Sex. Making love. Fucking. Someone I know used to insist on referring to it as ‘being intimate’. Quite a lot of it went on in my grandmothers immediate family.
When I was a teenager in the early seventies, the contraceptive pill had only recently become widely available. As a consequence we liked to think our generation invented sex. Not me personally of course. I was too much my mother’s daughter to take those sort of risks. But I, like my peers, certainly assumed that sex before marriage was virtually unknown in the generations that preceded us, and that they considered sex after marriage was more of a duty than an indulgence. Our mothers did not tend to encourage us girls to think of sex as pleasurable, at least not from a female perspective. But we were the new generation. We had read “The Joy of Sex”. We knew better and we were definitely going to have orgasms.
In reality, of course, we knew nothing. Our predecessors were a feisty lot. At least mine were. They had to overcome the odds to enjoy their sexual freedom – the church, the neighbours, the risk of unwanted pregnancy, the sheer exhaustion of grindingly hard labour – but overcome they did.
Not without consequences though. There were children born out of wedlock, forced marriages, tears, blows and heartbreak, but no one died. No one ever regretted the birth of a child. The family simply adjusted and carried on – just as it has always been and ever will be. Life has a way of begetting life, and sex is what makes that happen. Whether sanctioned by church, state and society or not.
So the ambiguous Onehunga family got some mixed messages about sex. The official message was, “don’t do it outside of marriage”. The example was different, and right in their faces. The results were mixed. Five of the siblings married, one of them more than once. Three marriages lasted a life-time, with more or less success depending on what stage you view as success. One never quite made it to the alter. None of them were childless. Some children were born inside of marriage, others outside. The latter are known, talked of in distant memory, and have largely disappeared from view. Others came into the family by adoption, and are as bound by the family by nuture as the rest of us are by blood.
It is not for me to recite the love lives of my uncles and aunt. But nothing should be taken at face value in the family. There are secrets that are not secret galore. Nor should it be assumed that my grandmother, having returned to the marital home, felt herself to be confined to the marital bed. She may have been frustrated by the wildness of her offspring, but she must have recognised that she could not expect from them a discipline she did not impose on herself. My mother was the exception.
The older daughter, Maisie, had gotten away from my grandmother at a time when she herself was easily distracted. By the time my mother was growing into adolescence she was aging, more settled and her adventurous past somewhat behind her. Her husband was weakening, and becoming ill again from the lung disease that eventually killed him. She became a widow when my mother was eighteen. The rest of the family had long gone. My mother was not going to get away from her. Partly I think because she had regrets, but not least because my mother was useful. She provided an income into the household, company, support, housework. And she drew admiration and praise. All parents live through their children a little, don’t they?
In any case, from having been left to her brother’s devices as a child, my grandmother took care to see that her youngest daughter did not run loose as she grew into womanhood. The reins were tight and closely held. Netball, movies and dances with girlfriends were ok. Any interest in young men was discouraged. No scandal would surround this daughter, who in any event was neither made for nor inclined to scandal.
Ok, I have been silent. Not for want of time to write, although that is certainly short. But because I am still struggling with my story, and because every day life sucks the marrow out of one’s bones. It really does.
But the last few days I have been eating too much, worrying about it, promising to stop, and then eating some more. And it is not entirely unconnected to my story or the things I am telling people here.
My family is generous with food. As in many other families, but by no means all, food is an expression of love. In fact it may be the main way we express love. In some families it is the quality of the food that expresses love, but in mine it is the quantity, the generosity of the offering. It has always been that way, and so it was, I believe, for my mother as a child.
When I was growing up we ate steak and roasts every week, while my friends considered mince and sausages a treat. They had potato chips and fairy sprinkles sandwiches, and I had ham every day. They ate salads with iceberg lettuce, tomatoes and grated carrots. We ate meat and potatoes and three other veggies every night. My mother was not a better cook than theirs, but she cooked better food. And there was plenty of it.
When our family entertain, then and now, there is always an abundance of food. No dish every runs out. There are always leftovers. People leave the table groaning with excess and loosening their belts. Anything less than this would bring us shame. There can be no worse crime than under-catering. So it has always been and always will be.
Recently I attended a celebration where, had I not come bearing unasked for extra offerings, there would not have been, or just barely have been, enough food for the numbers present. I would have died of shame if it was my party, but no one else appeared to notice or care. Nor should they, of course. It is my hang-up, nobody elses’. By contrast, just this last week, I catered a dinner that was very casual and modest by my standards. Even so, I baked a pie to serve six that could easily have done ten or more guests. I had exactly double the quantity of side dishes we could actually eat. There were leftovers for the next three days. But I could not have done otherwise if I tried. It is in my DNA.
Of course the corollary to all of this food generosity, this ridiculous waste and extravagance, is that I, and those who I feed, eat far too much. It does my guests no harm. For them it is an occasional indulgence. But it is not good for me, or for my family when I was feeding a family, or for anyone I cook for on a regular basis. It might be enjoyable, but it is not good for them or me.
When I was in France I wrote about food and my relationship to it. The situation shaped my approach. I was alone most of the time, and I did not need to cook for anyone. My days had a life of their own that was not based around breakfast, lunch and dinner. I did not get to lunch time desperate for a distraction, or find myself looking for a treat after dinner because I needed to relax. (Yes, I know – using food to satisfy emotional needs is NOT GOOD.) So I really did eat much less, and much less frequently, notwithstanding all those lovely food photographs I posted on FaceBook.
