Month: November 2017

Today was not a red letter day.

I went to the market and bought a hat, a scarf for a gift, and to the bookshop for a little book to complete the gift.  Then I came home, forced myself to do the yoga practice I had skipped in the morning, and wrote a greeting on the card to go with the present.  I also exchanged my sneakers for boots, and my hoodie for a coat.  I had being feeling a little scruffy compared to the French women ‘of a certain age’ who were out and about this morning.

Then I went out again.  To get some cash out of the hole in the wall, buy an avocado* and two lemons, visit La Poste to send off my gift.

I have been to La Poste before.  The skinny balding man who looks after the postal inquiries is getting to know me.  In theory I should not have to go to the counter.  There is a machine that weighs your mail, notes the destination, and gives you the correct stamps.  But as I have now explained several times (en français), the machine tells me there is no such destination as Nouvelle Zélande, or New Zealand when I try that just in case.  There is Nouvelle Caladonie, and even Nouvelle Scotia, but no New Zealand.

Today La Poste was very busy.  This was a problem because I had memorised what I had to ask for, and there was a real danger I would forget those two longish sentences if forced to wait too long.  Furthermore, as I joined the back of the queue behind a diminutive, dreadlocked young man, his little dog (breed uncertain) decided to pee all over the floor, and I had to skip aside sharply to avoid damage to my flash boots.  The young man was a little, but not too much, put out.  He first admonished his dog, then picked it up and comforted it.  To be fair it was a rather gorgeous little puppy.

Then we stood around awkwardly for a while, me standing a safe distance back, and those in front of us smiling benevolently at what was after all no more than one might expect of a little puppy.  The man behind the counter continued serving a particularly difficult customer, and the queue went nowhere.  It was clear that every single person ahead of us had a particularly difficult parcel to post, and there were many complex explanations and a lot of head shaking before any one problem got sorted.

In the meantime the queue was building up behind me.  People looked impatient but resigned.  At some stage the young man with the dog interrupted the conference at the counter – an act of amazing audacity that he clearly had to build up to – and obtained, without comment or fuss, a bucket and a mop.  The puddle of pee that I had been avoiding disappeared to be replaced by a large, slippery wet patch on the linoleum floor.  From then on he had to take it upon himself to warn every newcomer that the floor was slippery.  Since most of those coming in were around 90 not out, it was a very important warning.

We got talking.  He told me the puppy was three months old.  I said it was naughty, and smiled to show  it was a joke.  This was a conversation in French, and that is about all there was to it, although I patted the pup and got licked enthusiastically.  The problems at the counter did not get any less complex.  There was the woman trying to post a duvet that was too big to fit into the XL box produced from out the back.  There was the long cardboard tube sealed with what looked like an entire roll of brown tape that was improperly wrapped and bound to come to grief if posted like that.  There was a mysterious pile of perfectly ordinary letters that seemed to take forever to sort.  Then the man with the dog finally got to the counter, conducted his interminable business with the dog under one arm, and I was next ….

“D’accord”, announced  the man on the counter, courteously neglecting to groan at the sight of me.  Then a miracle happened.  He did not berate me for not using the machine (no one else seemed to be using it either); I did not forget what I needed to ask in French; he understood me; he gave me instructions (in French) and I understood them.  Voilà, c’est possible!

Naturally it was not all good news.  It cost me 25 Euros to post one tiny parcel, and I had to fill out two separate forms, one in triplicate and the other in quintuplicate, both containing identical and detailed information about what I was posting and why.  But once I had done that, and worked my way back to the counter with the forms, my parcel was safely on its way.  And not a word of English or even Franglais had been spoken.

It only took 40 minutes too!

So why did this rather frustrating experience leave me thinking fondly of the French.  Let me spell it out.

1. The dog was welcome in the Post Office.
2. People were amused rather than horrified and judgemental when the puppy had an accident.
3. The Post Office man took it in his stride and produced a bucket and mop without a word.
4. The dog’s owner cleaned it up without being asked.
5. The queue remained amiable against all odds.  No one raised their voices, no one scowled.  Instead they smiled and offered advice about making up parcels.
6. Comme ci, comme ça.

