I have been in France for 11 days, 3 of those in Paris, but otherwise mostly in Aix-en-Provence, where I have rented an apartment for until new year’s eve. Then I fly out, missing the event entirely, and arrive back in NZ on 2 January. What am I doing – well let’s start with today.
I got up and did a yoga practise – I am supposed to be improving my fitness while I am here – and then set out for one of my many little challenges. Today it was beauty treatments. Having already navigated the system of having to pay to subscribe to an establishment or else pay triple prices for everything, it was time to go beyond nails and dive head first into the world of waxing and tinting. So I psyched myself up, practised all the necessary instructions, and set off full of trepidation. Exposing ones body to a chic French fashionista is bad enough, without having to explain the technicalities of what is required in a foreign tongue. However, I survived been waxed and polished by an expert, and so another hurdle leapt.
After lunch (actually a late breakfast because too nervous to eat before beauty treatment) a knock on the door and it was Rita’s husband. Rita is the lovely neighbour who keeps an eye on me for Madame (apartment owner who lives elsewhere). He wanted me gone I think, so he could let the maid in. Yes, I have a maid once a week who cleans, and tidies everything away with such ruthless efficiency I have to rearrange my space back to usable when she is gone. I have never seen her, and suspect I never will. Money is left in an envelope in the drawer, and she comes and goes in my absence. Seems to work for both of us.
Then I had to go and post a letter to confirm that my son in law, who is trying to get permanent residency in NZ, was actually living in a genuine marriage with my daughter. The letter not a problem, but how and where to post it? Siri on my phone sent me down the road towards motorway to an address that turned out to be a block of flats. Monsieur Rita pointed me gently in the opposite direction to the large La Poste building on the intersection I walk through every single day. The machine that sells the stamps insisted there was no such country as Nouvelle Zélande, and once it told the man at the counter the same thing he was so kind as to sell me a stamp in person. Hurdle 2 for the day negotiated.
Finally I set off on my long daily walk. It was a very warm day, and the first thing that happened was that the arm fell off my sunglasses. Fortunately every third shop in Aix is an optician, so soon got that sorted (“pouvez vous aider moi” seemed to work), but managed to spend E30 on a case for them at the same time. Oh well, I had been meaning to buy one sometime.
Finally, when I got weary, I sat drinking my rosé, watching the world go by from Bar Cézanne, and wondering once again what I am doing here? Bloody Brian. My refrain but only half true, because I have always needed to do this. Who could have known I would meet and love another man before I followed through on my plan? C’est la vie, et la vie est bonne.
Aix is full of young people. They dress in the tightest jeans (boys and girls) and t-shirts, sneakers and leather jackets. They seem not to care what the future holds for them. Phones in hand they strut and stroll, greet and kiss, chattering like the birds in the trees on the Cours Mirabeau at dusk. And the dogs. I want to photograph every one for Johan. I have never seen so many different breeds. They go everywhere – into shops and bars and restaurants. On the train. But contrary to popular belief the streets are not paved with dog shit. They are very civilised, these dogs. I am beginning to see why Johan loves them so much.