But back in NZ I am back in the same groove in so many ways, and whilst that is not all bad, it is a disaster when it comes to eating. So it is not just my eating habits that I need to break, but the pattern of life that shapes my dietary regime. That is what I need to work on next.
And yet I will not and do not want to shake my addition to over-catering for events and celebrations. There are some things in life that should be overblown. Small servings and unadorned food bespeak a meanness of spirit to me. When I invite people to celebrate and I offer food, it has to be food worthy of the celebration. Food and drink and music and surroundings and good company go together. That is one of the good things I learnt growing up, and I have taught my girls the same thing. I hope.
Now all I have to do is figure out how to confine that approach to those occasions when I am feeding others, and to do differently in my day to day life. Oh, and I have to remember to send the leftovers home with my guests or bin them. Not store in the fridge to trip me up for the rest of the week.
My grandmother’s story …. ? Well maybe next time I am scouring the fridge for an after-dinner snack I will come and get on with that instead.
Three and a half weeks home and life is settling into a familiar rhythm. I get up, go to work, construct the meals provided in my Whoop Box, do yoga, enjoy or curse the weather, and have found new and old favourites to watch on Netflix and Lightbox. Then there is Johan, and family and friends, and all the events and occasions they bring. Not too bad actually, but I am no longer prepared to drift. France may not have taught me how to live the rest of my life, but it did confirm that I need a sense of direction to live it.
And as I remarked to someone last night, once I get an idea into my head I tend to want to get on with it toute suite. So watch out for changes on the horizon. No big revelations just yet. Not even any final decisions. But something has to give soon.
I am not sure how my grandmother dealt with the grind of day to day life. By the time I knew her she seemed pretty resigned to it. But the pattern of her behaviour over the earlier part of her life suggests she did not easily succumb.
There could have been worse places to be than Auckland in the 1930’s. The Great Depression might have been biting, but no one was starving in the temperate north. George V was still on the throne, cars were only for the very wealthy, the trams ran down Manukau and Dominion Roads into the city, and the mantra of “rugby, racing and beer” was the cultural norm. People went to church on Sundays, knew their neighbours, and each others business. They went to see movies in black and white (talkies!), and stood up for God Save the King beforehand. Wireless was a novelty and the latest luxury household item. Auckland was growing and pushing out in all directions, so that Onehunga became a suburb instead of a disconnected town.
Trams on Queen St in the 1030s
The merged family could have been happy, and sometimes they were. Certainly there can be no doubting the strong bonds my grandmother’s children felt to her, although she may often have been careless about nurturing them.
When my mother was born into her two-part family, Bill was already 18 – essentially a man and no longer living at home. James was 15 and Maisie 14. They were both well on their way towards moving on. Children grew up fast in those days, and even faster in this family. Bob was five and Jack nine. In families of six the youngest is seldom spoilt. Certainly my mother was not. Benign neglect was the norm. However, she adored her brothers, notwithstanding that the younger two treated her more like a play thing than a play mate.
In those days children, when not in school or church, ran free and unhindered. No one much knew or cared where they went when out of sight. As long as no one complained about their activities, they could go where they liked and do what they wanted. Adventurous in mind and body, Jack and Bob did just that. My mother tagged along. In response they did what boys do. They tossed her into the sea to practise their rescue skills. They sent her climbing trees to see how high up she would go before she got stuck. They tied her up, chased her, got her lost, used her to beg favours, and generally treated her like a vaguely annoying wind-up toy. She may not have loved every minute of it, but her brothers became her ideal of what boys and men should be.
Just a pity about the bad habits they acquired as they got older – women, booze, just the usual. Boys will be boys.
So there was Mum, just a scrap of a thing, hanging out with her brothers and their friends, and as she got older with her own little gangs as well. She was not well-dressed. Going to the local convent school, her school uniform was the default all occasions dress-code. New clothes and shoes were unknown, and new 2nd-hand a rarity. She was not particularly clean. No one cared enough to ensure that she was, although a kindly neighbour with a child the same age took her in for a good scrub occasionally. But she was pretty. Very pretty, and that was an asset. Neighbours and shop keepers took a shine to her. That was handy when my grandmother needed credit or to borrow something. Send May to ask. When she was old enough to understand, this became a source of burning shame to her, but she never refused an errand. One did not refuse to obey in those days.
Spare the rod and spoil the child. There was nothing actually biblical about my grandparents’ approach to child control, but they certainly neither spared the rod nor spoiled the child. In that household, and probably in many others, corporal punishment was instant and brutal. Worse, the severity of the punishment did not necessarily equate to the offence. A learnt response of course, and to me as a child who inherited this pattern, the greatest source of injustice and grief.
My uncles got the worst of it. Being boys they probably did not succumb easily enough to avoid the spiralling intensity of their parents’ tempers. And of course it was my grandfather who dealt out the worst beatings, occasionally well beyond the bounds of what was considered acceptable even then. No one intervened. No one called the Police or child welfare. It was not that bad. It was, just barely, normal.
Let me be clear. These children were loved. They were clothed (after a fashion), sent to school, even feted on occasion. But they were mistreated. By parents whose own problems and dramas left them vulnerable and only intermittently inclined to bother.
