Happy Feet

Coming from the antipodes it is not as difficult to get used to a winter Christmas as one might expect.

It must be because we are so used to the northern hemisphere version of the celebration that it comes as no surprise to find oneself actually surrounded by the accoutrements of a cold weather celebration.  Mulled wine makes sense.  Santa Claus is appropriately dressed.  Snow is an actual possibility.

What takes a bit more getting used to is that this is not holiday season.  That is to say, there will be a coupe of days holiday, but few people are gearing up to take time off work and go on vacation.  To my way of thinking, the lead up to Christmas, the craziness in the office as clients clear their problem baskets onto my desk, and the event itself, mean that a holiday is a necessity not an option.  But of course that does not happen here.  As I have already remarked, the Christmas preparations begin late and the preparation is leisurely.  It is only now that the stores are pushing buying for gifting, and tomorrow (Sunday) some of the stores will be open.

Since Christmas is on a Monday, there will be a holiday.  And in some parts of Europe the following day is a holiday too.  But otherwise it is business as usual, with another brief hiatus for New Year.  I will miss the latter – in fact I will miss New Year altogether – because I will be in the air passing through so many time zones it will be impossible to know at what moment to celebrate.  I leave France on the afternoon of 31 December, and arrive back in NZ on the morning of 2 January.  Perhaps Qatar Airlines will come to the party and supply champagne and treats for the entire duration of the trip home.

Even so, there is a definite buzz in the air, with crowds in abundance in the Centre Ville.  Saturday is a particularly popular shopping day, as are evenings late in the week with the shops open till 7 pm.  This weekend there is a preponderance of families out shopping.  Today I saw several men making self-conscious purchases in womenswear stores.    During the week the bigger jewellery stores (think, those a bit like Michael Hill) have been packed, and I have watched teenage boys shopping so cluelessly for their mothers or girl friends that it has been all I can do to stop myself offering advice.

Last weekend I followed a small family carrying a live Christmas tree (they don’t really go for the fake kind here) home from town.  The little boy was trying to hold up the middle, the wife had the heavy stem end, and the father was leading carrying the tip.  There were many stops, and all three were issuing continuous instructions to each other.  Just as I was wondering how far they were going, they turned into the front yard of my apartment building.  Greetings were exchanged as I was able to offer the slight assistance of opening and holding the front door.  So I know at least one of my neighbours has a Christmas tree.  In addition a wreath has appeared on the door of the new people who moved in downstairs a couple of weeks ago.  And there are flashing lights coming from the window of one apartment opposite, at least until they get around to closing the electric shutters each evening.

Possibly there is a Franklin Road type scenario going on somewhere in Aix, but if so I have yet to find it.

However, my current obsession is not Christmas, but my feet.  Today I made my final visit to the beauty salon, which is just up the road.  My nails are now a tasteful and festive pink.

The manicurist, who is getting good at interpreting my mangled French, described them as Barbie pink.  She does not speak any English, but she knows the phrase “Barbie pink”.  Perhaps it is a technical term of the trade.

Anyway, the point is that the premises are slightly less than 1 km from home, so I thought it would be safe to wear my new boots.  You may recall that I purchased some very flash ‘kick arse’ boots, with tread designed to cope with the snow.  It turns out that although they are admirably equipped to handle the snow, they are not equipped to handle my feet.  The problem is, a bit like new Doc Martens, they are made of very heavy and inflexible leather.  They are the right size, but my ageing feet have a number of tender and sensitive points, and require a little ease for comfort.  So last week, and again last night, I tried a trick that has worked for me in the past.  I put on three pairs of socks, stuffed my feet into the boots, and turned the hair dryer on them until I could stand the heat no longer.

If you are lucky, what this will do is mould the shoe or boot to the shape of your foot, with a little bit of space to spare.  Try it with a pair of shoes that are a bit too tight. Usually it works, and indeed this morning when I set out they felt pretty good.  But this is a tough pair of boots to crack.  I might have been alright if, as planned, I had gone no where else but to the Utile across the road for extra yoghurt for my next visitor’s breakfast.  That is not what I did.  The sun was shining, although the wind was wicked.  There were crowds about.  I could not resist going for a walk.

In your heart of hearts you always know when your feet are going to end up causing you pain.  I knew it as I set off down the Rue d’Italia, as I poked my head into the new chocolate shop that opened yesterday (they make the chocolate in the shop where you can watch), and as I ventured further into the Centre Ville.  What was I thinking?  Experience told me it was bound to end in misery, but on and on I went.  There are always shops that you think might have something new worth checking out.  There are always little streets and alleyways that you have not been down when everything is open.  There was a marching band to watch for a while.  The smell of food can lead you on, even though I scarcely ever sample.

Even when every step is bringing pain, I keep going.  In the end I had no choice, because walking was the only way I had to get home.  So I stop.  A lot.  In shops.  Because my feet do not hurt much when I stand still.  I accidentally buy a blouse, when really all I am doing is trying to rest my feet.  It is a nice blouse – Stella Forrest with 30% discount.  But I would have been better off buying a pair of sneakers to be honest.

On the way home I pick up a four-pack of Greek yoghurt  (sans sucre, bien sûr), a can of Red Bull Zero (they don’t sell V here), a baguette, two chips of fresh raspberries (my breakfast obsession), and a bottle of red wine.  These all go in the Trelise Cooper canvas shopping bag I purchased in Countdown and bought with me.  This is necessary because in French supermarkets and food stores they not only make you pay to use the trolley, they also fail to provide a shopping bag unless you say “et un sac, s’il vous plaît“, and of course pay for it. I gather we are heading the same way in NZ, which is not a bad thing.  The shopping bag, I mean.  Not paying to use the trolley.  But I digress.

The point is, that although I am nearing home, I now have extra weight to carry.  That weight goes straight to my feet, and somehow increases the friction between my skin and that inflexible leather.  I am not happy.  In fact walking with sore feet is somehow not just painful, but also exhausting.  My face, I realise, is set in a grimace.  The cheerful woman who set out this morning with a spring in her step has disappeared, and been replaced by a wretched old hag.  I want nothing more in the world than to remove my boots and fling myself on the bed.

And eventually, after climbing the stairs seemingly inch by inch, that is exactly what I do.  Half an hour later, feet happily clad in slippers, I have recovered enough to start writing today’s little rant.  It is not what I intended.  I had every good intention of coming home, full of the joys of the season, and letting you in on what happened next to my grandmother.  Unfortunately, you will have to wait.