#Niçard

[beautiful-basque-country]

The controversy surrounding the use of Basque by Basque football coaches in press conferences is not limited to the Spanish state. After a journalist expressed his anger last weekend in Valladolid because Real Sociedad coach Imanol Alguacil answered in Euskera after the match between the Pucela team and Real, this Wednesday several Nice communicators did the same in the run-up to the Europa League match.

At the press conference prior to the match between Real and Nice, there was a hint of rebellion among a number of informants from Nice when, in press conference prior to the Europa League match, they were told that the first questions to the Real Sociedad coach were going to be in Basque and that there would be no translation into French of either them or the answers. The waters did not calm down even when they were told that it is tradition to do so before and after European matches - at least in the last five years with this Basque coach - and that normally the same questions are repeated in Spanish.

Despite the explanations, some local journalists threatened to ask the questions in niçard, the dialect of Occitan spoken in the French town.

Oooh, how scary! Stop the threats and go ahead and use that fucking dying dialect of Occitan, dudes! Relight it! Resucitate it! Because according to a study on the use of niçard of 2014 in the whole of the Alpes Maritimes the native speakers (or primary speakers) have disappeared and the number of neo-speakers (or secondary speakers) amounts to just 1,427 people. Which makes me think that by the luckiest of lucks several of those were journalists in that press conference, or the offended professionals couldn't even speak niçard themselves.

Chances of Imanol understanding it, though, are HIGH. It's a Romance language and judging by how it sounds, it has a high inter-intelligibility with Spanish.

Ugh these people.

[salvadorbonaparte]

hi, i'd like to propose the addition of nissart/niçois and shuadit to the folder

to save some time, i found these two pdf's for nissart: ieoparis dot free dot fr/delo/Jean-Baptiste%20CALVINO%20-%20Nouveau%20dictionnaire%20ni%E7ois-fran%E7ais dot pdf cdn dot reseau-canope dot fr/archivage/valid/158852/158852-24303-30865 dot pdf nissart is offered in schools around the city of nice so there might be further resources to be found by looking through regional networks and so forth. unfortunately i can't find anything for shuadit but there seems to be a lot of literature of it looking at it in retrospect out there. thank you for the folder!!

Hello, sorry for the late reply! I couldn't access the first Nissart pdf for some reason but I added the other one and I even found a little chapter on Shuadit! Thank you for the contribution

I will keep my eyes open for more resources!

[toosvanholstein]

Nissa la Bella, een ode aan Nice

Nice, mijn 2e woonplek. Nissa la Bella, in het Niçoise dialect. Klopt helemaal! Parijs in 't klein op z'n Italiaans. Kleur, architectuur, kunst, ambiance, zon en een rijke geschiedenis. Deze week in TOOS&ART een ode aan Nissa la Bella. #art #kunst #expo

Een paar jaar geleden kocht ik bij een rommelzaakje in Nice een heerlijk protserig ovalen lijstje. Handgesneden en natuurlijk verguld. Daar móést een schilderijtje in: ‘Nissa la Bella’. Eigenlijk een soort zelfportret, die vrouw die vanuit zo’n echt Niçoise lijst vanaf een terras staat uit te kijken over ‘mijn Nice’. Het 19e eeuwse Nice. Net zo heerlijk protserig en verguld als die lijst. Gewoon…

[faulknxr]

the peregrine soliton.

closed starter ft. @agenthemingway, mentions of @dxckinson.

setting: multiple locations.

timeframe: various times.

summary: the recruitment of a new agent. the beginning of a friendship. the premature end to a mission.

content warnings: none for this part. future content may include depictions of depression, period-typical homophobia, suicidal ideation, etc., triggers will be updated within the tags.

1986. 18th of September.

The clouds by Agent Dickinson’s head roll across the plane’s oval window like chronophotographs, its animated stroll across the sky, each phase of the movement, captured in the lens of Faulkner’s eyes. He hasn’t seen the wisps of cirrus clouds rush by like busy traffic since almost a decade ago when this agent last took to the air. And never has he witnessed them in something as dandy as business class. But for his snoozing partner seated by the window, it’s his first time leaving the country on a plane (and boarding a plane in general). From a technical point of view, it is more efficient and discreet to have their trip to and back from France to be as comfortable for them and their guest.