Today was not a red letter day.  But it was a pleasant enough day after all.

*  Before I came to France I took lessons at Alliance Français in Grey Lynn.  Our vocabulary extended to learning the nouns for both professions and fruit and vegetables.  For some reason my class-mates never got over their hilarity everytime I was forced to answer truthfully, “Je suis avocat”.  Yes, lawyer and avocado are the same word in French.  Funny ha – meh, it wears off. 

I practise yoga, practise being the operative word.  I have been doing so for over four years now.  I am not willowy and slender, more flexible and strong.  My inner swan has yet to image.  The following pictures, which are a little old now, will give you the idea.

I can do better now, but it has taken a while.

Over the years I had put on so much weight that I was seriously unhealthy.  By the time I had my knee replacement surgery the lack of sustained movement, combined with my fear of injuring the joint, meant I could not even kneel down and stand up without assistance.  My daughter, Amy’s example, had helped clean up my diet a lot, but I still ate too much.  Turns out too much of a good thing can be bad for you.

By the time I moved into the Isaac I was ready to make more changes, but I had lost little weight and was very unfit.  But one of the first things that caught my eye was the yoga studio across the lane.  Never having tried yoga before, and certainly not wanting to embark on the spiritual side of the practice (which appears to me pretty shonky when I read about it), I thought I would try a beginners’ class.  But first I rang up, described my physical condition, and was advised to have a few private lessons first.  It was the best advice I could have been given.  I hate classes anyway, and I was assigned the wonderful Jac, who has become one of my best friends.

Needless to say I have never gotten round to going to the group sessions, although now have fun with a small group of friends at the Isaac who pay for a teacher to come and instruct us in the upstairs lounge twice a week.  Jac coxed and coached and bullied and cajoled and encouraged me until I was motivated enough to do it on my own.  Muscles I never knew I had are now routinely stretched and flexed, and my brain and body have been reintroduced to each other.  Believe me, that has some very positive benefits that go well beyond physical fitness.  Whole long neglected areas of ones well-being spring back to life, and of course that sets off other challenges.  But I won’t go there just now.

Suffice to say that it eventually got through to me that following an exercise regime that utilised my own body weight would be a lot easier if my body weight was less. In the past my mantra had always been, “diet or exercise, never both together”.  Naturally this was wrong, it never did work.  So I tried both together, and proved that with a lot of hard work even a post-menopausal woman with a wrecked metabolism can lose weight.  Quite a lot of weight in fact. Enough to be able to buy clothes from normal stores again,  although not enough to be regarded as slim.  Still, a better, healthier person did eventually emerge.  And when I stopped straightening and colouring my hair … well I told you about that in my first blog.  Not exactly Marilyn Monroe, but maybe not so bad for my age.

And if I had not taken up yoga, and met a teacher as sympatico as Jac, I really think I would be on my last legs now.  Or at the very least I would be as miserable as hell.  So, yes, yoga really did save my life.

By the way, I did warn you this blog was about me, right?  Oh, and another thing.  In the course of our yoga sessions Jac and I talk, a lot.  I am just putting this out there, for those of you who know me.  There is NOTHING Jac and I do not talk about!

Anyway, I am here in Aix doing my yoga routine every morning that Jac wrote for me as a parting gift.  I posted a couple of selfies on FaceBook this morning of me stretching feet up wall (an opening stretch courtesy of the also wonderful Bobbi who teaches our Isaac group), and my daughter commented that it just looked like me getting into awkward positions in my pyjamas.  But no, really, I am working out here because I dare not return to NZ looking like a tub of lard – been there, done that.

Enough for today, except for a little observation.  There are many markets in Aix, and a big one on Saturday.  The vendors are genuine retailers with mobile sites.  The prices are pretty good, but this is not the third world, and one does not haggle and expect to get something for nothing.  Personally, I do not think one should overdo that in the third world either, but that is another story.  Today in the market I watched two American couples trying to bargain with a stall-holder with so little grace or charm that I was ashamed we shared a common language.  After demanding a ridiculously low price for the goods on sale they used the classic, “well we are walking away now”.  All at full volume, with not a bonjour, s’il vous plaît, or merci to be heard.  I literally cringed with embarrassment as the stall-holder gave a Gallic shrug and turned his back on them.  Exactly what they deserved.

