Month: November 2017

Everyday brings me more and more material to write about living in Aix-en-Provence, but I am finding it much harder to continue with the story about my grandmother.  Part of the delay is the need for ongoing research.  Some of it does not really matter, since I have so many gaps to fill in anyway.  But once I get started, one thread or thought leads to another, and before I know it half a day has passed without me leaving the apartment, with only crumbs to show for it.

If I were a novelist, this wouldn’t matter, because I would accept it was an essential part of the process.  I am not a novelist.  I am a person trying to construct a story that will make sense of certain parts of my life and pysche.  I find the need for authenticity, which is in fact part of my character, to be frustrating my desire to simply spew forth words onto the page.  So today, before I wander off into another little reverie about this place, I will put a little more of the grandmother story up front.

The Channel Islands are a long way from New Zealand.  In the first quarter of the 20th century, before Europe was shattered by war, they were even further away.  About 6 weeks by steamer, largely ignoring the Suez Canal that had opened in 1869, and following the traditional sailing route round the Cape of Good Hope, taking on fuel at Tenerife, Cape Town and Hobart.  A heady and exotic journey for anyone, let alone an unaccompanied young woman raised in the equivalent of a small English or French village surrounded by water.  

My grandmother had been preceded to New Zealand by her sister Mary, called May – the same names that would be passed onto my mother.  Mary was five years my grandmother’s senior, and the sixth known child of James and Adele Girard.  She arrived in Wellington as a third class passenger aboard the Tongarairo in July 1911.  Her occupation was listed as “domestic”, and her voyage, whilst exotic, would have been challenging.  

Third class had, until just a few years previously, been described as steerage.  Around 400 souls, each required to bring their own bedding and eating utensils, in four or six berth cabins on the lower decks of the ship.  Food was basic, porridge and preserved meats, with occasional meals of fresh meat and vegetables, and strict rules applied to on board behaviour.  Even so, there was company and entertainments, and the hard edges would have been eased by the novelty of the situation.  Not to mention being free of family direction and censure, and able to do as one pleased within the confines of the ship.

However for Mary, a strong and independent minded 22 year old, the hardship would have been greater than for many others.  If my mother’s cousin Gerard had his family history correct, she was pregnant when she left Jersey.  In fact, that was the reason she came to New Zealand.  She had been shipped off to avoid the shame of an unwed pregnancy, and with the hope that she would make a life and find a husband there.  It seems that Gerard was almost certainly correct. The dates suggest that by the time she reached Wellington she was at least three months pregnant.

No doubt Mary could easily have concealed her pregnancy while on board ship under the guise of seasickness, but who could wish such a journey on anyone pregnant and alone?  And what must her arrival in Wellington in mid-winter have been like?  There was a system in place to cope with new emigrants, which were actively sought by the government of the time.  A hostel for temporary accommodation, and assistance to find work.  She would not have been left standing on the wharf, but nor would she have been readily employable as a single pregnant woman.  In her favour was a shortage of marriageable women, particularly for men farming in those parts of the country only recently broken in.

How it happened is not known, but on 24 September 1911, presumably obviously pregnant by that time, she was married to Dennis Dominic Kelliher, a farm worker born in Geraldine in the South Island.  Her future in New Zealand was secured, and in January 1912 she gave birth her first child, my mother’s older cousin, Dorothy.  Three more children would follow within the marriage, and one without (another story).  No doubt her widowed mother back in Jersey was relieved.  Daughters in those days needed to be guarded until safely disposed of in marriage.  In the case of Mary, this had not quite gone according to plan, but the eventual outcome was acceptable.

So Mary was picked up on a sellers market, and installed at first in Gisborne and subsequently at Te Karaka in rural Poverty Bay, with a baby and a husband to care for.  She may or may not have been happy, but she had a price to pay for her sins, and I think she would have accepted that.  This woman, who became my great-aunt, is someone of whom I have some memory.  She was garrulous, cheerful, and self-sufficient, running a large boarding house in Spring St, Onehunga until the Railways took it for a rail extension that never occurred.  Her marriage, not ideal but serviceable, lasted till her husband died in 1965 (the same year as my grandmother) aged 76.

Even so, it must have been hard in the beginning.  Perhaps that is why my grandmother was sent to join her – to provide some temporary assistance with the two babies.  Either that, or to prevent her suffering a similar fate.  A little of both I expect.

Whatever the case, at age 19 she left London in January 1913 on board the steamer Tainui bound for Wellington. It was probably not apparent to her or her mother that Europe was on the brink of a war that would change the face of the world forever.   My grandmother was just another 3rd class passenger labelled ‘domestic’ setting out on an adventure.  

Hopefully someone was there to meet her when she arrived.  From Wellington she would first have had to travel to Gisborne by rail or ship.  She would doubtless have been impressed by a bustling and prosperous Gisborne, which was on the point of introducing electric trams in April of that year.  Whether or not she was impressed by the place she was to stay with sister Mary is another question.  

Enough of that for now.

It is deep into autumn in France.  The temperatures in the north are truly frightening to a born and bred Aucklander, but here in the south of France it remains mild, with temperatures ranging from 0C just before dawn, up to 15C or so at midday.  I go out at lunch time  wondering why I am wearing a coat, but by the time come home the sun is low in the sky and the temperature is rapidly dropping.  When the Mistral blows the temperature remains the same, but it gets under every layer of clothing down to the skin, and you would swear it is much colder.

Today I will go out late in the afternoon.  Yesterday I saw street decorations being put up, and I want to see them lit at night.  I will wear long socks, boots, jeans, a long-sleeved silk-knit undershirt (50 Euros in stores but scored for 10 at the market), a woollen jumper, a fully lined woollen overcoat, a silk and cashmere scarf (knitted by me since I got here), and a pair of cashmere lined leather gloves (purchased many years ago in Rome).  I could wear a hat, but I am saving that till it gets really cold.  I will be warm enough, but that is all.  I could be warmer, but I refuse to wear a puffer coat or jacket (so far).

The Mistral is very efficient at stripping and re-distributing the leaves off the oak, birch, and walnut trees that line the streets.  We tend to forget that most trees are deciduous in the northern hemisphere, and the effect of the wind at this time of year is dramatic.  I posted photos of this on FaceBook the other day, but there is a clean-up going on in my back yard as well.

The leaves littering the streets in the Centre Ville had disappeared entirely by yesterday afternoon, but the last of them will come down as soon as that wind blows again.

I tried, in the photo above, to let you see that this very young man is smoking, but suspect it is not visible.  So take a look at this.

This terracotta pot sits outside the front door to my apartment block.  It is not there for decorative purposes.  It is an ashtray, and it gets emptied regularly. What you see are all fresh cigarette butts.  The French still smoke, young and old.  It is frowned on officially, but no one would be so rude as to reproach someone for smoking in public.  There is a reason those outdoor tables are occupied in the restaurants all year round.  Smoking has progressed to the outdoors, but that is all.  Sending smoke drifting across your table in a restaurant is not a social crime.  And yes, they do still smoke Gauloise too. And cigars!

I have been sitting here typing away with the tv going in the background.  Mdme Choux had very considerately set the tv up to operate on half a dozen or so English language stations, but they were so inane and carried such trivial or ancient programmes, that I could not watch them.  Finally, I figured out how to pick up the normal French tv channels, and quite frankly, they are only marginally better.  However, they do carry news that is not Fox, and they have the advantage of accustoming my ears to spoken French.  I can only understand a fraction of what I hear, but even so it is good for my accent, and I can follow the gist of dramas and the news without having to actually understand what they are saying.  It is funny how superfluous actual language is to basic communication.

So I let it run in the background much of the day, and I sit and knit in front of it late in the evening.  One thing I do love here is the infomercials.  I never watch them at home because I am such a sucker for a hard sell.  But here I can watch and lust for the items without being tempted to buy, because I have no use for them whatsoever.  Even so, I really, really want a battery powered spinning brush on a stick to clean the bathroom and other hard surfaces, an electric pot that chops up veggies and cooks them into a delicious, nutritious and low calorie soup, and all of the dozens of meal plans and weight-loss products that will give me that sleek, French silhouette in less than six weeks.