Careful not to disturb the sleeping man beside him, Faulkner slides out the files from his briefcase and reviews them again. He reminds himself to breathe out through his nose after his chest lightly pangs due to a lack of oxygen. His fingers do not tremble, but his vision does, blurring the name on the brief before focusing back into clarity. Dark, dark brown eyes linger on the photo in the file.

He is so young here to the point of unrecognition.

Agent Faulkner parts his lips no more significant than a millimeter apart and inhales. It's soundless, like how they taught in boot camp. But basic training hasn't covered the skills required for this Herculean feat. This is the only time he has experienced a physical ailment close to sickness that clams up his hands and dampens the crisp white collar of his dress shirt, spiteful of the handkerchief Agent Faulkner carries to keep his indecorousness at bay.

Then, if his background fails him, Faulkner can only fall back on the lessons from his best tutor. However, that dearly venerated man no longer extends visits. He last saw Faulkner a long time ago.

The ding of the seatbelt sign signals their plane's descent. Feeling his partner would enjoy the view, Agent Faulkner gently nudges the man at his left and whispers, "Agent, please wake up. I believe you would like to see Nice."

Their contact meets them when the two agents exit Aéroport Nice Côte d'Azur, leading them to a parking lot and passing them the keys to a partridge-gray Citroën GSA. The thin, bearded man gives them a once-over before he tuts. Crossing his arms, the contact inquires with an arched brow, « Savez-vous tous où aller? »

Having studied the maps and trekked through the French coastline in his youth, Faulkner nods. The other man cocks his head with a frown, and a small puff of air is forced from his wrinkled lips. Seeing that the man is unconvinced, Agent Faulkner says in pleasantly accented Niçard, « Òc, n’ai una foura, monsieur. Mercés a ouf. »

The Frenchman does a double-take, muttering to himself, « Porca petan. Que lenga a, a Paris va. »

Agent Faulkner opens the door for Agent Dickinson in the front passenger seat — to which he receives a grin and a softly whispered thanks — and goes to place their luggage in the trunk — to which Dickinson jolts up in his seat and says, “No, let me help.” But Faulkner declines, heading to the back of the car as the man is clearly going through his first bout of jetlag.

Giving their contact another professional smile after getting their luggage in order, Agent Faulkner climbs into the driver’s seat to the lively tune of a French pop song. It is his mission partner’s doing, already establishing musical accompaniment in their drive along the coastal mountainside. It’s only been a year of teaming together, but they have found their respective roles.

According to the brief, the drive from the airport to the Alpes-Maritimes commune Sainte-Agnès will take roughly two hours. Agent Dickinson has the map open to call out directions to the streets, his face in a slight frown while turning back and forth between the English and French sides of the road map. On a gray-blue September morning at ten hundred hours, the two Temporal Agents drive out of the parking lot.

Faulkner keeps his eyes on the road, two hands on the wheel, focusing on the drive while his mission partner looks out the window and whistles at the view of the slate-blue sea. The Mediterranean Sea, which hugs the Southern French coastline, is connected to the more immense Atlantic Ocean but is almost entirely enclosed by land. At the north are Southern Europe and Anatolia, opposite at the south are the Northern countries of Africa, and its east is bordered by the West Asian Levant.

In the Mediterranean Sea’s grand history, the Roman Empire is the only state ever to control its coasts in a nautical hegemony. The sea’s name comes from the Romans. The 3rd-century Latin grammarian and geographer Gaius Julius Solinus, better known simply as Solinus, called it Mare Mediterrāneum, which means the sea ‘in the middle of land,’ or inland; the term a compound of the Latin words ‘middle’ medius, ‘land’ terra, and ‘qualitative nature’ -āneus.

Agent Dickinson stirs in his seat, sticking his head slightly out of the open window.

“Agent, be careful,” Faulkner warns but keeps his eyes on the road. Through his periphery, he glimpses Dickinson’s deep umber curls rippling by the sea breeze like waves.

“Is this place known for its fisheries, by chance, FK? I know you can’t look, but there are nets all over the water over there. I’ve never seen anything like it. Hey, the French like clams, right? Maybe they’re clam farms... Wait. There aren't any boats.”

Ah, what his partner is describing must be a cross sea. The autumnal squalls generating the square waves have Dickinson confuse them for a wide-cast fishing net, as the skies above them show no sign of a tremendous gale. These squared seas are due to two weather systems meeting at the precipices of their systems, far from their sources. Despite their innocent and novelty appearance, this sea state is the typical perpetrator of shipwrecks, as the vessel cannot sail into one set of waves without sailing parallel to the other. In short, it is a perilous sign.