Children grow up and they move on. All had their demons. They all loved their parents unreservedly, but not uncritically. They became parents themselves, and I will get to that somewhere in this story.
While not unscathed by violence and neglect, that is not what forged my mother’s values.
While children see only what is closest to them, those around them see and infer much more. What the neighbours saw was a European woman married to a Maori husband, whose children very clearly did not have the same father. Two strikes. While he was upright and proud, she was slovenly around the house, careless of the children, and a regular at the trots and gallops. Her store accounts paid late, and a little too friendly with men in general, particularly those who could do her a favour. Three strikes, maybe more.
And the older siblings. Dark skinned, nattily dressed, and stunningly good looking. But, oh my, they were free and loose with the opposite sex.
Onehunga was a working class area, but people still had their standards. They might have been shitty, unthinking, unforgiving standards, but they were used to judge. It is always nice to have someone to look down on. So while the neighbours were being nice to my mother, they were also pitying and patronising. Not just the adults. The children pick these things up as well. As a child my mother was only obliquely aware of this, but as she got older it sunk in all too well. Her reaction – an overwhelming desire for respectability above all else. It is a habit and a mindset that has taken her a lifetime to overcome, and it has shaped every facet of her life and that of her family. The question is never, who am I, but rather, what do other people think of me?
Ok, it is not getting any easier. Enough for now. The long weekend beckons.
Often difficult. I feel like I should be making choices at the moment, but so far I have failed to identify the options.
Some say there are no right or wrong choices, only better or worse outcomes. I have some sympathy with this moral relativism, although like most people I still strive to make choices based on core values. But for me, when choices come up that affect my future, logic comes a distant second to instinct and intuition. I suspect my grandmother was the same.
What happened next is unknown to anyone now alive, and therefore unknowable. My mother could have asked any number of people. She could have asked her own mother who lived with her. She did not. Some things are apparently too dangerous to delve into.
To me this is simply incomprehensible. Despite hints, and insults, and parsimonious snippets of information from her older sibblings, my mother simply never inquired. Not me. I would have delved where angels fear to tread, but my approach carries its own risks.
My mother claims now to remember certain things. A possible surname. Visits to the house by a good looking, curly-haired man. The gift of a bicycle, subsequently sold off when my grandmother had a debt to pay. A visit charged with suppressed violence, where she was directed to go to her father and forcibly rejected when she went to the only man she knew as her father.
I am not sure. Memory is a strange thing, and for a not entirely happy woman reviewing her life through sleepless nights, it is not necessarily accurate. At best, these are recovered memories, always suspect.
In the years after the war the family remained in Poverty Bay, and as he recovered my grandfather returned to work. Apart from his years in the Army, he was a labourer of various kinds throughout his working life. There was no shame in this. Most NZ men of that era did similar work, turning their hands to whatever was available at the time. During the Depression in the 1930’s he had government relief work, as did many others. At other times he worked in the meat works at Otahuhu, which was a huge employer at the time. Labourers were what NZ needed in those days. The family may have been poor. But so were most others, and they always had good food on the table.
At some point in time my grandmother got restless. Or maybe just the relentless tedium of poverty, small children and provincial NZ wore her down. Perhaps she was just not having enough fun. My grandfather after the war was no doubt a different man than the one she fell in love with. Maybe she could not love the new man he had become. Or else the clash of two strong personalities just got too difficult to handle. In any event, another man came along. Perhaps for my grandfather there were also other women.
There was a separation. I doubt that it was amicable. In my imagination I hear shouting and accusations, clothing and personal items tossed out the front door, and three little children resigning themselves to yet more upset and turmoil. But perhaps it was not like that, and they were kinder to each other. I was not there, so I do not know.
But my grandmother’s sister Mary was there. She was a port in a storm. And my grandmother had a new lover. Not just a passing interest either, but a serious, long-term relationship. Their first child, John, was born in 1922, the second, Robert, in 1926, and finally my mother in 1932. Ten years of domesticity and family, including the older siblings. Six living children of mixed race and parentage, all bound together by my grandmother’s whim and will.
The household dynamics and inter-relationships mess with my mind. By the late 1920’s, and perhaps even earlier, all the parties were living in Gisborne. According to the 1928 census, my grandmother was living with her sister and brother in law at 6 Lytton Road. We do not know if the other man, my biological grandfather, was also living there or elsewhere, or whether this arrangement was temporary. It appears from those records that my grandfather, William, was living next door at number 4. Certainly the two men would have been acquainted. By the time my mother was born in 1932, the marriage had been resurrected and my grand-parents had moved to Onehunga in Auckland.
How or why my grandparents reunited is another mystery. However, they had never been that far apart. Perhaps the other man tired of her and left. Perhaps the dramatic tension was simply too much for him. Or she may have proved capricious and eventually found her former husband the more attractive of the two. He may have petitioned her to return. Who knows. Whether she asked to come back, or he begged her to return, it must have taken a huge amount of swallowed pride on both parts for them to decide to live together again. No wonder they departed to Auckland.
So choices were made, and then re-visited in a manner few people ever have the opportunity to experience. The blended family were together in a workman’s cottage in Church Street, Onehunga, and my mother never knew it had ever been any different. She grew up in and around the area occupied by DressMart today, with the Catholic Church where I was christened just along the road. Her aunt Mary and uncle Denny also moved to Onehunga, and her cousins were only a few minutes away in Spring Street. The house, which I passed many times as a child, was tiny. She slept in a big bed with her mother until she was eight, which may be a clue to the state of my grandparents marriage. Of course she was ejected for my grandfather’s visits, but I understand this was infrequent.