It is just as well there are actual stores here too, for me to cool my lust for shopping from time to time.  I have become adept at entering a store now.  Inevitably the shop owner or assistant will greet me, “Bonjour”.  I always reply, “Bonjour”, or occasionally, “Bon soir”, if it is early evening.  Then they offer to help me.  There are a variety of phrases for this, and I often have no clue what they are actually saying, but my standard response is, “Juste regards, s’il vous plaît”.  Just looking thanks.  This seems to work for almost every occasion.  If I want to know more about a product or try something on, it gets a bit more complicated.  But my French and Franglais is up to it.  Then, as I depart, there are more compulsory pleasantries.  I say, “Merci, au revoir”, and they say, “Au revoir Madame, bon journée”, or “bon soirée”, as the time of day requires.

This is quite a comforting routine.  It allows me to imagine I am in control of the situation.  The problem is that sometimes I am not.  I recently had an experience where I wanted to buy a jumper that was on a mannequin.  There were others piled on a display table, but not the right size and colour.  I explained what I wanted.  No, that was not possible, because then the model would be naked.  But could they not put another jumper on the mannequin?  No, because the mannequin needed the size I wanted, and the ones available would be too big or too small.  Could the mannequin perhaps have a different colour or style?  “Non, ce n’est pas possible”.  I gave up, but not in good grace.  I may have to avoid that particular store now.

The other slight problem I have is that in the smaller stores I have become visible.  Here she is again, that rather large, white haired woman, with the appalling French, is what I imagine they think.  They recognise me.  They remember what I was looking at last time.  They engage me in conversation.  This is manageable when I am buying lamb chops, a baguette or raspberries.  I can do talk about food in French.  But it is more difficult when it comes to clothes, shoes and other consumer goods that range over a wider vocabulary and range of choices.  I am no longer in control.  I will have to up my game.

Ok, enough for now.

BTW, my tap is still leaking.

 

 

The word for plumber in French is plombier, and the word for fireman is pompier.  They sound almost identical apart from the odd consonant when taken out of context.

The reason this is of significance is that my kitchen tap is leaking.  It needs a new washer I think, but I am hesitant to take it apart and fix it myself.  My landlady, Mdme Choux is currently in Les Etats Unis visiting her daughter and grandchildren, so instead I informed the lovely Rita and her husband Bernard.  They promised to send their son to check out and fix, but it did not happen.

After finding out how to turn the water off (Mdme Choux has left notes for nearly every eventuality), and taking advice from a NZ male of my acquaintance, I decided to take matters into my own hands.  So off I went to Le Bricolage d’Aix.  Bricolage means DIY  in French.  Never let it be said these pages are not educational.  The store is no Mega Mitre 10, but it does extend to many dark and mysterious corners.  In due course, ignoring the many tradesmen in overalls, and noting that the assistants were ignoring me,  I found the kitchen tap section.  There was a selection of new taps on display, and a stand with a thousand different types of washers, including packs with a range of sizes.

Not surprisingly, I was confused.  I thought I would buy one of the multi-choice packs, notwithstanding they cost almost 10 Euros (not cheap).  Then I made a friend.  A very elderly French man, with a bad case of Parkinson’s shakes, was also examining the washer stand.  When an impatient man towing some sort of case around the store nearly knocked him over he remonstrated.  I conveyed my understanding and sympathy, and we were simpatico.

We both stared at the washers for a while longer, then I said, “mais lequel?”  He offered to help, but of course he spoke not a word of English or Franglais.  So I explained about the leaking robinet dans ma cuisine, and said I thought it was similar to one of those on display.  He had an idea.  We would take apart the display model, see what sort of washer it had, et voila.  Indeed.  But, I said I thought we might get into trouble.  “Pfft”, said my friend.  But I am not sure it is quite the same. “Pfft”, he replied, clearly determined that his plan was the answer.

So we took apart the display tap, his hands shaking so badly I had to do most of the work, checked out the washer, and he proudly handed me the similar pack off the stand.  I did not dare refuse his advice so I screwed the tap back together, thanked him graciously, and went off to pay for the washer.  I hope he went home and told his wife that he had helped a young foreign woman out of a tricky situation, and that he got a glow from it.  Of course the washer did not fit and the tap was not fixed.

Having lost all interest in being my own handyman, and slightly afraid I would muck it up and cause a flood, I called Rita again.  Could she come take a look at the leaking tap when she let the cleaning lady in?  Yes, of course she would.  She was sorry, Bernard had to go  into hospital, and she had forgotten about the tap.  “De rien, no problem”, I say, “I will see you at 3 o’clock.”

One of the consequences of this was that I met the cleaning lady for the first time.  Turns out she is a gorgeous 20 something called Erica.  The other consequence was that I ended up buying the Aix en Provence 2018 firemen’s calendar.

Rita examined the tap.  Yes, she agreed it was leaking and needed to be fixed.  This time she really would send her son to fix it.  And if he could not, she would arrange for a plumber to come.  All good.  Problem as good as solved as far as I was concerned, and I got out of their way by going off for my walk.  By the time I came home a couple of hours later a new puddle had formed on the kitchen floor, but otherwise the apartment smelt wonderful and was spotlessly clean, with my every possession rigorously lined up in neat piles as usual.

I settled down to eat my dinner (leftover chicken and potatoes – nothing exotic) and my intercom rang.  That means someone is standing at the entrance foyer door trying to get to my apartment.  I answer, “Bon soir”.  As usual back comes a torrent of French that I do not understand.  I explain that my French is limited, and suggest they have the wrong apartment.  Mais non, il est un pompier d’Aix.  That is what he actually said, but of course what I heard was plombier.  Aha, I think.  Rita has given up on useless son and sent a plumber around straight away.  How amazing they come at 7 pm at night,   I think, as I dash downstairs to let him in.

The man standing in my lobby is about 35, well over 6 foot tall, swarthy, and gorgeous.  Of course he is.  He is a French fireman.  I discover this when he takes out the calendar he is selling door to door, and explains to me that I am under no obligation to buy it, but it is for charity.   Ok, easy mistake to make.  So then I have to invite this strange man up two flights of stairs and make him wait at my front door while I fish about for 10 euros to buy the calendar.

It would never happen at the Isaac!

Oh, and before you get any ideas, a French firemen’s calendar is not filled with half naked pictures of men in compromising positions with a fire hose.  No, quite unlike NZ, it is filled with wittily set up photos of fully clothed firemen going about their business.  Proof below.   Not an inch of skin showing.

The tap is still leaking.

I wonder what the plombier will look like?

You can blame what follows on me not getting a decent night’s sleep.  But I did warn you at the outset that these musings would be egocentric.

Last night I went to sleep at about midnight.  That is par for the course.  Not because I have trouble getting to sleep, but because I have trouble leaving the iPad alone.  It sleeps by my bedside, along with the iPhone.  I am alone, after all, in a strange place.

Sometimes this arrangement has unfortunate consequences.  At 1.15 am this morning the phone starts ringing.  This is not the first time, and every time sets off the flight or fight response.

A heavily accented male caller is on the line.

Him, “Is this Linda Oh Really?”

Me, “Yes, who are you?”  Mumble, mumble – he is indistinguishable from indistinguishable.

Him, “Do you want a secondary source of income?”

Me, “Where are you calling from?”

Him, “Canada.  You must want a secondary source of income.”

Me, “Ok, you might want to rethink this call.  I am in France. It is 1.15am.”

Him, “Oh, do you want to go to sleep?”

Me, “I was asleep.”

Him, “Oh, so you don’t want a secondary source of income?”

I hung up.

