Grey is the New Blond

As promised.

Transplant someone into a different world and you have no idea how they will behave.

There are any number of ways that Millicent Louise Gerard and William Pera Aperahama could have met.  But none of them would have mattered if she had remained Amelia Louisa Girard.  This was a young woman who had shed her old life and was ready to take on the world.  Give her another year or two, and she might have reconsidered.  In another year or two she would be wishing she had reconsidered.  But when life grabs you by the throat, you have to go with it.

Picture her living in Te Karaka.  Small farming towns were the heart of NZ at the time, so rural communities had more going for them than we might imagine.  There would have been hard work and hardship a plenty.  But there would also have been a strong community with a sense of kinship.  This would have been familiar to her from the Channel Islands.  Clubs, societies and church groups would have had regular activities.  There would have been picnics and dances, horse races and other entertainments.  Shearing time on the big stations would have created its own special gatherings.  It is possible she helped out in the sheds at these times, or even as a cook for the shearing gangs.  Certainly she would have been expected to bring in an income.

William was also far from home, although not as far as her.  He was young, strong, conscious and careful of his good looks, and he had a sense of himself than transcended many of his fellow farm labourers.  He too would have looked for relief from hard labour in the local events, and no doubt he had an eye for the ladies.  He would also have discovered that he was attractive to many women, and learnt how to exploit that attraction.

The two sisters from Jersey would have stood out in the community.  Strikingly handsome rather than beautiful, with deportment and bearing drilled into them by their governess, their looks and manner must have confounded their humble circumstances.  Even in a NZ filled with imports and more arriving daily, they must have stood out as exceptional.  No one in Te Karaka need have known the circumstances of Mary’s marriage or the birth of her first child.  They were to all appearances both respectable and exotic.  Ok for a married woman.  Dangerous for a single woman with no parental guidance.

My grandmother went to the dances and other events.  She stood out and possibly attracted envy.  She flirted and was pursued, was relaxed around men, and no doubt attracted gossip.  What she wanted or expected to come of this we do not know.  Very likely she hardly knew her own mind at the time, but she certainly knew she was off the leash.  One of the men she met was William Aperahama.  A bit like moths to the flame for both of them.

This was not 2017.  It was over 100 years ago, before the social re-ordering of two world wars and the subsequent decades.  There were no Maori immersion schools, and the Treaty of Waitangi was still sitting in a locked vault somewhere in Wellington.  One of the two was Maori, with nothing to his name, working as a farm labourer.  The other was European, culturally and ethnically, and from a solidly middle-class upbringing.  It was not a match that many would have supported.

Yet their coming together must have been incendiary.  While both may have had doubts about a long-term relationship, they did not hesitate to form a carnal union.  Their eldest child, my uncle Bill, was born sometime in the first half of 1914.  It is impossible to know when exactly, because although his age when he died is known, there is no record of his birth.  Perhaps they forgot, or deliberately did not register it.  Or perhaps it was registered under a name we cannot trace.  We do know that he was given his father’s first name, William, as appropriate in those days for a first son.  But although many knew him as Bill Aperahama, in fact his name on all official documents is Bill Abraham, the anglicised version taken by some in my grandfather’s family.

Neither the pregnancy or the birth lead immediately to marriage.  One can only imagine the dismay the pregnancy caused, to her sister and brother-in-law with their own past to bury, and to her mother and family in Jersey.  My grandfather’s family were unlikely to have been happy either.  And perhaps he himself was reluctant to take responsibility.  In any case, she would have carried the child to full term and given birth under the glare of local knowledge and disapproval.  This would only have increased once it became apparent the father was Maori.  And it would have been apparent.  My uncle Bill was a dark skinned man with little to show his mixed heritage.