It would be nice to report that this unconventional family unit fared well, but that was not the case. Survived would be a better description.
Yes, there is more to come. Quite a lot I suspect, since I am nowhere near figuring out how we all got to be as we are.
I was supposed to return from France with all my thoughts and plans in order. A blueprint for the next 10+ years of my life was to have been produced. This has not happened.
It was never going to happen. I am not a planner when it comes to the big things in life. I am more of an opportunist. This is ok, except it means that I have to hope opportunities and options come my way. On the plus side, I am comfortable with change, and can change my life course on a dime if I feel so inclined. But in the last week I have been drifting in a way I never did during my structured time in France, and I am not comfortable.
I know it is time to get on with my grandmother’s story, and I will. But I need to get on an even keel first.
Being home has been a mixed bag so far. Seeing Amy pregnant and glowing, and spending time with her and Eric has been wonderful. We are both frustrated at not knowing the sex of the baby, but we do have photos.
Baby Burgueño.
In the meantime I have started knitting – in yellow. I prefer to avoid white because it is so hard to keep it perfect, but ready to branch out into blue or pink at the first opportunity. Gender stereotyping – pfft!
Being back in my apartment, and catching up with friends in The Isaac, has been lovely too. The apartment in Aix was bigger than my own, and within 5 minutes walk of the Centre Ville. But I am more than ever satisfied with where I live. The furniture and art that I chose myself are like old friends. The welcome home barbecue was perfect too – relaxed, casual, gossipy, and so nice to be with people whose company is always enjoyable. Going to the Banksy exhibition in the Aotea Centre was also a good move, even if just to remind myself that I could still enjoy access to interesting art locally.
And the GREEN. Provence is coloured ochre. Everything except the sky is ochre. The north of France and Europe, at this time of year, is gun metal grey. Auckland is GREEN. Yea! The absence of scarf, coat, boots, hat and gloves is a plus too.
Catching up with Mum has been good. She was not too well in the week or so before I left France, and when I arrived home both siblings were on holiday in Australia. So needless to say she was glad to see me, and fortunately feeling better. Yesterday we went to the garden centre and bought plants for her upcoming ladies garden lunch. Also a few replacements for the dead foliage I have cut out of the pots on my deck. Some will hopefully recover, others are gone forever. Then I planted her purchases in the rock hard ground (scarcely earns the title of soil) in her front yard, and made her promise to water them deeply and daily. The sun was scorching, so I guess the promised good weather is back. I was forcibly reminded that Auckland is host to the stickiest kind of heat, and had to drink copiously the rest of the day to recover lost moisture.
Reminder to self – ladies do not sweat, they perspire. My grandmother told me that, but I was reminded of it last night when I described my state of being to Johan. And that is another thing that is different. For 10 weeks in France we spoke every day, usually morning and evening, on FaceTime. He was my link to home and sanity. Our contact allowed me to convert all my little fears and tribulations into funny stories on a daily basis, so that I never got too stressed about anything that happened. Then we had two weeks where we were together the whole time. But now we are home. He lives in Warkworth and I in central Auckland. We each have things that need to be done, obligations to fulfil. We need to establish a new pattern.
And some bad and sad things have happened since I have been back.
Although I cannot wait for Jacqui to return so we can have a good chat about our mutual adventures, a mysterious (to me) estrangement with my brother has hardened into a complete rupture. The hows, whys and wherefores are not for this page, even if I understood them. Having witnessed a rift in someone else’s family healed while I was in the Netherlands, I had thought to sort out our problem face to face on my return. But it was not to be. And now it appears I am part of one of ‘those’ families where members do not speak to one another. I am shocked and saddened, but not about to dwell on it.
Life for Jason and Laura has been tough the last few weeks. Before Christmas they learnt that Jason’s father was in ICU in Canada with breathing problems, and so they cancelled Christmas and their summer holiday to spend time with him. The timing could hardly have been worse as they flew straight into historic winter lows in Toronto. Sadly, untreatable lung cancer was diagnosed, and last week Alex was taken by this vicious disease. I am looking forward to the return of JayLor next week, when they will be moving into an apartment in the building next to mine.
So what else is wrong. Well, on an entirely different scale of things … the road works around Grey Lynn are either finished and incomprehensibly unfit for purpose (a cycle lane in Richmond Road that has cost car parking but lets cars block the lane), or suspended while AT gets its shit together. In Newmarket stores are closing and all the places I used to park are now construction sites. The NZ Herald is so thin on news that the on-line version has been running the same stories for a week. The hearing aid in my left ear has given up the ghost for the second time in 3 months and been sent back to the factory. I have not gone for a walk for over a week. Jac, my yoga teacher has gone on holiday, and Ruby Wax has sold her salon so that I will have to acquaint yet another soul with all the bits of me that need correcting. I suppose I should be glad I will not have to do that in French this time.
But mostly the problem is, what next?
Now I know what one reader would have to say about all this. “Get back to work! Work will set you free.” Thanks ‘bloody Brian’, but work is part of the problem too. I was hoping to resolve that particular problem, but I have not. I have been into work for a couple of hours, and monitoring mail, although I am not due back till 17th.