Explaining it as such to his partner and reminding his partner that his codename is Faulkner, not FK, the other agent replies, “Ay, n’ombre… Y’know, that fact is almost as comforting as the thing you said about us dying instantly if our plane crashed in the ocean last night, Faulk.”

Faulkner smiles, and his partner laughs out loud.

It takes them half an hour to drive ten kilometers inland from Menton to an outcrop of rocky cliffsides. Their hatchback ascends the ever-winding and steepening slope, as Sainte-Agnès (or Sant Anha in the local dialect) sits at the highest point in the Alpes-Maritimes department in the Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur region, 800 meters above the level of the Mediterranean Sea. Home to less than 455 people by 1982, the small town’s precarious road showcases the dazzling sights of the Provençal hilltops and the vast sea.

The rural town hasn’t changed much from the past. The jagged peak of the commune creeps into sight. Beyond that would be the Fort Maginot de Sainte-Agnès. A part of the Maginot Defense Line in 1932 to defend the area against possible Italian and German invasion, it has now been remodified into a museum. It’ll find more use as a cultural heritage site than a war front, as the invaders went around and never sieged the fort.

If they had more time, Faulkner would’ve loved to tour around with Agent Dickinson to highlight the ancient churches, castle ruins, religious pilgrimages, and legends surrounding this coastal commune. Southern France is famous for their cuisine, and many terraced restaurants in the region offer an unrivaled view of the French Riviera that only their mountain town can provide. However, Faulkner is efficient, and they have arrived at their destination at the crossroads of the three roads that lead into the city: Chapelle Saint-Sébastien.

The stout, one-storied chapel has a large wooden cross at the front of its cobblestoned entrance. A metal gate is in place, signaling to any congregation that service is unavailable until later. A tall, lone man sweeps the steps with a wooden broom. As the car slows to a stop on the gravel lot, Faulkner checks his watch. Eleven hundred hours and forty-two minutes. C’est l’heure du déjeuner. Or, in English, lunch-time.

He opens the door, and a bit of moisture meets his hand. The skies above have gathered the flock of sheep-puff clouds. They mingle; the air is fresh and cool. Mist and light drizzle dampen the coarse earth. Faulkner looks to the backseat of the car, takes his briefcase, and tells his partner, “Agent, I regret to inform you it is raining. Have you packed your raincoat? I can get it for you.”

“I don’t mind getting a little wet, but I know you'll insist. It should be on my suitcase’s left side inner pocket, but don’t open the other side ‘cause that’s where my unmentionables are.” Dickinson says.

Faulkner quirks an eyebrow and says, “But you mentioned it, so they aren’t ‘unmentionable,’ Agent.” But he nods and does just that to the pleasant sound of his partner's loud chuckles, quickly fetching their raincoats from the trunk while Agent Dickinson also exits the vehicle.

The light sprinkle wets his gelled hair, and a few strands fall out of place when he brushes them back. However, Agent Faulkner doesn’t mind the rain. It is necessary to the ecosystem and a refreshing conclusion to extended heat waves; he even finds the sound relaxing while reading a book. But he doesn’t want to ruin his suit or wet his files. Picking up an umbrella in case the mizzle explodes into a cloudburst, he closes the trunk and hands the raincoat to his partner.

Together, they climb the cobblestone steps, approaching their target: the man sweeping the church front.

Agent Faulkner calms himself with another breath. He has yet to fail a single mission — assassinations, cover-ups, codebreaking the Soviets during the brink of Cold War Armageddon, all these high-risk assignments a mainstay in his resume. But this recruitment task is so out of his depth.

The Temporal Bureau has had this individual on their radar since his early days in the United States Army. The Bureau has given Agent Faulkner the unique mission usually offered to a designated and experienced recruiter. Although he wishes to ask, why me, Faulkner knows their organization does not make mistakes. And so mustn’t he.

He is someone who knows how to rally the troops, Agent Faulkner. He is good with his words. Someone who will know his brothers-in-arms like the back of his hand. A person we must be able to rely on and trust. With your help, we’ll bring him into the Temporal Bureau.

Faulkner remembers how he reacted to the picture his superiors slid to him across the briefing room table. He shook, no different from a dead leaf on a branch.

Make certain you will not fail him or us, Agent.