Now it is 1.20 am and I am wide awake.  I get up and go to the toilet for want of something better to do.  Then I snuggle down under covers, start to drift back off …

Loud incoming Messenger ping.  First on iPad, ignore.  Then on phone.  Cannot ignore, it could be important.  It is 1.50 pm in NZ (am in France) and daughter Amy has 10 minutes to spare at end of her lunch break.  She has decided to update me about a family issue (not urgent or important) we had been discussing previously.  We have a protracted text discussion covering a range of non-urgent or important topics.  She goes back to work leaving me hanging mid-discussion.  Needless to say I am thoroughly awake and dissecting the strands of our conversation.  It has left me angry at one family member, and reminded me that I need to be in touch with another.

Try to sleep.  No, that is not working.  Start firing off text messages.  One to Amy’s father in law, Jorge, in Cordoba, Argentina (it is only late evening there) sparks off another text conversation.  Since he only speaks Spanish, and I only speak English and Franglais, this is slowed considerably as we mutually consult Google translate.  However, we get quite a lot said just with the use of emojis.  We are good friends after he and Nora stayed with me for two weeks just before I came to France, so it is good to catch up with him.  But at 2.33 am I decide to call it a halt and tell him I have to go to sleep.  He sends me the thumbs up emoji.  I start to drift off …  and 20 minutes later he sends it to me again.

Arghh …  fall asleep about 3.30 am.  Bladder wakes me at 5.05 am.  Check emails, FaceBook etc.  Put iPad aside eventually and go back to sleep …. ring, ring, ring … FaceTime.  Johan figures I should be awake at 7.45 am.  “Yes, yes, it’s ok.  It is time to get up anyway.”

D’accord.  Yoga, breakfast, usual sort of thing.  I go for a long walk.  Take some photos, buy Christmas presents for the people I have not already bought for, and on the way home I do a terrible thing.  Each day while out walking I think about what to have for dinner, buying the necessaries on the final leg of the trip home.  Today I thought I might roast a chicken, which will keep me going for a few dinners.  But, BOTH my local butcher shops are shut between 12.30 and 4 pm.  Check out today’s FaceBook post for my view on that situation.  So I am forced to forage in the small supermarket on my corner instead.

The fresh meat offerings at Utile are limited.  But they do have fresh chickens in the chiller.  For over 15 years now I have never knowingly bought a chicken or eggs that are not labelled as free range.  I bought a little chicken here from the boucherie a couple of weeks ago that was fermée in plein air, and only winced slightly when it cost me an eye-watering 20 Euros ( that is about $NZ34 folks).  I figure it is worth it not to feel the guilt for the horrendous practices associated with battery farmed poultry, although I do not go so far as to refuse chicken of unknown origin that I do not prepare myself.

So there I am in Utile.  Laden down with heavy bags of gifts and vegetables (the green grocer does not close for lunch!), tired and grumpy, and only five minutes walk from home and a nice cup of tea.  Of course there are no free range chickens on sale.  There are, instead, plump little, yellow fleshed, corn-fed chickens for only 5.95 Euros.  I buy one, along with a can of sugar-free Red Bull (no bulls were harmed in the making of this product), and a bag to put them in.  Then I stagger home under the weight of my purchases and my guilty conscience.

I am, however, going to eat that chicken regardless.  I can smell it cooking right now.  I am looking forward to it.

And so to the subject that inspired this reverie.

I was sitting at the dining table, enjoying my well-earned drink and flicking through advertising leaflets, when I started getting distracted by the apartment building across the roading.  It is more functional than inspiring, but so many windows are shuttered that I find myself wondering about the lives of the people that live there.  With almost no clues to go by, I think about the person who leaves shirts hanging by the window to dry – see top left in photo below – and the child in the room with the mobile in the window – 3rd column, 2nd row up.

It occurred to me that these neighbours of mine were probably doing nothing but get on with their day to day lives in the same way we all do.  That is to say what most people do most of the time, which is work, eat and sleep.  The same thing yesterday, today and tomorrow.  When they are not working, eating or sleeping they will be seeking to entertain themselves, and again the sources of that entertainment are ordinary and common to most people – movies, shows, tv, sports, pubs and bars, dining out, social media.  What do they/we look forward to? A holiday, family or seasonal celebration, a new born.  What are they/we working towards?  A job, education, buying a home, starting a family, retirement.

For most people by and large, day to day, there is really no expectation except of small pleasures.  The balm of food, drink, tv, the internet, and less and less actual social engagement.  And those are the lucky ones amongst us.  For some  all of the time, and for all some of the time, through bad luck or bad decisions, life is stressful, painful or unpleasant.  It has me wondering again, as I did starting out in my early twenties, what is the point?

Back then, I remember vividly the feeling that I had strayed into forbidden territory when raising the pointless of simply striving for more and better of what we already had in the course of a family discussion.  Not just my parents, but also my young husband, looked at me as if I had taken leave of my senses.  I have never initiated such a discussion again.  But of course it is the question we must all ask ourselves.  Are we just here to grow old, with more or less belongings and physical comfort?  What should we be asking of ourselves and others?

I am not a spiritual person.  But I firmly believe, as Socrates told us, the unexamined life is not worth living.    As an unbeliever, I am forced to examine my life and what I do with it from the point of view of logic and science and philosophy, although I have no expertise in any of those things.  I do, however, have a very old-fashioned dictum that shapes my values – the golden rule, do unto others as you would have them do unto you.  I like it as a working guide to life because it plays to our self interest rather than to pure altruism.  If everyone followed this rule we would live harmoniously and this is surely in everyones’ best interests.  It is not, however, a rule that helps one to decide ‘why’ we should keeping putting one foot in front of the other.

Nor is this a question I agonise over on a daily basis.  Mostly, I know from experience, that both misery and ennui with life are passing phases, and that the momentary joy that breaks out from time to time is enough to keep me going.  It is always the direction that is harder to determine.  Entering my 7th decade, I am still trying to figure out what it is I am meant to do with my life.  The people I envy most in life are the ones who know exactly what they want to do, and set out to do it.  But there are very few of those.

I have stepped out of my life for a little while.  Not to find some answers.  No, there are none.  Just to see what it is like.

There is no McDonalds in Aix.  Nor is there a KFC, Pizza Hut, or any of the other food scourges of the world.  Of course I am not counting the McDonalds on the motorway interchange, or the several small Dominos around the suburban streets.  And there are a couple of home grown burger restaurants.  But the good burghers (ha ha, inadvertent pun) of Aix would never allow such a déclasse outlet in the Centre Ville.

But they have allowed this.

For the past few weeks I have been watching the fit out of these new premises in Les Allées d’Aix, but I must have missed the opening because when I walked past today it was full of people.

Five Guys is a fast growing American ‘quality’ burger chain with 1,500 locations (now 1,501) world wide.  It is a relatively classy fast food joint, and someone in Aix decided they should have one.  So did I go in?  You bet your life I did.  Take a look around.

Red and white, clean, full of light – everything so American, and the fries pretty good actually.  Plus little baskets that you could fill with free peanuts roasted in their shell.  A large space with dozens of youthful staff, smiling, taking and filling orders, and cleaning and clearing the tables the moment you finished.  In short, a formula we know very well, but new to Aix.

The place was packed with homesick American language students, excited French teenagers, and quite a few regular French grown-ups come to see what all the fuss was about.  The girl in the queue behind me declared to her boyfriend that she was, “so excited, she could hardly breath”.  I decided on a moyenne carton of fries, purely in the name of research.  Not bad, but hardly worth the fuss.

The truth is that there are no end of better, cheaper, tastier and more nutritious food choices everywhere you look here.  The bread and sandwiches are superb; the pre-made salads excellent; the soups, crepes, and waffles fantastic; the sushi fresh and imaginative; and the actual sit down food choices are endless.  However, traditional French food, while often very good and always flavourful, is not always healthy and can be – dare I say this? – a little stodgy.  I am not really surprised that an American style burger and fries should prove popular.  In fact, this chain, using fresh and good quality  fillings, is probably marginally less calorific and healthier than the standard French sit-down lunch.

So there.  Let the heavens rain down on me.  French food is not the be all and end all of cuisine.  And it is not always made with the love and care we are taught the French apply to food.  However, the French do apply love and care to eating.  That is the real reason there are so many great food choices here.  But you still have to take care in making those choices.  Indifferent, overpriced food is not hard to find.  I wish Five Guys here, good luck – they are off to a great start.