Ok, what I do know is this.
I love writing, and I will continue to blog. My grandmother’s story will continue and one day be completed. I have to work, or find a way to earn money, in order to live as I do. I like how I live. I like having a man in my life, and I hope I don’t muck it up. That might require some work. I am going to be a grandmother, and that thought is bringing me joy. For a while at least both my daughters and their husbands will be living within spitting distance, and that too brings me joy. I have been lucky enough to have had a wonderful adventure, and I intend to have more.
Outside it is raining and has been for some time. The headline on the front page of today’s Herald says, “Brace Yourself!” over a picture of storm clouds bearing down on the country. Three days ago, as I drove from Aix to Nice across the bottom of Provence in full winter, the sky was blue and the temperature hit 18 degrees.
Winter in Provence with Sainte Victoire in the distance
I think I might have been sold a pup weatherwise, although it is hot and sticky.
Perhaps my mood is influenced by jet lag. Because I can sleep on planes, I am seldom too badly inconvenienced by the bane of long distance travel. However, on this occasion I am beaten. We left Aix at 9 am on New Years Eve – that is 9 pm on the same day (Sunday) in NZ. We arrived in Auckland at 4.35 am on 3 January (Wednesday). That means we spent 65 hours and 35 minutes travelling to NZ. I have not slept more than 3 hours since arriving and it is now 4.30 pm on Thursday. Today I have been to the beauty clinic, taken my mother lunch, and bought a dress. Yesterday I unpacked, did washing, went grocery shopping, and cooked dinner for my daughter and son-in-law. At this point I am not sure I am making good decisions.
Ok, let’s chart what happened. We get up early, hand apartment over to the wonderful Rita, and set off. Not to Nice, where we have a plane to catch, but north of town to get the perfect photographic view point of Sainte Victoria. The man in the Tourism Office has given us the actual spot that Cézanne and all the other painters have used to capture this view. Except that it is now in the middle of the suburbs, and there is nowhere to park on the steep, narrow and winding road. So Johan parks anyway, and leaves me in the car while he sprints up hill to take photos. Of course the view is no longer visible, the shot is impossible, and we are now on the wrong side of town for trip to Nice. Moving on …
The drive to Nice Côte d’Azur Airport is unremarkable, and we get there in plenty of time. Unfortunately the car lease depot is shut and the entry gate locked. I ring the office number. They are only open Monday to Friday 8 – 6, or by appointment. It is Sunday. I do not have an appointment (somehow after 32 hour trip 3 months previously I had missed this crucial information when picking up car). The machine does not offer an option to leave a message. I ring the international help number, wait five minutes on hold, only to be told, “someone will ring me back”. Twenty minutes later, still sitting parked illegally on an airport road – illegal parking is a theme this last two weeks -, ‘someone’ does ring me back. I explain the situation again. They have no solution to offer. The only number they have is the same one that is closed because it is Sunday. The problem is ours to solve.
So solve it we do. After trying to pursuade a couple of the car rental places to take temporary control, we simply ditch the car. A three month old Peugot 308 is left sitting in a carpark beside the car rental return depot (note this is NOT a rental car) with two sets of keys and ownership papers in the glove box. We have essentially ditched the car in favour of making our check-in on time.
Nice Côte d’Azur Airport is a pig of a place. It has two widely separated terminals with numerous parking buildings in between and, at present, road works on the internal roads. There is a free bus. You have to walk a considerable distance, largely unsigned-posted, to catch it. Then it will drop you about 100 metres from the entrance to Terminal 1. With two large and two small suitcases, a camera bag, a back pack, and a very heavy overfull satchel/handbag. None of this might have mattered much if my synapses were not already overloaded from 4,000 kms of road travel across four different countries in the space of the previous 5 days, and the prospect of ending my self-imposed exile.
So I was already a bit frazzled when, as it always does, my artificial knee set off the border control scanner. It did not help that by this time I was dying to go to the toilet. Of course I anticipate the alarm, and as I walk through the machine I am already pointing to my knee and suggesting this is the problem. Sometimes, not often, this is the end of the matter. Not this time. I had to go back through, take off my cardigan and shoes, and try again. Then I got the good old fashioned pat down – not the once over lightly, but the all enveloping examination of all surfaces and crevices. Very thorough. Back through the machine. Remove all jewellery – three rings, two bracelets (including the plastic one), earrings. I still set off the alarm. By this point I am snarling and uncooperative. Finally they get out the hand scanner, survey my body all over again, and decide that it is indeed my knee and I can go. Mini melt-down on my part as I fling my scattered belongings together. Johan pretends he is not with my by engaging in friendly banter with the guard.
One toilet stop and a little cool-down period later, we proceed to the gate, where we make ourselves comfortable. Not for long. There is an announcement in French. I think I hear that our plane will be delayed for at least an hour. I pretend they are talking about the other Qatar flight, due to depart for Istanbul. Then they repeat in English, and of course it is our flight. Not so bad. We have a 2 hour 30 minute interval to catch our connecting flight in Doha.
Four and half hours later and we know this is not going to happen. Furthermore, everyone else on the flight is going to miss a connection. No-one actually goes to Doha, they just pass through it as the Qatar Airlines hub.