But they did marry.  In December 1914 in the registry office at Gisborne, with Mary as a witness.  If there are photos, I have not seen them.  If there was a celebration, I imagine it was muted.  And that was it.  My grandmother’s run at freedom at an end, and my grandfather with a tiger by the tail.  Was there love?  I am sure there was, but tinged with doubt and regret.  They were a family.  Young and poor, but then so were many others.  Not quite respectable or acceptable, but respected and accepted anyway because of the strength of their personalities.  This was a marriage that could survive outside influences, but it was not clear that the partners could survive each other.

Anyway, it must have worked for a time.  They stayed in the area and settled down.  Their second child, James (Jim) was born in May 1916, and a daughter Maisie in July 1917.  But by the time of Maisie’s birth, my grandfather was at the European front.  He did not need to enlist, and went off to fight in a war he had no good reason to join.   He left behind a headstrong, wilful, and pregnant wife, and two small boys.  God only knows what he expected to come home to, if he expected to come home at all.

Ok, never let it be said that I do not keep my promises.

I love writing this blog, but it is so scary to write about my grandmother, whose life I can only really guess at, and my family who may well have a different perspective.  But I have to keep writing.  Because what I know beyond any doubt is that my grandmother made my mother what she is, and my mother in turn shaped my outlook on life.  There is plenty of literature to back me up.  One of the earliest books I read about the subject was Nancy Friday, “My Mother, Myself”, but there are plenty more.  So there will be more to come.  Whether I finish it here in France, which now seems unlikely, or on my return to New Zealand.

Just warning you.

On a lighter note, I am getting excited now waiting for Johan to arrive from NZ, and for us to travel to Belgium and the Netherlands for Christmas.  We are also going to visit my friend Sylvie, in Agen, which I last visited 15 years ago when Laura was living there.  And I am starting to think about coming home.

It is strange what you do when you start to over anticipate.  For example, I seem to have developed the idea that I need to return to NZ looking the epitome of French style.  I have no idea why, because in fact I am at least as well groomed and dressed as the French women of my age in Aix.  But be that as it may, I weigh myself every morning, go assiduously to the beauty shop for waxing and tinting, and today went back to Jean-Luc for another fancy coiffure.  The hair looks good, but you saw the photo last time.  I only know my weight in pounds, because that is what the scales are set to.  But I weigh maybe 10 lbs less than I did on arrival.  Not on a diet, just nervous energy and walking.

Last night I did the weirdest thing of all.  Before bed I slathered myself with self-tanning lotion and wandered around naked for 30 minutes while attempting to dry it.  I had it in my head that I need to return home with a suntan so I can wear my summer clothes as soon as I get off the plane.  Notwithstanding the fact that is still over a fortnight away, and in the meantime I am heading off to frozen Northern Europe.  Worse than that, it is not the wonderful, streak-free, fast drying tanning lotion I buy at home.  No, it is a caramel coloured goo, that refused to either dry or sink in, left streaks everywhere, tanned my palms, and washed straight off in the shower this morning.  I will never trust a French pharmacist again, no matter how nice they are.

What is even more worrying, is that I have not worn heels in three months, so that my calf muscles are shortened and strengthened in that position.  Great for walking in flat shoes, but no use for glamour.  Add to that the fact that I have forgotten how to wear a dress – or indeed anything other than jeans.  That my top half is permanently clad in un pull (jumper), and that I am accustomed to being covered quite literally head to toe whenever I leave the apartment.

On the plus side, I do know how to tie a scarf properly, and I have overcome my fear of hats.

I am telling you this so you do not have any expectations of acquired glamour when next you see me.  French women are born, not made.

That’s it.  Time to go.  There will be more.

Just thinking

As we reach mid-December it strikes me that my time in France is coming to an end soon.

I could be panicking at my lack of achievements during this period, but I came here for time out, so I am not panicking.  I could be wracked with regret at the thought of leaving, but I love Auckland, and I am happy to return to family, friends and summer. In fact I cannot wait to hug Amy, who has discovered she is pregnant while I have been away, and Laura, who has signed a lease on an apartment in my complex and will now be my neighbour.  And of course I will hug my sons in law Eric and Jason too, and everyone else who gets within hugging distance for that matter.