As a parting thought, I should add that the French are fighting a losing battle when it comes to the influence of the English speaking world. I would be willing to bet that at least half of the 35,000 students in Aix are English or American.  They stroll in groups around the streets oblivious to their surroundings, and block the aisles in the supermarket arguing over which sweet treats to buy.  They are catered to by concept stores for Nike, American Vintage, Diesel, and dozens of other US brands.  The young shop assistants in these stores all speak some English, which is often not the case in French and European brand stores.

The the biggest influence by far is entertainment.  On tv  the programmes that are not doco’s or Survival style voyeur fests, are overwhelmingly British or American.  I have to say dubbing technology has come a long way.  You would struggle to know that those familiar faces are not in fact acting in French.  Movies are in the same boat.  But the real conqueror is music.  Popular music is just simply popular music from the UK, US, Australia, Canada and even NZ.  Today I sat for 40 minutes having a pedicure, and heard not a word of French on the in-store music feed.  My technician, who speaks no English, confessed to singing in English.

Ok, enough for now.  Next time there will be more local atmosphere as the Christmas markets get going.  And it looks like I am not only going to the Netherlands for Christmas, but paying a visit to Passchendaele on the way to follow up on what I wrote previously about my grandfather.  So more of that story to come too.

A bientôt.

 

 

Ok, I have been here a month and a half now, so time for a few random observations.

Lunch is very important.  I tend not to eat lunch here.  Rising later than a working day, and getting in a yoga session first, means I breakfast late.  So in the interests of not overloading my body any more than necessary I skip lunch if I am on my own.  Not so any French person, ever, under any circumstances.  This causes me a bit of a problem sometimes if I go out between the magic hours of 12 noon and 2 pm.  There are people eating and the smell of food everywhere.  Some of the shops and the post office are closed.  I am often compelled to stop for a chocolat chaud, just to feel like a normal person since the rest of the world is so busy eating.

These are my French friends Sylvie and Christine eating lunch in Loumarin last weekend.  They had a full hot meal and dessert, after a considerable debate as to the best restaurant to sit in the sun.  The excellence of the food is a given.  We also drank a jug of the local rosé.  Sylvie repeated the exercise with me that evening.  Both are as slim as whippets, as is their friend Natalie who served us a four-course lunch the next day.  How they do it I have no idea.

The French have a sweet tooth.  My landlady left for me an arrival present of local sweets called Callisons.  Neither Jacqui or I cared for them much, but there are numerous shops in Aix dedicated to this local specialty.  They are sweet but bland, and fortunately Sylvie is a fan so she took them away with her.  I wish I could say I did not care for the patisseries here, but that would be a lie.  The pastries and cakes are superb, and they are everywhere.

People are buying and eating these sugary confections all the time.  No coffee or tea is complete without patisseries.  And chocolate.  Specialist chocolate shops abound.  Not to mention those cute little places that produce nothing but multi-coloured and flavoured macaroons.  Then there is the nougat – don’t even let me get started on the nougat shops.  Do people really eat this stuff – you bet they do.  Sugar is considered an essential food group in France, and yet very few people are fat.

Men wear mustard coloured trousers.  I have no idea why I keep noticing this, and it would be inappropriate to take a photo to illustrate the point.  But French men seem to have a thing about mustard coloured trousers.  Is this a fashion trend I have somehow missed in Auckland?  You also see, occasionally, men in those huge  loose corduroy trousers looking like they come straight out of an old film set in a French farming village.  They will also be wearing a knitted vest or pullover, a scarf and cap, and a houndstooth checked sports coat.  Very likely they will also have longish grey hair.  When you see someone dressed like this you know you are in France, but suspect you have travelled back in time a bit too.

Scarves, hats and berets.  There is no doubt that in general French women dress better than we do in NZ.  But one thing is certain.  No outfit is complete without a scarf.  Even I have taken to wearing one most of the time.

There are possibly many reasons for this, not least of which is that they are sold in the 1000s in the market for as little as 3 Euros, although you can blow anything up to 500 Euros on a designer scarf just as easily.  Another reason might be, that as warm as a day may seem at midday, out of the sun or later in the afternoon, temperatures drop rapidly.  But even on the warmest days everyone is wearing a scarf, which is really just to add that little je ne sais quois to one’s outfit.

Which might also explain how I have come to acquire both a hat (fedora style felt) and a beret, both blue and both yet to be worn in public.  I am a work in progress when it comes to hats, but come the really cold weather and I will be out there with the best of them.  Oh, and gloves of course.  French people (men and women) wear gloves.  Fortunately I brought a pair with me.

Incidentally, a nice man on a market stall gave me lessons in tying my scarf, so that was a bonus.

There are more breeds of dogs than I ever imagined.  French people have dogs regardless of whether they live in a shoe box or a mansion, and they take their dogs everywhere with them.  In fact dogs are almost as important an accessory as a scarf.  They are in the shops and restaurants, on the trains and planes, and everywhere you look.  Furthermore they come in all shapes and sizes.  There is no such thing as a ‘fashionable’ dog here.  All dogs are fashionable.  The pair below are Leonburgers, a breed previously unknown to me, and if they were to stand up they would easily take the table and everything on it with them.  The size of the man in the background is not a trick of perspective.

There are dogs promenading everywhere.  They stop to greet each other, or pass by in dignified reproach if the other dog is bigger or intimidating, or just too insignificant for their notice.  They prance and stroll and primp and preen, and seldom bother to take any notice at all of the humans on their leads.  I am entranced, and at a loss as to how dogs can have become such a problem in NZ.  Perhaps our dogs need to be taught a little French savoir faire.

Christmas is a big deal.  Unlike NZ, where stores bring out the Christmas decorations at the beginning of October, the town is just starting to gear up for Christmas.  But make no mistake, Christmas is a full on event.  The Christmas market starts in the Cours Mirabeau on Wednesday with 50 special wooden chalets, all decorated and lit for the evening market.  There are brightly coloured children’s rides of various kinds at both ends of the road, and the normal stalls have been relocated to the La Rotonde.  I am still waiting to see a municipal Christmas tree and lights, but the Council workers had made a start on Friday before they knocked off mid-afternoon (union rules here) for le weekend.

Here is a taste of what is to come.  I am thinking of buying the slightly risqué Mrs Clause outfit – what do you think?

In addition there are parades, fêtes and spectacles galore over the next couple of weeks.  I will keep you informed.

Shabby chic is a thing.  Many buildings are old but filled with grandeur.  There are huge doors, lintels, elegant windows, hidden courtyards, and delights too numerous to mention.  Where there are shops or restaurants on the street front there are the normal range of modern fit outs.  But the upper levels more often than not have dodgy spouting, crumbling plaster, rotting shutters and flaking paint.  Wooden trims are often rotting away.  And the interior in the photo below, for all that its form is gorgeous, is simply unmaintained and rotting.

The medieval buildings in the older part of town (read pre-1650) may in fact be faring slightly better due to their more solid construction.  But everywhere buildings are in use no matter what their condition, and if anyone cares it is not immediately apparent.  There are building firms that specialise in the renovation of these ancienne buildings, and I have seen them at work around and about the place.  But my suspicion is that without the help of the state or city, it is simply uneconomic to restore or even maintain these buildings that date back many 100s of years.

As a result, shabby chic is simply embraced, and even the modern buildings (anything less than 100 years old) tend to look a little dilapidated.  However the outside frequently, though not always, belies the elegant interiors.

 

 

I thought you might like to see what it looks like each day when I get around to writing.  Sometimes the glass holds cider, sometimes water, sometimes herbal tea.  But today I have an already open bottle of red wine, so why not?

You will see I am made up and wearing lipstick.  That is because I went out earlier when the sun was high in the sky and it was still warm.  I am now cosily ensconced for the evening, with a French game show on the tv in the background.  There are bits and pieces of left overs in the fridge for my dinner later.  Not glamorous, but very comfortable thank you.