No information is available. The fight may or may not leave sometime this evening (remember it is New Years Eve). Groups of French people confer loudly and exchange phone numbers and emails of the places they can lodge complaints and demand justice. French people tend to be big on justice. The foreign travellers like ourselves, who have access to the Priority Pass Lounge, try to act less concerned. I imagine I have a look of philosophical resignation on my face, but apparently not. Johan disappears for a while and reappears with the gift of an Occitane scented candle that he hopes will make me feel better. And it does, for a while.
Just when it looks like the Priority Pass Lounge will close for the night and kick us out, they announce boarding is commencing. We are all jammed on board and the doors closed in super-quick time, but then sit another 30 minutes before trundling out to the runway. At 12 midnight French time a small group of passengers, including me, burst into rounds of “Bonne Année, Happy New Year”, and there is much kissing.
So. We arrive in Doha at 3.30 am. There is ground crew waiting to sort things out for everyone. We have to wait until 2.50 am the following morning for our new flight, so we get a hotel room and transfer. This is actually pretty efficient. It is only 5.45 am when we actually get to the hotel. I have no toiletries or makeup, but no worries – I will shower and sleep, eat and go.
I manage one hours sleep, Johan maybe two. We watch CNN for a while, shower again, dress and go have breakfast/lunch in the hotel restaurant. It consumes 4/5 of our meal vouchers, which are supposed to provide breakfast, lunch and dinner.
What to do next? Watch some more CNN, get bored, decide to visit the Souq. It is more like 15 minutes by taxi than the 5 minutes stated on the hotel brochure, but it is at least ‘outside’ and a little interesting. The clothes are bizarre; the jewellery hideous and over-worked; the goods largely rustic. Then we find the pets section. There are thousands of birds of all kinds for sale, and we are uncomfortable at the overcrowding, while fascinated by the varieties. Then we find the section with puppies and cats (full grown, not kittens) and we are even more uncomfortable. When we see a puppy extracted from a cage by being grabbed and lifted by one leg we are definitely not happy. Time to leave.
Birds for sale in Souq.
Finally it was a light meal (which we had to pay for), another shower, and off to Hamas Airport again through the dark, although the city lights up like a theme park at night. After many more hours in yet another Priority Pass Lounge we finally board for Auckland. I sleep, watch a couple of episodes of Blue Planet II, about 10 Ted Talks, and eat all three meals plus snack box the airline supply. The plane is 100% full, except in Business Class, which is tantalisingly just the next row ahead of us behind closed curtains. Johan does not sleep at all. He does Suduko and watches back to back movies. Believe me when I say that 16+ hours in economy class is not fun, even when you have a bulk-head row to stretch your legs.
I was home before 7 am on Wednesday morning, only 24 hours later than expected. My summer clothes were – and still are – packed away in storage for my tenants convenience. The furniture was not where I left it. I am sure I used to have a coffee machine, but the kitchen bench is empty. My garden is dried up and dead. I am tired and smelly – I was briefly apprehended by the customs dog at Auckland Airport – and I have nothing to wear.
A day and a half later I am not much better. Tiredness does not bring sleep. There are unopened clothing boxes in the lounge, I still don’t know where the coffee machine is, and the weather is just getting worse and worse.
BUT …
I have had a wonderful time, and I am home. So I am not complaining really.
It is Wednesday morning in Aix en Provence. At 6.15 am on Friday we set out by car for Ypres in Belgium. We arrived 10 hours and three petrol/toilet stops later, having travelled the entire north/south length of France. Grey sky, windmills, perfect roads and well behaved traffic. A dream trip really.
As you approach Ypres, which is to all appearances in the middle of nowhere, the place names start to ring bells of all those WW1 battles you have heard about and never really understood. The landscape is tidy, flat, and utterly bleak at this time of year. But Ypres turns out to be a fairy tale village, albeit with a grim past.
The language is this part of Belgium is Dutch so Johan is quite at home. Our B&B is great with a friendly owner, and right in the middle of town. So we go to a restaurant he has recommended for a very good early dinner, then to Menin Gate for nightly Last Post ceremony. The names of fifty-five thousand soldiers who have no known graves inscribed on this beautiful structure. Lots of people. Plenty of tears.
Sorry, I am still in the midst of travel blitz so will post photos later.
The next day we visited commonwealth memorial, grave and battle sites. All incredibly emotional, even though my grandfather actually survived. The Museum in Ypres details the battles in this area, which were in the end completely meaningless but cost 10s of 1000s of lives, and destroyed many more. Go looking for Passchendael Ridge, the scene of one of the most famous battles, and the “ridge” turns out to be nothing more than a slight rise in ground level that in NZ we would not even notice. Horrible, but more of that when I have the time.
Saturday we drove to Antwerp, which is a beautiful city, and acted like proper tourists wandering around town, and visiting the Stroom Museum. We even wandered, quite accidentally, into the very extensive red light district. Only realised when we peered closely at red lighting in shop fronts and saw that the goods on display were real live naked woman. Next morning did quick tour of beautiful Art Nouveau and Art Deco buildings and houses before heading for Oeffelt on Christmas Eve.
BTW, typical Belgium food is crap – don’t be persuaded to eat it. Go somewhere that cooks something you recognise.