But I am starting to feel the need to take stock, and I am conscious that I still have some thinking to do and decisions to make.  So watch out for that folks, because everything gets spilled on the page sooner or later.

Food

You develop a different attitude to food when out of your usual routine.  It will be obvious to everyone who knows me that food and I have a perilous relationship, although it has improved over the last few years.  I am pretty sure I inherited it from my mother, who to this day describes every social event she attends in terms of the food that was provided.  But I also have irritable bowel syndrome (IBS), a vague diagnosis of a digestive condition that plays havoc with the process of digestion and elimination.  It can be benign for long periods of time, is not food specific, and until I consciously decided to live with its effects without embarassment, all but destroyed my self confidence as a young woman.

I am not sure why I just told you that.  The state of my stomach from day to day remains even now one of the primary arbiters of my mood and activities.  Well now you know.

The point I am coming to is this.  French food is both wonderful and terrible.  Daily life here puts me in a continuous state of low level, barely acknowledged stress.  I am hardly conscious of this, but my digestive system is fully aware.  I knew this would be the case.  So for me, living here in this gastronomic wonderland, is interesting.  I do not want to miss out on anything, and I have never restricted the type foods that I eat.  There is no point when I am as likely to be struck out by a sandwich as a curry.  But eating is not the pleasure you might think it would be.

Add to that the reluctance to eat in restaurants alone, and the laziness one develops about cooking for just one person.  I do eat out alone sometimes, but generally prefer to save this for the times when I have visitors to entertain.  Cooking is intermittent, and I am missing the wide range of fresh foods I would be eating at home at this time of year.  The cheese and patisseries are superb here, but hardly a staple diet.  A baguette and whatever is in the fridge is a common evening meal.

But essentially all the food rules have gone out the window, and with them my interest in eating has significantly waned.  If I am alone, I find it more convenient to forget about lunch altogether.  Unlike a day in the office, when lunch looms like a welcome beacon to help get you through the day, there is no pressure to eat in the middle of a day that is unstructured.  Hunger is not a problem if I have had a proper breakfast.   Other days create their own eating pattern.  Today for example, I skipped breakfast in favour of being the first client at the beautician (they don’t take appointments).  Afterwards I decided to have dinner for lunch, and I am going to have breakfast for dinner.  The lunch in town turned out to be a flop, and so I am looking forward to dinner.

But the thing is, I am questioning the need for three meals a day, and wondering if my aging body and digestive tract can even cope with that anymore.  It seems to me that perhaps the social element of eating with others is what is important, and the rest of the time  not a great deal is actually required.  Interesting to see how this develops when I get home.

Television

I have always used tv as a means to relax.  I often do other things while I watch television, but it is my default  evening occupation, especially when home alone in the evening.  Day time television does not appeal to me, and even when home sick I do not bother to turn it on.  It took me a couple of weeks here to manage to switch the tv from the mind-numbing English language programmes it had been set to by my kind landlady, back to ordinary French tv.  But since then, I have watched exclusively in French, and breaking all past habits, I have it on in the background throughout the day.  This was a conscious decision in the vain hope it would improve my French.  I doubt that it has, but it does provide a cultural window.

In the evenings, if no one is staying with me, I knit and watch television.  I cannot follow what is being said, but I do know what is going on.  I find actual language comprehension is quite unnecessary to follow a crime show or most dramas.  Certainly it is superfluous for current affairs or nature programmes.  The news and weather are self explanatory by and large.  I do not know to what extent French day time television differs from ours, but it is quite similar in the evenings.

It goes like this.  Although there are many channels available even without going to pay tv, only a couple are ever worth watching.  In the morning, while I do my yoga and eat my breakfast, there are morning talk shows, regional round-ups, nature programmes and the  shopping channel.  David Attenborough dubbed in French loses his calming, all is well with the world tone, and is therefore a little disappointing.  In the evening there are the usual dramas, crime shows and entertainments.  There are versions of all the big hits.  France has Talent is on at the moment.

