Parlez-vous provençal?

I lived for a year in Sanary-sur-Mer, a fishing/tourist town on the Mediterranean coast of France, about 35 miles east of Marseille. It’s a pretty town, with multi-colored fishing boats tethered to the quay and the azure Mediterranean unfolding before you. My time there did not produce the book I hoped it would, but that’s another story.

During the winter, I would look for things to do when the weather wasn’t good, and I was tired of writing. One day, I saw a notice posted that said weekly classes in Provençal were being offered for free. I wrote down the information, and when the date for the first class arrived, I went.

Sanary-sur-Mer

In the 18th century, about 30% of France spoke Occitan, the umbrella language of Provençal. The language was suppressed in the early 20th century in an effort to make French the only tongue spoken throughout France. Children who spoke Provençal in class were punished. All official business had to be conducted in French. The language withered.

Provençal feels like French, Italian and Spanish were thrown into a bowl and shaken up to create a single language. For example, “How are you?” is Cossí vas? “Good afternoon” is Bonser. “The good friend” is Lou bon ami.

What Provençal looks like

The Provençal class I attended was on the second floor of a building next to a church. We met once a week. It was all women, except for me. I think there were about twelve of us, and the class was taught in French. I became their mascot, the American man who tried vainly to learn to speak Provençal. Whenever the teacher called on me to say something in Provençal, my stumbling efforts were met by surprised delight by the ladies, as if I were an infant taking his first steps. Even my smallest attempts were greeted by applause and wide eyes.

“C'est très bien, Monsieur Richard!” someone would invariably say. That’s very good, Mr. Richard!

“Regarde comment il fait ça!” Look how he does it!

“Incroyable!” Unbelievable!

When all I’d done is say “Good morning.”

“I didn’t say that very well,” I would lament in French.

“Non, Monsieur Richard, c'était excellent!”

“Oui, il a vraiment bien dit ça!” Yes, he really did say that well!

All the women would nod and smile. It’s amazing how happy I became with their flattering words, true or not.

I enjoyed very much meeting them, and I looked forward to the class and to their company. There was something warm and comforting about being in their presence. I was far from home, by myself, and I would sometimes get lonely, especially in the winter when the town was empty of tourists and a bit stark. They mothered me, the women in the class, and I realized that we all want to be mothered from time to time, no matter how old we are. These women were sweet to me, and I was grateful.

The class lasted six weeks, I think. I was sorry to see it end. It gave me a sense of purpose, and it was a kind of adventure. I didn’t learn much Provençal, though.

Once in a while, I would run into one of the women from the class in town. I was always glad to see them. If she was with a friend, she would extend a hand toward me and say to her companion, brightly,

“Il parle provençal!”