I am reminded that I am in a foreign country, and it behoves me to try and respect the culture and traditions of this place.  And I do try.  I always offer a greeting in French, at least begin my conversation  in French, and never neglect to depart with a merci and au revoir.  I am not sure if my French is improving, but people generally understand what I want.  It is just that I am a bit slow on the uptake when they reply.

And on a final note …  One thing I have been missing here is music.  I cannot get Spotify or Pandora, but have just discovered Jango and been happily typing along to a background of classic  American jazz.  Love Jango, and yes, those Yanks are good at some things.

This morning I was up early, tidied the house and myself, and prepared for the arrival of Madame.  My landlord, Madame Choux that is, who turned out to be an utterly delightful lady.  I made her coffee, and we sat and chatted about her travels, my plans, her grandchildren and the intricacies of the apartment.  She had many recommendations for me, and gifted me a packet of fresh vanilla beans from Réunion Island where she lives much of the year, and a 10 trip card for the little electric bus that weaves around the streets of the Centre Ville.  And in return I handed over the 2000 Euros in cash (instalment only) that had been burning a hole in the bottom drawer ever since I arrived.  In short, we were pleased with each other.

Then the rest of the day was mine to make the most of, and so I set out on my chores.  Uncharacteristically it was grey out, but still warm, so I set off intending to cover a fair bit of ground.  First stop, La Poste, to mail a little birthday present to the wee girl next door to me at home, who is turning one this week.  Mais, non.  It was 12.20 pm, and La Poste was au déjeuner until 2 pm.  No matter, I wanted to check out the knitting shop I had discovered in Rue de la République anyway, and I could catch the post on the way home.  Around the corner into Cours Mirabeau, where I got happily caught up in the market for a while, and bought two brightly coloured table cloths for home for a song.  By the time I got to La Rotonde at the other end they were all packing up for the day.

You really don’t want to get in the way when this is happening.  One moment you are wandering around a pedestrianised zone,  the next you are surrounded by a host of vans and little lift back cars, all jostling to get as close as possible to the loading zone.  Then every single stall item is carefully packed into the boxes it came out of a few hours earlier, and painstakingly repacked in the van or car in precise and perfect order.  There is not an inch of room to spare, and no opportunity for anything other than perfect order.  Then they slam the doors, zoom off to wherever they came from, and by 1.30 pm there is not the least sign that they were ever there.  But no worries, they will be back again on Saturday if there was a bargain you are regretting turning down.

So having been distracted by the market, I continued on to my destination with a sinking heart.  It occurred to me, as I approached the store, that I might have read on-line that it closed from 12 noon till 2 pm.  And of course, that proved to be exactly the case.  Another 45 minutes to fill in, which I did by wandering in and out of a variety of stores, till it came to 2 pm by which time I had had enough and decided to head for home.  This time I took a short cut, which meant that I by-passed the butchers, and – oh darn, I really did need something for dinner.  But I did manage to catch La Poste open, and settled for inferior produce from the little superette next door to it, before staggering home for a little lie down studying my French grammar.

Neither a productive nor an exciting day, but not unpleasant.  The cloud cover has increased, and rain is forecast in Aix.  That in itself will be an event if it occurs, because there has not been a hint of moistness since I arrived.  I will report in due course.

In the meantime, a little more on ma grand-mère.

My grandmother taught me to play Patience (now we call it Solitaire), do the Lambeth Walk, and to adore Cadbury’s Dairy Milk chocolate.  She took me shopping and to the Zoo and Easter Show, and spoilt me rotten.  I would sit on the bench while she baked, and could make a cake without assistance by the time I was seven.  The recipe for her Rock Cakes is still in my head.  She taught me how to knit, even though my left-handedness made this an exercise in frustration.  I took over the old Singer treadle sewing machine from her, and later made my own clothes.