Sunday morning left Antwerp and headed first for Eindhoven to visit – wait for it – the first Albert Hein Supermarket, a “model” supermarket apparently. It was certainly the nicest, if not the biggest, supermarket I have ever been in. I was a bit disconcerted though to find they had a policy that refused Mastercard payment. Outside I had my first olie bollens – seasonal treat of deep fried dough with raisins and icing sugar. They tasted great, but came from a street cart, when Johan encountered a couple of very rude fellow country men. This was only his second encounter with his countrymen, since Eindhoven was our first stop in the Netherlands. The first being with the supermarket staff who would take neither my MasterCard, nor cash at that particular counter. But after that every other Dutch person we met was lovely!
Christmas eve and day in the tiny village of Oeffelt with Johan’s relatives, Phil and Nollie, in their lovely home in the south of the Netherlands. On Christmas Day we went to visit his sister, Virini, in Apeldoorn and went with her and husband Gerrit, to the Krüller-Möller Museum in the magnificent De Hoge Veluwe National Park. Wonderful art and sculptures, including a big Van Gogh collection, and (my favourite) quite a few Mondrians. Apeldoorn is where Johan grew up, so lots of stories and memories. Then back to Oeffelt for a magnificent dinner, and me exhausted by sensory overload.
Yesterday, Tuesday, we drove first to Nancy in north of France, where we stopped at the best patisserie ever, but really to hunt down another Art Nouveau collection of buildings. Nancy very interesting and well worth another visit. But the drive there was through the most industrial part of the Netherlands and northern France in the dark and mostly pouring rain. Then we had to drive all the way back to Aix. Arrived home last night at 9 pm after huge traffic jam in Lyon, and one motorway accident. Not the dream run of a couple of days earlier but not bad.
Today getting a bit organised for return home, but tomorrow off to Agen to stay with Sylvie for two nights. Will take in a bit of Toulouse on the way. Then one more sleep in Aix and we are on our way home.
There is much to write about in what I have seen and done over the last few days, but it will have to wait. Just wanted to let you know I am still here.
Bonne Anniversaire – think of me up in the air flying through multiple time zones on New Years Eve.
Just a quick word today, because struggling to keep up with demanding visitor now in residence. Well, not that bad actually. He is currently cooking me breakfast.
This week I am revisiting some places I have seen before, because they are new to Johan. The usual markets and tour of the Centre Ville goes without saying, although with a real photographer in tow progress is pretty slow. I stopped pointing out the photo opportunities after a while, because he was already going crazy with the wonderful late afternoon light falling on the old buildings. It was getting so cold as the sun went down that every time we stopped my nose got a little bluer. He was oblivious to that, as people are when carried away by an enthusiasm.
We have also been back to the beautiful Hôtel de Caumont, so that now I have seen the wonderful Picasso and Boterro exhibition twice. It was just as much fun the second time, and of course you pick up more and more detail each time. Then we also went back to a place I did not like so much, the gigantic Carrefours at Les Milles. This time we spent over two hours just wandering around a supermarket. If you imagine Noel Leeming and K-mart combined with Countdown plus Farros, and three times as big, you would have some idea of the sort of place it is. I simply get overwhelmed, and cannot shop at all except for the few specific things I have come out for. Naturally Johan loved it.
I have now handed over driving duties to the one who claims native European status, but both of us remain reliant on the satnav in the car. It does not matter how many times I explain that the satnav does not necessarily make life easy, and that you have to really concentrate and obey instructions. ALL of my visitors have made mistakes in navigation. Johan was no exception. When we left Carrefour it was dark and rush hour, which is comprised of commuters between Aix, the surrounding smaller towns, and Marseille. Quite a busy area here. Of course we took a wrong turn. When this happens you just wait for the satnav to recalibrate, then follow the instructions to get back on track.
But in this case there were queues everywhere, and then the driver decided the satnav lady was mistaken and that he would take the 2nd exit from the roundabout instead of the 3rd. Cue 20 minutes more driving down narrow unlit country roads before we finally got back on the motorway. There was a degree of tension on my side of the car, but the driver thought it was an adventure. Naturally he wanted more, so took the wrong off ramp coming back, which lead to a cross-town trip through more unfamiliar territory.
We are about to go out and test the driving scenario again. Wish me luck.
This is something I know a little bit about. I am a person who does not mind their own company. Up to a point. I am an introvert by nature, not an extrovert. Although this blog might appear to put the lie to that. It is more about how you interact with people in real life. One on one is fine. Presenting to an audience is fine. Trying not to feel like the least desirable person in the room to talk to at any other time is the struggle.
Anyway, relying on one’s own company breeds independence. Circumstances can also breed independence. I have had that as well. I like to think my grandmother was an independent person , although her breed of self-reliance might have been questionable.
We can only wonder at my grandfather’s motives for joining up to serve in WW 1. By the time he enlisted the conflict had been dragging on for several years, and the bloom of adventure that propelled young men forward at the outset had faded. Men were dying. New Zealand men were dying, and our young country could neither comprehend or afford that. Communities like those in Poverty Bay were hit hard. But more men were needed, and more and more were conscripted or volunteered.
For the Maori community it must have been a matter of pride. They could not be seen to avoid the fight, and perhaps memories of a warrior past were stirred and prodded. On the East Coast, Ngati Porou had its own company in the Maori Pioneer Battalion. For a transplanted Nga Puhi there was a challenge staring him in the face.
Then there was the marriage itself. There is nothing to indicate it was on the rocks. After all, in those days a marriage might not have been a success, but that did not often end in separation and divorce. Certainly not if you did not have money. There was no support for a women left to care for a family alone, and societal condemnation for any party who left a marriage. Generally you made your bed and you lay in it – literally in many cases. But this marriage must at the very least have been turbulent.