So Grandma …

I would like to launch into the story of her life, but to be honest I know next to nothing.  What I will tell you later will be a pastiche made up from her stories to me, and the stories of my mother and others about her.  Because it is a story, I will fill in the gaps as I see fit.  It will, I hope, be. true to the spirit of her life if not the full facts.  

But because I am daunted, and a little frightened by the thought of taking such liberties, I will start by describing the woman I knew.

I was ten when my grandmother died of a brain tumour.  She had been ill for only a few months, but the pressure on our household was horrific.  My parents had taken in my cousin Steven, only 7 at the time, after both of his parents died suddenly within two months of each other.  And, yes, that is a story in itself, but again not mine to tell.  My sister, nine years younger than me, was a fractious baby with a chronic throat infection that had her screaming the house down in the wee small hours of every night.  

Grandma was 72, and for most of her illness no one had any idea what was wrong with her, and the doctors showed very little interest in finding out.  A strong, healthy, fit women degenerated into a helpless invalid in the course of a couple of months, and my mother was her only nurse for most of this time.  A sick baby, a sick mother, a bereft orphan, and two other children to care for.  I can still feel the desperation.  It came down to a couple of nightmarish weeks in a horrible rest home, a week or so of respite in the Mater Hospital trading on the Catholic history of the family.  Then she was gone.

So the women I knew was my current age when I was born, and I knew her as an old woman, because that is how we viewed people of that age in my childhood.  And indeed, she was old in the sense that her adventurous life was behind her.  In fact, as far as I was concerned it had never existed.

For a time, when I was very young, my grandmother looked like someone out of an old movie.  It was the 1950s after all.  Her hair was long and grey, with a darker streak through the forehead.  The mark of Cain it is sometimes called.  She wore it up in an old fashioned bun, and jammed a felt hat on top secured with a fearsome hat pin.  I was convinced she stuck the pin right into her scalp, and worried that she might do the same to me in my Sunday school bonnet.  She wore blouses buttoned to the neck, long woollen skirts, and smelt of powder and old lady.  Much of the time she was hidden in her room with the door firmly shut.  I never went in there uninvited.  It was like a different country.  But when she emerged she was always there for me.

One day she came home with a new, short layered cut.  It was like she was a different woman.  My mother took over her clothing shopping, and suddenly she had a wardrobe of light, printed Osti dresses, which were really quite ‘elderly chic’ at the time.  The hats largely disappeared.  I guess the 50s had progressed into the 60s.

But she was still my grandmother, although our family was undergoing changes too.  My father left the building company he had been working for and set up in business as a contractor.  My mother learnt to drive and got her own car.  My parents purchased an empty lot in Otahuhu and sold our house in One Tree Hill that was within spitting distance of the Onehunga they had both grown up in.  For a time, while building in Otahuhu and living in a small flat, my grandmother lived in the Far North with her only other daughter.  I suspect my mother had hopes this might become a permanent arrangement, but I held out for her return.  And, return she did.

In order to save money, we all moved into our unfinished, unlined house in the winter of 1963, and Grandma moved in with us again.  At that stage we were a family of five – my parents, me, my brother and Grandma.  The house was freezing, but otherwise large and comfortable, and the nightmares had yet to come.

I think we were all quite happy for a time.  I will try and describe my grandmother as I knew her then.  

She smoked continuously, and was the only member of the family to do so.  Pall Mall.  When she ran out she would ask me to go to the dairy at the Monument and buy her another packet.  In those days young children could stroll freely around the suburbs, and buy cigarettes without a care from any corner dairy.  I would demure on the grounds of her health, she would give me threepence to spend, and the deed was done.  Then she would lean on the kitchen bench smoking and gazing sightlessly across the creek at the green spaces of Middlemore Golf Course.  I used to wonder what thoughts she was lost in, but of course a child does not ask such questions.  A pity.

On the nights when my parents were out she would play cards and feed me Cadbury Milk Chocolate.  I remember the blocks were huge, and each little square was twice the size of what you get now.  I no longer eat it after the palm sugar episode and the shift in production out of Dunedin.  But for most of my life I was addicted to it after that early saturation.  And I still play Patience, but usually online versions now.

At other times she would sing to me the old music hall songs of her youth.  I was forbidden by my mother to sing in the house due to my total lack of ability to follow a tune, but my grandmother seemed not to mind.  I can still remember the words to so many of those corny old songs, and, as I said earlier, do the Lambeth Walk.  

During the school holidays, and on weekends when my parents were house building and section developing, we would go out.  The Easter Show, the Zoo, shopping in town or in Otahuhu.  If local we walked, although often we got a taxi home.  In those days taxis were flash cars, maintained immaculately by their owners, and I remember the clean car smell of a taxi on a wet day.  I loved those outings, but learnt not to show too much excitement on returning home.  If I was too “full of myself”, the inherent tension between my mother and grandmother would spill over into grief for me.  So many great days ended up in horrible nights.  I learnt it can be dangerous to be happy, and it has taken me a long time to unlearn that lesson.

My grandmother had some bad habits that were apparent even to me.  She had a habit of buying things, often for other people, on hire purchase.  Or putting them on lay-by.  She did not always follow through.  Her most obvious vice at that time (and in the past as I now understand) was gambling on the horses.  Not a habit she could really afford on a pension.  But every week she sat down with the racing guide and chose her horses.  Sometimes she had me choose them for her.  My preferred method was to close my eyes and stick a pin in the page.  Then off we would go, on foot, to the TAB located conveniently between the Star and Criterion Hotels in Otahuhu.  I waited outside, the bet was made, and off we went to await the race.  I don’t recall many collections, but no doubt there were some.

My mother recalls walking as a child from their home in Church St, Onehunga (the house was where DressMart now stands) to the Ellerslie Race Course, meeting her aunt and cousin, and spending the whole day there before walking home again.  My grandmother would often forget to feed her on these occasions, so it was a long hard day for a child, and not a memory she cherishes.  It cannot have pleased her that her mother continued her habit through the TAB under her own roof, and engaged me in the process as well.

But I got the best of my grandmother.  She taught me to knit, even though I was left handed and clumsy, and she was not.  She showed me love and affection at all times, not least in teaching me to bake.  Although not a great cook or housekeeper, she was a keen baker.   I baked right alongside her.  Rock cakes, short bread, madeira cake, fruit cake, and every kind of stodgy, sugary and wonderful pudding known to man.  When she became ill I took over baking duties in the household,  and kept right on baking until my own girls took over from me.  Even now, given flour, sugar, butter and eggs I can throw together a great tasting cake without a recipe in the minimum of time.  However, I don’t – because that was a habit that proved not good for me at all!

When members of the wide, and largely mysterious to me, family, came to visit, my mother and grandmother would sit and gossip for hours.  I was a great eavesdropper, and would curl up in a corner hoping I would not be noticed and sent out to play.  I was not great at going outside to play.  It was always clear to me that the family net spread wide, but I did not understand exactly how it worked as a child.  When my parents’ friends came to visit, my grandmother would turn turtle and retreat to her room.  She was not shy.  It was just that these were people she had no interest in.  Not surprisingly, this was a source of tension in the household, although I suspect if she had remained, her presence would have been an equal irritant.

So there we have her, at 70 or so, a women with a mind of her own, prone to reveries, in turns garrulous and remote, loving and distant.  And of course, I did not know her at all.  I only knew the person she chose to be to me.

 

Every day brings a little challenge.

I do not always sleep well, so this morning I got up late and have been slow getting started.  But there is plenty to do.  The cleaning lady comes today, and although we have never met, we are becoming accustomed to each others little ways.  That is to say, she and I both recognise that I am not tidy and ordered in the way she would prefer.  I leave my laptop and iPad on the table charging with cords trailing across the room, do not stack my notebooks and guide books in a perfect pile, arrange my bathroom necessities in a useful not aesthetic manner, and drape scarves and other small clothing items over the back of the very convenient chair in the bedroom.  Not only that, but I line my slippers up against the wall instead of tidily tucked under the bedside table.