To me, she was wonderful, but others had different experiences.  I knew a warm and loving woman still full of vitality, who took me as her companion.  Her presence in our household was a wonderful boon to me, but even to a pre-schooler the cracks showed occasionally.

Whenever I misbehaved and seriously irritated my mother, a battle would ensue.  Grandma would stand up for me, and I would duck for cover.  If my mother was annoyed at me to begin with, my grandmother’s defence was like a red rag to a bull.   Shouting would follow and matters would rapidly escalate.  I could see it going wrong before my eyes even as a tiny child, and inevitably my punishment increased exponentially as the result of the conflict between the two women.  Of course I did not understand why at the time, but now it seems clear enough that my mother was wounded that not only had she suffered unfair punishment as a child, but that her relationship with her own child was being interfered with.  Unfairness is hard to forgive or forget.

By the time my grandmother died, when I was ten, there were two more children, but neither of them became part of this tug of war.  My grandmother’s intentions towards me had been good, but the love and affection she showed me came, as a child, at the expense of my relationship with my mother.  There is a sense in which it never recovered.  It is clear she left her mark not just on my mother, and through her on me, but on others too.  

Which is partly the reason I needed, as an adult, to figure out who this woman, from this far away place, really was.  That, and the fact that I feel so cheated that she died before I was old enough to quiz her about her life, family and origins, or to hear her side of the story.  Certainly I have heard my mother’s side of the story ad infinitum, although that makes it no less disturbing.  Oh, and it would help to know who was my real grandfather.

I thought it might be a good idea to take my mother, about to turn 80, to the Channel Islands.  We were both widowed at that stage, so a distraction was in order.

There will be more, probably …

I have just spent a couple of days with my friends Kath and Martin, who came all the way from Swansea in Wales to visit me.  It was a very leisurely visit, but very enjoyable.  And as is so often the case, in showing them around I discovered parts of Aix I had not previously seen.  In fact the cultural quarter has some wonderful modern buildings, and some impressive and expensive redevelopment has been done to the south of the Centre Ville.

After I dropped them at Marseille Airport I took my daily walk, and found myself in the very well-equipped stationery and arts supply shop at the beginning of Cours Mirabeau.  I LOVE shops like this.  As a would be writer there has never been anything more attractive to me than a brand new blank notebook and a smooth-writing pen.  Even though my principal equipment has moved to a key board, but I am still walking around with a tiny notebook in my bag to take down random thoughts, and remind me of names and places.  But I am also fascinate by art supplies, which are so appealing, even though I have no idea what to do with them.

Well as it happens, I had taken a photo earlier that day that struck me as great inspiration for a simple water colour.

Anyway, I am not an artist.  I cannot draw and my technical skills are zero.  When art was compulsory at school I do not recall that any of the art teachers even knew my name, and certainly they never spoke directly to me in class.  Safe to say I was an also ran in art class.  But as I have gotten older I have gotten more comfortable with my own powers of observation, with colour, and with arranging texture and form.  More than that, I have acquired a small collection of original art that owes absolutely nothing to figurative painting or drawing.

So I thought … I have the time and the inclination … maybe I could experiment a bit.  Have you ever reflected on how hard it is to overcome a negative mindset?  Even though I was proposing to invest less than 20 Euros, it took me about 30 minutes and several comings and goings to persuade myself it was ok to buy a sketch book and a palette of water colours.  I had to force myself to do it, and all I can think is how hard it must be for kids who get no encouragement in any sphere as they grow up.  I was so lucky.  Although a failure at art, I had other talents recognised and nourished.

Even so, the mad women, having escaped the attic, seems to think she might have hidden talents.  Not really, but I don’t see why I should not give something new a go as a leisure activity.  So here it is, my interpretation of the market scarves display.

So I am quite pleased with myself tonight.  It might be a first and a last, but who knows.  I now have 10 days till my next visitor arrives, so I should have time to do more writing and work on my French.  Wish me luck with my own company.