There is a tug on his sleeve. Faulkner reacts, snapping his head to — Agent Dickinson, who gives Faulkner the tiniest crease of his rosy, full lips, pinched at the corners. “Hey, if it makes you feel any better, this is my first time too. When I was with the old man—uh, I mean when I was with my old partner, we didn’t take any noncombat missions, so I’m out of my element as well. But the bureau wouldn’t have sent you—us out here if they didn’t think we could do this. So let’s just, y’know, stick to the script we came up on the plane, and if it feels like he’s not biting, then… I don’t know, we can talk from the heart?”

Faulkner cannot speak. So he nods, confused by the tenseness in his chest disappearing. His face feels a little hot.

“That’s him over there, isn’t it? Damn, I thought someone fudged the numbers when I saw that six-foot-four… What are they feeding you guys in the army that we’re not getting in the other branches?” Agent Dickinson whispers.

Faulkner also wonders about present-day rations but keeps it private from his partner. There is no place for his mind to wander now. It is mission time.

« Bonjour monsieur. Parlez-vous anglais? » Faulkner calls out to the tall man, mustering as much warmth as he can into his greeting, as taught by his tutor. If it works, it’d be all thanks to that man. If it fails, it is Faulkner’s shortcoming. As the two agents advance until they are only a meter from the target, Faulkner’s features dissolve into content placidity.

This time in English, he asks, “Hello, nice to meet you. I am Agent Faulkner. My associate here is Agent Dickinson. Mr. Jamal Bernard Jackson, correct? May we have a bit of your time?”

[loubatas]

In Niça they have the pissaladiera, which some people call the "niçard pizza" because like pizza, it's a flatbread with a garnish of vegetable sauce, but in this case it's a sauce made up of onions cooked until they're a compote and spreadable, and on top of it you have black olives and pissala, a spread/sauce made of anchovies macerated in salt, similar to the roman garum

Historically Niça has been ping-ponging between France and several Italian states until France yoinked it definitely (for now at least) in the mid-19th century along with Savoy, so its cooking is definitely influenced by northern Italian cooking, especially Ligurian cooking

All the ingredients of the pissaladiera are native to the Mediterranean area, and "flatbread cooked with a vegetable/plant garnish and sometimes cheese and meat/fish" is actually a pretty common dish on all shores of the sea (manakish, lahmacun, catalan coca, pizza obviously... are other examples), and has been attested at least since roman times. The garnish varies a lot with time and place, but the garnished flatbread still reigns supreme

As for pasta, pesto is a common sauce to eat with pasta in Liguria, as well as many cream, egg and cheese-based sauces (like the egg and cheese-based carbonara, though it's a recent recipe too). Meat and fish are commonly seasoned with herbs and garlic-based sauces Although they became very common in the last century, there was and there is still much more to Italian cooking than just tomatoes and tomato sauce

Well I would give a medieval peasant some spaghetti.

[timriva-blog]

Niça: polemica per l’emplec del basco dins una conferéncia de premsa esportiva

Los jornalistas locals menacèron de pausar las questions en niçard Polemica a Niça per l’emplec del basco dins una conferéncia de premsa esportiva prèvia a la partida de fotbòl entre las esquipas de l’OGC Niça e de la Real Sociedad de la Liga dels Campions de la UEFA. L’entraïnaire de la Real Sociedad, de Sant Sebastian (Bascoat), Imanol Alguacil, respondèt en basco a las questions dels…

[duailuvu1st202moonplanetsandi1]

WHERE DID THIS SONOFABITCH,

GET THE PINK DARKENED MAUVE FLAVORED bloo d LOGO CARD OF

CHIPSET A AUTHORITY Pi nk , BY JESUS AND MUHAMMAD, ARE THOSE LOAVES, EYES, PYRAMIDICAL OPTICALS ???? AND , C H E E S E?

Be, said he, of Thee, self, sèlves, eyes twice rude forward, OPTICALS forsee.

