sunscreen), (flashlight) and cell phone. … (you never know). Just in case, I bring GPS, insect repellent, a Mylar blanket, matches, (hiking poles), une of Cognac.
At the trailhead, Auguste gapes at me. “You want me to carry all that?” he says, “I may be your [milk cow: i.e., moneybags], but I’m not a [burro].” He canters up the nearest slope, whinnying. I trudge behind, sweating, swearing and swatting flies, my dangling from my belt and backpack. (I’m not a pretty sight). Still, climbing through fields of alpine flowers, even I love the wind, sunshine and spectacular .
Auguste awaits me at the top, catching rays. “,” he says—an easy climb. And joy! At the peak there’s more than just the usual cairn with the names of other hikers who survived the climb. We have a civilized lunch in a , surrounded by groups of schoolchildren who intelligently came up on the (cog railway).
© 2010 Julia Frey