All of this and more offends her sense of order.  When I come home in the evening not only does the apartment sparkle and smell divine, it is also re-arranged in such a way that I cannot find a thing.  This came to a climax last week when she tidied my yoga routine cards away so efficiently that I have yet to find them.  Luckily I remember the routines.

So I spent a good 30 minutes this morning picking up and tidying, in the hope that everything will be where I left it when I come home after my afternoon walk.  But that was not the challenge for the day.  No, the challenge for the day was my second trip to fill up the car.

Not to go anywhere in the car, you understand.  No, just to fill it up in anticipation of future use, because after my busy weekend it was almost empty – or down to 1/4 tank, which for this typical Virgo is as good as empty.   The first challenge is to actually get the car out of the garage, which fits it like a glove.  It is a new car fitted with every safety device imaginable, so it screeches continual warnings that I am about to collect the side of the garage as I back out.  It does the same thing as I manoeuvre past the cars parked in the narrow lane that leads onto the tiny one-way road at the back of my apartment block.  I am already sweating by the time I reach the intersection.

But this morning all went well.  I have, surprisingly, yet to give it so much as a scratch.  And I may say that is more than can be said for most French cars.  Drivers here slip into such tiny parking spaces and through such tight gaps, that almost all are battered, scraped and dinged in a manner that would horrify most NZers.  The owners seem not to care.  Strangely, I quite approve of that attitude.  I have always thought the car was there to protect the driver, not the driver to protect the car.

Anyway, without any drama I made it all of 500m down the road to the nearest petrol station.  Then I pumped gas – not something I ever do for myself in NZ – determinedly ignoring the sign that ordered me to pay before doing so.  If I am filling up, as my father taught me to do, how can I pre-pay without knowing how much it will cost?  As it happens it cost around 40 Euros, so clearly far from empty, and the attendant did not growl at me when I went to pay.  I was home within 10 minutes.  Result!

Such is the minutiae of the life of a middle-aged woman alone in a strange country.

Off now for a walk, and to leave the coast clear for the cleaning lady.  It is beautifully warm and sunny, but it will be freezing by the time I come home, so I need to dress appropriately.  What will I see and do?   Perhaps I will have some new photographs to post.  Perhaps I will buy something.  Strangely my anxieties and inhibitions about language and behaviour disappear completely in the retail sphere.  Perhaps I will buy some boots that do not make me slip and slide on the wet paving stones as the ones I have been wearing do.  Certainly I need to buy something for my dinner at least.

Who knows?  It does not matter.  The point is just to enjoy it.

By the way, I will get back to the Grandma story ….

And I am back …

I expected nothing from my walk today, and did not intend to add to this blog.  But in fact it was perfect.

Do you know that feeling of pure happiness you get sometimes?  Hearing a piece of music that lifts your soul;  the softness of a baby’s head nestled under your chin;  lying skin to skin with another person under a cosy cover.  Well I had two experiences of pure happiness this afternoon.

To begin with I bought a pair of the best kick arse boots you can imagine from a very posh shoe shop.  I know it was posh because I had to press the button to be allowed in, the man knelt on the floor to fit my boots, and the prices were très cher.  That made me happy, but it was not the thing that sent my spirits soaring.

The first ‘moment’ was when I had to pinch myself to believe I was sitting in an outdoor bar in the last rays of the Provencal sun drinking a dry cider, eating the free potato chips, and generally watching the world go by.  The light was golden, the air was crisp, the waiter was polite, and it occurred to me that I had nothing to do but enjoy.

Then, on the way home, there were flocks of thousands of birds (starlings? swifts?) wheeling around creating fractals in the sky above the trees on Cours Mirabeau in the dying light.  It doesn’t get much more perfect than that.

So now I am home in Cours Gambetta, glowing a little, and wondering what tomorrow will bring.

Here in Aix the sky remains clear and blue and the sun continues to shine every day.  But the temperature is dropping daily, the sun is low in the sky by 3.30 pm, and some days the Mistral blows and blows.  The ground is covered with leaves, and very soon the trees will be completely bare.  Inside is a constant warm and comfortable temperature, with furnace fired central heating and super-efficient double-glazing.  But there is a reason for all those puffer jackets, thick scarves and gloves they sell in the market.

It has been a few days since I have sat down to write. I spent the weekend with my friend Sylvie, who drove 4 1/2 hours to visit me from Agen in the south west of France between Bordeaux and Toulouse.  I will tell you what we did, but it is also time to reflect a little on how I am getting on here.  Le weekend first.

Sylvie arrived late on Friday night, and I had been fretting about where she would park.  No worry.  With typical French insouciance Sylvie found the one empty park in the street a little up the road from me, and proceeded to ignore the parking limitation and fee for the entire weekend.  The car never moved for the duration, and fortunately no one came and towed it away or ticketed it.  No doubt if it was me I would have been towed within 5 minutes.

My car is very snugly housed in a garage at the back of my apartment block, and generally I prefer that it stays there.  But it is a brand new car with SatNav and all mod cons, so I happily handed it over to Sylvie to drive for our weekend adventures.  Her friend Christine, who lives 15 minutes out of town at Les Milles, joined us and we set out to explore Le Luberon.  This is the region of Provence made famous by the Peter Mayle books, and it is, for want of a better term, mountainous.

Except that they are not really mountains.  Rather big limestone formations that rise above the plains below, and provide the anchor for some spectacular villages anchored into the top of what are really huge rock formations.  Take a look at the view below from one of those villages, Gordes.

We had lunch in Loumarin, checked out the quaint shops, then drove the pretty winding roads of the region through the most breath-taking villages, ending up in Gordes for late afternoon hot chocolate. The only problem for me was that I had given over the passenger seat to Christine in recognition of her special guest status.  Because she does not speak English it seemed unfair to separate her from Sylvie.  But I suffer from motion sickness, so I did not appreciate the drive as much as I might have.  However, I did enjoy each and every one of our stops.

The trip home was interesting.  It gets dark early, and there are no direct routes through Le Luberon, so we were totally reliant on the SatNav.  Now the lady on the SatNav is remarkably tolerant and patient, as well as being unerringly accurate no matter what is happening on the road.  She will even tell you how to negotiate the supermarket and airport carparks.  That is how good she is.  BUT, the driver is only human and not error proof.  We do not always listen closely enough, and our brains do not always compute when there are multiple stimuli.

Which is to say, I have made a few mistakes.  So did my friend Martin when he drove, having declared himself an experienced European driver.  When you go wrong, the SatNav lady goes quiet for a moment or two, takes a big breath, recalculates, and then gently directs you back to where you were supposed to be in the first place.  But I assumed my French friends would be immune to error.  Not so.  They sat together arguing over the instructions, disbelieving the advice, and took as many wrong turns as anyone else.  Furthermore, when we got off the autoroute in Aix, Christine decided her local knowledge trumped that of the SatNav lady.  As a result we took a route to my place at least three times as long as the way I normally go when I stick strictly to instructions.  All good fun, but a long day.

On Sunday we went to Marseille to visit another of Sylvie’s friends, Natalie.  I was excited, because it meant going to the home of an actual French person, which I had yet to do on this trip – or indeed since I first met Sylvie in Agen on my trip to France 15 years ago.  You may know Marseille has a mixed reputation.  Sylvie used to live there and loves the city.  But even so, she made sure our hand bags were safely in the front with us, and not sitting on the back seat in danger of being snatched.  I had spent a rather troubled New Years Eve there six years ago, so I have mixed feelings about the place.  Certainly parts of the inner city and suburbs are unattractive, and there is an air of seediness about the place.

However the Vieux Port and the Corniche are magnificent, and Sylvie took me to some coastal suburbs that were absolutely gorgeous. There are also many modern public buildings of considerable architectural stature, not to mention a massive new football stadium that inspired the plot of the tv series ‘Marseille’, starring Gerard Depardieu as the only slightly corrupt Mayor.  I had not realised how close to reality the plot was until I was reminded of the programme when Natalie’s boyfriend got very hot under the collar talking about the unnecessary cost of the new stadium.  But before we went to lunch we took a turn along the magnificent Corniche – the Tamaki Drive of Marseille if you like.