D'òrdre septentrionala demorèron fòrça, lo títol d'una revista òc, òc que niçard, de originària, A de, dè d'el del da dè da Gama de galga, y ciconeria, consecreria, umin, luminós tomba, luminolla, luna sant saratrèãñöro llõrés, povera lo qbla, lo ablã, ñõ ã õ ñãa y ña, õoña, iñïñã recetemè sieñ, dien dieñ, uüoõaãnñç! ct! icçtict! tacitearoña, teaspoña zxquõaãnñorieria, blemished , betrayers, tried traying b

Lo a povera gEmma, Gal Ga ni, Versace, Genovese , carpe diem, motherfucker, from a bitch name of Capri A'ti, the fifth name is wild , a term guilty have referenced, equal to "neutrality" . When the neuteur, of the Eüñã, get here, they are going to thee

Bloodred in color spills blood, red, orangie,

The fresh Blood of the Ruby red, is much d'eretièrs sweeter, than he, ye to ya,Yu,ou,yu, ten cent to a pair things, 🤌, ' ` -_• Capri A'ti .

Eñ

ien dieñ

[sky60038]

Crèches_Provencales_2023 par Olivier Boyer Via Flickr : Beaulieu sur mer_01 1 - Beaulieu-sur-Mer (Bèuluec en occitan niçard) est une commune française située dans le département des Alpes-Maritimes, en région Provence-Alpes-Côte d'Azur.

[josemanuellopezsanmartin]

Celso Persici (Vida y obra)

Tal día como el 9 de octubre de hace 127 años nació Celso Persici. Nació el 9-10-1896, algunas fuentes citan erróneamente el 9 de diciembre, nace en Crespellano, Emilia-Romaña, (Italia) y murió el 15-9-1988 en la Residencia «Les Palmiers» de Niza, (País Niçard, Occitania), (Francia). Celso Persiciel fue un militante anarquista y anarcosindicalista.

[sobrelaanarquiayotrostemas]

Celso Persici (Vida y obra)

Celso Persici (1896-1988). Nació el 9 de octubre de 1896, algunas fuentes citan erróneamente el 9 de diciembre, nace en Crespellano, Emilia-Romaña, (Italia) y murió el 15 de septiembre de 1988 en la Residencia «Les Palmiers» de Niza, (País Niçard, Occitania), (Francia) Celso Persiciel fue un militante anarquista y anarcosindicalista. Sus padres se llamaban Giuseppe Persici y Giuseppina…

[negreabsolut]

Retaule de Sant Jordi, de Pere Niçard. Retaule gòtic que podem trobar al Museu Diocesà de Mallorca. Pintat pels volts del 1468. La ciutat dels fons és Palma, amb la seva badia.

[gwendolynlerman]

Languages of the world

Occitan (occitan)

Basic facts

Number of native speakers: 800,000

Official language: Catalonia (Spain)

Recognized minority language: France, Italy, Monaco

Language of diaspora: Argentina, Mexico, United States

Script: Latin, 23 letters

Grammatical cases: 0

Linguistic typology: fusional, SVO

Language family: Indo-European, Italic, Romance, Western, Gallo-Romance, Occitano-Romance

Number of dialects: 6

History

960 - oldest written fragment

14th century - start of decline in status

1789 - beginning of the decline of Occitan

19th century - literary renaissance

Writing system and pronunciation

These are the letters that make up the alphabet: a b c d e f g h i j l m n o p q r s t u v x z.

Several diacritics can be added to these letters, including the grave accent (`), the acute accent (´), the dieresis (¨), the cedilla under -c- (ç), and the interpunct (·).

There is no fixed stress in words.

Grammar

Nouns have two genders (masculine and feminine), two numbers (singular and plural), and no cases.

Possessive adjectives are generally preceded by the corresponding article.

Verbs are conjugated for tense, mood (indicative, conditional, imperative, and subjunctive), voice, person, and number.

Dialects

There are six main dialects: Gascon, Languedocien, Limousin, Auvergnat, Provençal, and Vivaro-Alpine. Gascon includes Béarnese and Aranese, while Provençal also comprises Niçard and Shuadit.

Occitan is a pluricentric language, and Standard Occitan respects and admits regional adaptations.

[jaimetalangue]

Lou paillassou

I just remembered another word that I noticed in Spanish while watching La casa de las flores: payaso. I didn’t know this word (my vocab is quite limited in Spanish) but I identified it easily because of its similarity to the nissart word paillassou (pronounced /pa’jasu/, and the Spanish one is pronounced /pa’ʝaso/).

Background: I grew up in Nice, in southeastern France, and the word paillassou can be an insult. Lou paillassou is a traditional character, a straw puppet, during carnival in Nice. Paillassou! is an insult used to designate a person without personality. Nissart is the local form of Provençal, which is a variety of Occitan spoken in Provence (nissart is written niçard in Provençal; in French we call it niçois, as the inhabitants of Nice).

