It was my first time traveling to the South of France. Before I left, my girlfriend Kenene warned, "The French speak in whispers, especially in Monte Carlo."

"Are you saying I'm a loud mouth?"

Long pause. "Your voice has a tendency to carry."

Aside from the roar of Ferraris and vroom of scooters, Monte Carlo is extremely quiet. The French converse with one another as if sharing secrets. One evening, I observed a table of five young, beautiful French women. They barely talked above a stage whisper. Most times they appeared to be in deep thought. When they did speak, they leaned in close and whispered. I wanted to say, "Hey, girls! You're in Monte Carlo! Not high tea at The Ritz."

Laughs are not intended to be ladylike. Those are saved for chuckles, snickers and teehees. A real laugh is an explosion that comes from the gut. When I get together with my girlfriends, we gab about work, kids, husbands, ex-husband's girlfriend, you name it — there is never a lull in our conversations. And never is there a time we get together and not laugh. "Stop! Stop! I'm gonna pee my pants."

Maybe it was a slow week, but even the casinos were quiet. Not at all like in Vegas, where bells ring, ding, ding, and loud, happy montages of electronic songs play, and winners scream when they win. I wondered if French tourists in Vegas spoke above a whisper?

The lounge at our hotel played live music. Music you could get up and dance to. Music you could sing along to. No one did. People deep in conversations sat in their chairs. I saw their mouths moving but heard nothing. The only voices I heard came from Americans sitting at the bar.

For the most part, I remained in fear of using my voice. I subtly changed — my voice softened. I pretended to be shy — reverted to using my hands. Mouthed my words. When my son phoned me, he said, "I can't hear you. Did you lose your voice?" Until one evening, our waiter sat us at the same table with two other American couples. We immediately became best friends for the night.

Maybe like us, they missed laughing out loud, too. Because that evening we all laughed, big American guffaws, snort-laughs, tabletop-pounding laughs that left us exhausted by the end of our dinner. Lost completely in our laughter, we didn't realize the other French diners at the outdoor cafe weren't laughing. When we got up to leave, four diners stood up and applauded.

Truth be told, I envy the French's cool factor. Their refined ways when they are angry sound not in the least bit nasty. In fact, the only way I could tell the people at the table behind us were angry was when one French man shook his fist. Let's just say, I would rather have a French person scold and shake their fist at me than an American.

Being scolded by the French intimidated the voice right out of me. I spoke one and two syllable words when absolutely necessary: merci, bonjour, bonsoir and oui. Thirty-eight hours passed, and I began to miss my voice. How could I regain it and not upset the French?

On the boardwalk there was a carnival park for kids. A main attraction was a trampoline. Three and 6-year-old kids wore harnesses with bungee cords attached and jumped up and down on the trampoline. "That's it. I'm buying a ticket!"

I slipped into the child swing harness. Two French girls climbed onto the trampoline. They stood on either side of me. "Un," they said, and pulled down on the bungee cords. "Deux," they pulled down harder. "Trois," and they immediately let go and jumped off the trampoline.

Every organ in my body shot straight up into the air. My voice carried decibels above the crowd. I had my voice back! I rebounded with such force it propelled screams of laughter right out of me. A crowd gathered outside the gate. With their hands cupped over their ears they stared up at the carnival's main attraction — moi. They talk in whispers. Your voice does have a tendency to carry. So what. I'll never see these people again.

To find out more about Mimi Kopulos and read her past columns, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.

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