My grandfather was proud, and he had a temper. He looked after himself and his possessions, and had no difficulty in aspiring to all that Pakeha society had to offer.
My grandmother was wilful, and she had a temper. She had not much concern for society generally, and was a little slovenly and careless about possessions, hers and others.
When they first met none of these things was obvious. As with so many young people, other factors were at play. Lust, looks, the exoticism of different worlds. The more prosaic elements of a relationship did not figure in their thinking at all. Probably they were not actually thinking, just acting on overwhelming instincts. But by the time my grandfather sailed off to Europe they would certainly have had the measure of each other. They would have known each others best and worst characteristics, although neither would have had any idea the extent to which those traits would take them.
While it was unlikely my grandfather joined up to escape his marriage, he may nevertheless have felt that a break from it was not necessarily a bad thing.
My grandmother was left behind, and she is unlikely to have approved of his decision to enter the conflict. She would not have been the only young woman left behind to cope with a young family, but she was not the type to volunteer for self-sacrafice. Nor was she the sort to give up her pleasures in sympathy with the state of the world.
But before you race ahead in your expectations of what comes next, let me tell you that she did not forsake her husband while he was off fighting. There were no children conceived or born out of the marriage during this time. My grandmother sent no “Dear John … ” letters.
That is not to say she was not hardened and strengthened by the separation. She would not have been unsupported. The young family remained in the district, where Mary and Uncle Denny were still living. It does not appear Uncle Denny served in the services. At least he did not serve overseas. So there was close family at hand, and even an able male to help out when one was required. Even so, life must have been tough.
My grandmother was an intelligent woman, and she had received as good an education as most girls got at that time. She was strong, and young and capable. She was also a somewhat selfish and rather neglectful woman, with little regard for social mores. She had her indulgences that were not easily forgone. Sadly, she was not above using others to get what she wanted.
How she got through the war years is not clear, but for her the war did not end in 1918 as it did for other women. Her husband did not come home immediately, and when he did he was so sick that he spent two years hospitalised while his lungs recovered. She would have used both wits and charm to enhance her lifestyle during these years, because you can be sure that she would not have been satisfied with the income of an enlisted man, not even that of a sergeant.
By the end of the war she was running a womenswear store in Gisborne, and her children were in temporary care. The boys were together in a household they abhorred, and the whereabouts at that time of the baby, Maisie, is unknown. To all intents and purposes, she was an unencumbered single woman. What she did at that time was up to her. One imagines there were men around, although we do not know whether or not she succumbed to their attractions.
But she was still married, and she did have a family. The independent life might have suited her very well, but she had not entirely abandoned her responsibilities. What she did next some might say was merely her responsibility. But I prefer to think it came from a deep well of compassion. If you have no sense of responsibility, to nevertheless act against your deepest desires and inclinations takes a certain kind of resolution.
My grandfather’s health was not improving appreciably. He was not a man made for hospital wards, and perhaps his spirit was broken by what he had witnessed and endured. In any case my grandmother eventually took action. She gathered back her family, faced down the authorities, and took her husband home to nurse back to health. And back to health he came under her care, which could be and was devoted, when she set her mind to it.
So it was, that at the beginning of the third decade of the 20th century, the young family were reunited and apparently back on track. It could not, of course, last.
As I sit here writing on this early Sunday afternoon, I have been unable to avoid smelling my neighbours cooking and serving their midday meals. I have previously mentioned that Sunday lunch is a big deal in France, and I described the one occasion I attended such a meal in Marseille. Recently I have been critical of some of the food here, but believe me, there is no more enticing smell in the world than French home cooking. Particularly during the winter.
Notwithstanding my late breakfast and recent habit of skipping lunch, I have been driven into the kitchen to tear a couple of mouthfuls of bread off yesterday’s half stale baguette. Pickings are sparse in there. I am forbidden by Johan to go to the supermarket until he arrives tomorrow. Supermarkets are one of his favourite places in the world. In a past life he ran a deli counter in a Dutch supermarket (he has a lot of past lives) and cheese and cured meats are part of his genetic make-up. Go figure. Anyway I also found and ate a slightly shrivelled clementine. (They are mandarins really, but the French call them clementines and they come from Corsica.) Then I downed the can of Red Bull Zero I was saving for later. I am only somewhat satisfied.
I dare not go for my walk just yet because everyone in the entire world will be eating and drinking, and it drives me insane. By 3 pm or so it should be safe to go out. By then there will only be people drinking. Luckily, it being the penultimate weekend before Christmas, most of the shops will be open.
On a final note, I am curious to know who is reading this blog. I have had some responses through other channels that suggest there are a few of you out there who are checking in. But my technical abilities in setting up this blog did not extend to monitoring the readership. So just this one time, and as long as you don’t mind the admission, it would be great if you would leave a comment in the field below just to say that you have seen this edition. Don’t feel you need to actually say anything; just say “reddit”. I promise not to put you on any secret email list.
And even if you don’t feel like adding a comment, thanks anyway for being out there. I will be busy over the next couple of weeks, but I will try to keep writing anyway.
In the meantime wishing you a Joyeux Noël and a Bonne Année.
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.
Christmas market stallDecorated tree in sunny Hôtel de Caumont courtyard.
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.
