Sauf Riverains

When I stopped to take the picture of the sign that says “sauf riverains” an old man on his bike watched with a confused look on his face. The village has many more picturesque things to photograph, but I explained I love the word riverain. He broke into a smile as if it made sense to him even though it didn’t make total sense to me. Why should I photograph a word I like to hear?

The sound of the word rolls off my tongue, probably without the correct “R” sounds that French requires. After all, as a Bostonian by origin, I did not need the letter “R” for the first 48 years of my life. An “H” substitute did fairly well.

The translation is basically…no admittance except for residents…

But then if I wrote bodice rippers, which I do not, I believe the name River Rain might do for the hero. I do know one boy named River, although his last name is that of a real river, and I haven’t wanted to ask anyone if he’s teased because of it. Because he lives in the US where they don’t know geography and the river is in the Middle East, perhaps he isn't teased. I hope not.

Then there’s the sound of rain on the river. In Argelès, for most of the year, the river is dry, but a sudden storm either here or in the mountains can cause it to flash flood sending water cascading over the banks and carrying cars away. But the plashing (that’s not a typo) but I also love the word plashing rather than splashing as used in Amy Lowell’s Patterns

And the plashing of waterdrops
In the marble fountain
Comes down the garden-paths.
The dripping never stops.

An old friend when I was in Italy on a rainy day when we heard the plashing of waterdrops in a marble fountain in the gardens of a villa almost château knew the poem much to my shock and we felt we were walking in the poem, a memory to treasure.

And the signs brings up memories of other rivers such as the Charles on the Fourth of July when the Boston Pops plays the 1812 Overture as fireworks shoot off and nearby church bells ring out or the Merrimack where I picnicked in the spring during my university years.

To return to the French meaning of the word, I can drive up this street when I have my friend’s car because she is a riverain and I wonder if anyone ever said something like “Oh you riverain, you.” Probably not.

Maybe I am just going senile getting such pleasure out of a single word and the old man on the bike recognized it. In any case, the pleasure is worth a photo and blog to me at least.