In the above photo you can see some of the many rocky islands in the harbour, and the Chateau d’If, where the Count of Montecristo was imprisoned in the book by Alexandre Dumas.

There are certainly more apartment dwellers than house owners in Marseille, but Natalie lives in a  modern house with a garden back and front, and a small swimming pool.  Like all houses in Provence, you could not have told it was modern at first glance, because like every other building it is plastered on the exterior, painted a colour somewhere between a light pink and light orange, and has actual terracotta tiles on the roof (compulsory by law in Marseille).  Also, like all private houses, it is surrounded by a high wall, solid iron gate, and big trees.  Oh, and with a dog to guard it all, although Yoda actually took all afternoon to overcome his fear of me.

The afternoon was relaxed and very enjoyable, despite my complete inability to keep up with the conversation.  We sat in the sun for a time drinking wine and pastis (my first experience of the aniseed flavoured aperitif), and the best I could do was to grasp the subject matter of the conversation.  Once I had done that, I would carefully compose a comment of my own in French, and chuck it in whenever there was a pause.  Then they would talk to me in English for a minute or two, before the conversation would take off again in animated and rapid French.  All in all I was pretty happy with that.

Then, inside to lunch, and my first real experience of just what that means on a Sunday afternoon in France.  We had already been drinking and snacking.  Actually, the memory of that meal has just compelled me to get up and fetch myself a glass of red wine.

Anyway, we began with bread and a delicious rustic pate.  That was followed by roast chicken, potatoes and gravy.  All the while we were drinking and talking and arguing, and not in a hurry at all.  The discussion was wide ranging  and all about ideas.  Politics, nature versus nurture in relation to dogs (there were two dogs as part of the gathering), the requirements for public places, local government, unemployment and homelessness, and the local psychological services (Natalie’s daughter is a psychologist).  There was disagreement, shouting and robust debate.  Every so often someone would take their frustrations outside and have a cigarette.

At one stage, after quite a hiatus, I assumed we had finished eating and made to clear the dishes.  Not so, I was admonished.  The cheese course came out, and I was instructed to drink more wine because French people cannot eat cheese without wine.  Très bien.  I complied.  Some time later a home-made tarte tartin was produced and consumed.  Finally I was allowed to stop drinking wine and it was time for coffee.  The afternoon was well and truly finished before the lunch ended, but the problems of the world had been thoroughly addressed, if not solved.

It was, for me, highly enjoyable and relaxing.  It is surprising how little it matters that you don’t know exactly what is being said, as long as you have an idea what is being talked about.  Certainly the views of individuals are no mystery as long as you are alert to the verbal and tonal clues.  But, of course, I ought to be working harder on my language skills.

So that was my weekend.  How am I getting on otherwise?  Well, not too badly I think.

I have a loose routine.  My day starts when the light wakes me up, and I decide to get up.  Not too early unless there is something in particular going on, and then a self-directed yoga session  before breakfast.  I am lucky that Johan is happy to talk to me on FaceBook every day, so I do not feel isolated.  Most days I will take a long walk into and around the Centre Ville.  On Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday there is a big market in the Cours Mirabeau, and other days I might run errands or just window shop.  Every day I try and find something new to photograph, and really it is not hard as I become more and more aware of my surroundings.

Today in the market there were signs of Christmas, with stalls selling small, exquisite figurines for Christmas tableaux.

Some days there is a particular challenge to overcome, and a new set of vocabulary to master – the beauty salon, the post office, the hairdresser, the petrol station – all already documented in this blog.  When I have to do something new, I work out in advance what I need to say and ask, and usually that is actually very helpful.  Today, for example, I wanted to buy yard for a knitting pattern I had found in a French magazine.  I am quite proud of the fact that I negotiated my way through a conversation about different yarn types, quantities and requirements all in French.  Basic, but we understood each other and my errand was a success.

Sometimes I stop for a chocolat chaud or a cidre, and sit and people watch for a while.  Then I come home and try and write for a while, although I am easily distracted.  My latest distraction is an invitation to spend Christmas in the Netherlands (Boxmeer anyone?), which involves quite a lot of planning.  It is 1100 km by road or rail, and not simple to get to by air from here either.  So much time wasting, but opportunities are there to be taken, n’est pas?

In the evenings I make calls, watch television, and knit.  As of yesterday my evening viewing improved dramatically.  My lovely landlady left detailed instructions for everything and had the TV set up to play English language stations, i.e. 1980s BBC comedies, Fox News, and US home improvement programmes, so that it was driving me insane.  But I have just figured out how to get it onto regular French tv.  I cannot fully understand it, but at least there is proper news and a variety of other programmes (many of which are from UK and dubbed in French).

I have noticed other changes over time.  Somehow the way I dress has subtly changed, so that I now get taken for a French woman at first glance.  This means shop keepers no longer trot out their best Franglais the moment I walk through the door.  That is gratifying, even if we often have to resort to it when things get complicated.  And on the street, in this very touristy area, I am getting stopped and asked for directions.  It is very flattering, and in fact I could probably help them.  But ironically they are almost always tourists from elsewhere in France, and as soon as I open my mouth they back away and look for more reliable assistance.  Very funny.

The point is, I am doing ok I think.  I have been here for over a month, most of that time by myself, and I am neither bored nor lonely.  I have more visitors to come, and a couple of trips to take.  C’est si bonne.

Another rite of passage.  Today, having been feeling increasingly unkempt for a week or so, I decided to go to the hairdresser.  Or at least to make an appointment.

For once my anxiety was not so much how to express my needs – I’m getting better at that.  Anyway, all hairdressers speak a universal language involving signs, hand movements and facial expressions.  Check it out next time you go.  No, this time my anxiety was about WHICH hairdresser to go to.

French women my age, at least those who bother at all, come in two varieties.  Either they are competing with the kids with long multi-coloured waves flowing over their shoulders, or they are coiffed to within an inch of their lives with perfect soft blow-waved bobs. Those who don’t bother have short, business-like cuts and bad dye jobs.  None of these things are appealing to me.  You have seen my hair if you read my original blog.  It is shortish, whitish and curlyish.

Having thought about it, and reaching no conclusion, I assumed there must be a good and trend conscious hair dresser somewhere in town, it was just a matter of finding them.  So I mucked about all morning, set off as late as possible, and started checking out salons.  There are plenty of them, starting with the one at the end of my street (very old fashioned, one man proprietor), and the four in Rue d’italia.

Should I go to the one that said it was part of a Paris chain and staff spoke English?  Well, I might have.  But the girls working there did not look that stylish, and they were busy.  What about the one with the super-trendy looking stylists who were all in Halloween costume last week?  They were super-busy, and all so young!  The other two looked friendly, but so suburban …

Better to head right into Centre Ville I thought, so I did.  I wandered around for an hour or so, passing dozens of salons – some too small, some too busy, some not sleek enough – all with some indefinable discouraging element.  Then I remembered I had seen a Tony & Guy somewhere, and the Auckland version of that franchise was where I met my current (home town) stylist.  I know all about the training the staff get, so figured that would be fine.  But where was it?  Google to the rescue.  It was, naturally, at the other end of town, but I plodded on till I found it.

But … it is a huge salon by Aix standards.  I peered through the window.  There was one stylist and one customer and a sea of empty seats.  I remembered it had been equally quiet the day I first passed it.  Now the one thing you do not want to do is trust your hair to a salon that no one else wants to go to.  So more aimless wandering.  I was thinking that I would just go home and have a little lie down.

To get home, as I do almost every day, I took a turn down Cours Mirabeau, still keeping my eye out for other salons.  Then I spotted her.  The woman in the mink coat, looking, from a distance, like a refugee from the Cannes film festival.  It was not really cold enough for a fur coat, and to illustrate the fact she was wearing high heeled strappy sandals, and teetering along only a little painfully I thought.  She was one of those with the multi-coloured flowing locks.    I was intrigued, and by that stage had decided to check out one last salon.