Apparently, according to wiktionary, paillassou comes from palhasso in Occitan. Palhasso and payaso both come from the Italian word pagliaccio (/paʎ’ʎat.tʃo/), which means clown. Pagliaccio is derived from paglia, which means straw. I also found the Portuguese equivalent palhaço.

[segledepericles]

Hola! I don't know if you've gotten this before, but I'm super interested in learning Occitan to enhance my research. I specialize in France and occasionally find Occitan during my research. Do you know any native speakers of Occitan, and generally speaking are they comfortable with a non-native learning bits of their language?

I personally only know one speaker of Occitan: a classmate from Val d’Aran but she was very ehh imperialistic with these things so she refused to speak Aranese even though she could speak it and tried to use Catalan the minimum too, only in Catalan class and for the rest she just used Spanish. But I read a lot of Occitan media and try to follow closely what goes on linguistically in the other side of the Pyrenees. I have spoken to other Occitan speakers and French speakers who understand Occitan because of their grandparents while traveling and in my last summer job which was very near the frontier, and they’ve been much more positive (even if we also had a workmate from Provence who would literally leave as soon as my other workmate from Lengadoc started playing music in Occitan).

And yes, Occitan-speakers (the more activists kind, not the “uh it’s worthless and we shouldn’t keep it alive because French is just superior” kind) are always thrilled to have non-native speakers learn Occitan. Many Occitan people are learning the language now after their grandparents/parents were ashamed to speak it to them when they were little. There’s a great effort being made to try to get people to learn it in order to keep it alive.

The best resource I know is the free online course by Chambra d’Òc (here), which is in Alpine dialect (the organization is from Valadas Occitanas, Italian state). In case you’re interested, they also have a course in Francoprovençal/Arpitan (choose dialect here). I will make a post now explaining this site in more detail because I think it’s worth spreading.

As for other dialects, there’s panoccitan.org which offers a free course from French. This site tries to teach a “standard” based on all the dialects.

And I haven’t looked into it much yet, but as @langsandlit posted earlier, there’s the YouTube channel Doc Tiblon that is uploading classes to learn Provençal (Niçard variety).

And a while ago I compiled this list with resources I found and sites you can practise with (newspapers, TV, etc).

I hope this is helpful to you :D

[ayellowbirds]

The last fluent speaker of Shuadit died in November of 1977

Depending who you ask, Shuadit was a mixed language, dialect, or pidgin of the Provençal dialect of the Occitan language—itself fairly endangered as a language—spoken by French Jews. It may have been nothing more than “lenga d’òc plus some Hebrew”; it might have had more depth that modern scholars miss out on because its actual use as a spoken language disappeared.

For those of you who don’t know, Occitan is the language of a region split between France, Italy, Monaco, and Spain; there was a time in European history when Occitan was the language of culture in western Europe, and it’s where we get the modern word “troubadour”. If you were an Occitan speaker in the thirteenth century, you could have probably gotten around without much trouble anywhere in Europe where people enjoyed music and poetry. Now? Not so much.

One of the regions in which Occitan is/was spoken is Provence, and within Provence is the city of Nice.

My grandmother’s family were Niçard Jews.

My father always spoke of them as Sephardic. To a lot of modern Jews, there’s really only Ashkenazim and Sephardim, any other distinctions are seen as being too precise, too nitpicky or divisive, never mind African or Asian Jews.

And yeah, maybe they were Sephardic. But my dad’s memory for these things is pretty poor, because he was born before the Shoah and there’s a lot he recalls imprecisely. He doesn’t like dwelling on his family history, he doesn’t understand why i need to connect to that and learn about it.

But one time, when i asked him about his mom’s family, whether they spoke Ladino ever—even suggesting the other names by which it’s been known, or even just Spanish—he gave a very vague answer, along the lines of “they spoke, you know, that language”. He couldn’t recall the name, or what it sounded like. “Shuadit” and langue d’oc rang no bells at the time, and he didn’t want to go any further with the subject, but...

i have to wonder.

[sokarieu]

City of Nice Capital of the Alpes-Maritimes department on the French Riviera, sits on the pebbly shores of the Baie des Anges. It was founded by the Greeks and later a retreat for 19th-century European elite, the city also has long history of attracting artists. — in Nice, France.

Photo By - www.sokari.eu