Creatoria is the biggest, fanciest, and most expensive beauty and hair salon in Aix.  It sits between two banks in the centre of the main drag, and is one of those places you hesitate to enter unless very well dressed and carrying a designer hand bag.  I was not.  But, the  woman in the mink coat disappeared through its doors, and of course I had to follow.  Some of you will not be surprised to read that.

As I entered, the mink coat, who had been conferring with the receptionist, turned to leave. OMG, she had wrinkles, lots and lots of wrinkles.  Beautifully made up, impeccably and glamorously dressed, but older than me and definitely showing it.  Oh dear, but by then I was inside, and the charming man at the door had me under his spell.

Madame wanted a hair cut and blow-dry (coupe et coiff), maintenant?, mais bien sûr.  When being charmed by an overwhelming  Frenchman, what does price matter?  And really, it was worth it!

I was seated and robed.  Two charming French men, only one of which was gay, came to undertake my “consultation”.  They ran their fingers through my hair, exclaimed over its beauty (yes, I know, but it was a very good performance), and explained that they were going to do some tests on my hair to determine what treatments it would require during the shampoo stage.  Testing bottles and instruments emerged.  The degree of sebrum on my scalp was tested – a little dry apparently.  A special shampoo and conditioner was recommended.  I was tested for signs of dandruff – none, très bien.

Then we had a discussion about style and colour.  It was agreed that no colour was required.  A personal history of my hair and styling habits was taken.  We agreed the look should remain casual, the length on top was to stay, and that some shaping and tidying up around the sides and back would be undertaken.  Then Jean-Luc lead me to the wash basin, where he personally lifted and placed my feet on a foot rest before proceeding to wash and treat my hair, massage my scalp, and promise me ‘shine’ to die for.  At one stage he got distracted by an errant hair in my brows, rushed off to get the tweezers, and gave me an impromptu eyebrow shape up.

When finished he wrapped my head up in the sort of turban you see in old movies but can never replicate. Here is a picture of Jean-Luc and I when we got to that point.

Then I was led back to my seat in front of the mirror for Jean-Luc to cut my hair, but I was not allowed to sit down.  No, precision cutting, and it really was, required that I stand so that the line of my hair would be perfect.  Then he went to work, and I have to say the cut and attention to detail was superb.  I was allowed to sit for the blow dry, which is uncharacteristically straight.  I could have stopped him, but it is kind of fun to be so groomed, and the curl will be back at the first wash.  Here is the result.

Yes, it did cost an arm and a leg.  Tip – if offered mousse or hairspray, say no – you pay extra for everything.  And of course I had to tip Jean-Luc.  But was it worth it?  You bet.  Everyone in the salon was SO NICE.  The surroundings, the care and the treatment was fabulous.  The cut was top notch. And the brow shape was free!  Conclusion – it was worth it for the experience that made me smile from the minute I arrived till the minute I left.

Now all I need is a mink coat and a pair of strappy sandals and I will be all set.

Some days I wonder why I am here?  In Aix-en-Provence I mean.  I have thought about the bigger existential question as well, but I figure greater minds than mine have yet to answer that one so I will leave it to the experts.

Anyway, my short answer is that I am here because I was disappointed in a relationship.  Yes, “Bloody Brian”.  He knows all about it, and doesn’t take that reasoning too seriously.  He is right, of course.  There is a distinction to be made between the reason for an action, and the thing that triggers it.

The thing that triggered my launching off on a little late life adventure was the unwanted (by me) end to a short, but exciting (again, for me) entanglement. The fact that the relationship was almost certainly unsuitable and doomed to failure from the start made no difference.   After living in a state wavering between happiness and misery for a year and a half, the thought of returning to a half-life propelled me to take action.

The reality is that I actually simply got on with life, and things turned out pretty well.  I had daughter Amy’s wedding to look forward to, and I proved I was not totally unloveable by fairly promptly meeting another man.  Who knows how that will turn out, but I am learning lessons late in life.

In the meantime I planned and booked my trip to France, which was something I had wanted to do for quite a long time.  I have been threatening friends, family, and work colleagues that I would sell up and simply run away for years now.  There have been lots of reasons to want to run away.  And there has always been that feeling that somehow life’s chances were slipping through my fingers.  The real reason I am here is that I want to be.  I may not enjoy every moment of every day in my exile, but I am here because I choose to be.  So thanks “Bloody Brian” (I know he reads this) for being the trigger.

Incidentally, in case you were wondering, I am not fending off Gallic men in all directions.  I am just too old, even given the reputation of the French for appreciating older women.  I am invisible to the younger men, and those my age are either short, fat and balding (most middle-aged men in France fit that description), or firmly attached to a Madame.    And for those who know the difficulties I have negotiating the wine samplers in Farros – a French accent is no longer cute when they are actually speaking French and you cannot quite understand what they are saying.

Not that I’m looking anyway!

Where was this going?  I know I had something in mind when I titled this piece.  Oh yes, back to Grandma.

William Pera Aperahama was born in 1892, and married my grandmother in 1914. I don’t know when he joined the Army, but I suspect it was not until after he married, because by the time he embarked for the European war in April 1917 he already had two sons and a daughter on the way.  He could not have been conscripted, because Maori could not be conscripted until almost the end of the War.  Instead, along with a raft of other young Maori men, he volunteered for the Maori Pioneer Battalion.

What I do know is that he looks absurdly young in the portrait photograph I have on my wall at home.  Clean shaven, with a steady gaze and very handsome, he stares out of me in his uniform with no idea what his future held.  By the end of the war his he was a sergeant, but his health had been destroyed and he was lucky to live.  I imagine, like so many others, he came home an entirely different man than when he left.  If my grandmother was looking for a different life, she certainly found it.

The Pioneers were not generally front line soldiers – although they could be when the occasion called for it.  Instead they dug trenches and drains, laid rail lines, erected wire entanglements, and buried artillery cables – often at night and close to enemy lines.  They were useful, but ultimately disposable, and just as likely to get blown to smithereens as any digger or other soldier.  

His company arrived at Devonport in England on the HMWZT Corinthic in June 1917.  They were in plenty of time to take part in the battle for Passchendael Ridge, in which there were 3700 NZ casualties in one night.  By March 1918 they were on the Somme, which is where I assume he got mustard gassed.  I would think that nine months would have altered the clear-eyed look of the young man in my photograph quite a bit, although later photos show he remained a very handsome man.

Exactly what happened to him in France remains a mystery.  At the end of the War the Battalion advanced on foot towards Germany to take part in securing the country.  As they approached the German border the English high command decided it was inappropriate to have ‘native’ soldiers controlling the German populace, and they were ordered back to the English Channel to embark for NZ.  As a result, the Maori Pioneers were the first intact battalion to return to NZ, where they received a heroes welcome.  But William Pera Aperahama is not listed among those who arrived at Auckland on the Westmoreland in April 1919.  

It seems most likely he was too ill to travel and remained in hospital in England.  It is not clear when he was returned to NZ, but I have seen a poignant postcard from my great-grandmother in Jersey in which she laments the fact that she missed the opportunity to meet “dear Billie” because she did not know he was hospitalised there.  I can only speculate as to the reasons my grandmother had not enlightened her, but suspect that she had not been entirely forthcoming about her husband’s ethnicity.  I may be wrong.  I hope so.

His eventual return did not signal a return to normality.  Whatever normality was for my grandparents, which was certainly not what anyone else would ever have recognised as normal.  He returned to spend two years in a sanatorium while his lungs recovered.  I understand that at some stage my grandmother bought him home and nursed him back to health.  From a story written by one of my mothers two older brothers, I know that she put them into care for that period, and had a job running a women’s clothing store.  The story makes it very clear the boys were not happy.

Who knows what effect the war and illness had on their relationship.  I do not know what drew them together in the first place, but I would be willing to bet it was largely their mutual exoticism and physical attraction.  Instant parenthood must have put a strain on that attraction.  But there were ties that bind.  If nothing else, my grandmother displayed compassion and her own brand of loyalty.  But when a boy was born in 1922, he did not have the same father as his older brothers and sister.  Another boy and girl would follow, to the same father.