There is, however, a problem with the entertainment shows.  The problem is that France really does not have talent.  That is to say it probably does, but French popular music is so bad that it is hard to tell.  Last night I watched the final of French Dancing with the Stars.  All three couples scored perfect 10s across all categories in their second round.  How they determined the winner I have no idea.  On the weekend the French mourned the passing of Johnny Hallyday with an 8 hour special.  The man, who was a great entertainer, did literally hundreds of covers of great English and US songs, and produced a plethora of generally awful French songs.  Come back Edith Piaf.

A good half or more of the dramas are in fact dubbed versions of  English or US shows.  Watching the Vera crime series in French is quite an experience, but I have found pretending it is set in Brittany helps.  What is extraordinarily good here, and totally lacking on NZ television, is in depth current affairs reporting.  They do not hesitate to spend time and money on first hand investigation, and two hour documentaries on topics as diverse as poor quality housing, the fraudulent claims of big brand garment manufacturers as to product origins, and the underlying causes of diabetes are common.  And riveting, even in French that I cannot understand.

Christmas decorations

The glacial speed at which Christmas decorations are going up is fascinating me.  Given that my daughter is a merchandiser at Smith & Caughey where Christmas starts in October, I find it astounding that in mid-December Aix is not fully decorated.  It is not that it does not have decorations.  They have been appearing since late November with the arrival of the Christmas markets in Cours Mirabeau.  But every day I wander around and see the Council men on trucks still putting up more.  I don’t know where it will end.  And assuming they finish by Christmas Day, when will they all come down again?  It is a mystery to me.  But here is a little of what is up so far.

Ok, ok … next episode in Grandma story next time, I promise.

Many people will know that shopping is my favourite hobby, and the only sport at which I truly excel.  But OMG, shopping in France, I scare even myself.

It is true that I have given myself time out.  I have accepted that my earnings for the year will reduce, and I have given myself permission to spend money that at my advanced age ought properly to be saved.  I have learnt not to convert Euros back to $NZ when I order my chocolat chaud or pay for my groceries.  That way lies madness.

But in this smug, smart, well-off little town in the heart of Provence, shopping is a brutally debilitating experience.  Unfortunately it is one of my favourite experiences, and since other favourite experiences are currently off the menu, I cannot stop doing it.

My current state of shock arises from the replacement of two pairs of prescription glasses (everyday and sun) complete with progressive lenses and trendy Mauboussin and Burberry frames.  Check out Mauboussin.  It is a French luxury brand with jewellery, bags, glasses etc.  If you do not know Burberry I am afraid you are beyond my help.  In my defence I present the following facts:

• My existing prescription was 4 years out of date and in dire need of updating if I was not to permanently ruin my eyesight.
• The lenses of both sets of glasses were scratched to buggery.
• The brands I bought would have cost even more in NZ, even assuming they were available.
• I got a discount.

So it had to be done, but I am still catching my breath at how much it all added up to.  I had to fight to keep the shock showing on my face when I realised that the first invoice, which I was still assimilating, was for the  cheaper pair, and not for both.  And since they cost considerably more than my hot chocolate, I cannot help but do the exchange calculation.  Oh well, now (or in a week when I pick them up) I will have very trendy French face furniture.

In fact the $NZ has not been performing well against the Euro since I arrived, and every top up on my magic debit card has cost me more than the last.  I do not know whether to blame the new government, or just bad luck, but I am philosophical.  No one has ever suggested living in France is cheap.  But this part of France is worse than most.  I learnt that when two French friends, one of whom lives elsewhere and another just south of here, informed me that Aix was trés cher.  So expensive in fact, that they refuse to tip the waiters in town because the cost of a meal is so much more here than elsewhere.

It was not especially necessary for them to point this out.  Everything is about on par with NZ price-wise.  That is to say, if it would cost you $1 in NZ, it will cost 1 Euro in Aix.  Or in real terms, about 1.75 x as much.  Wine is no exception.  It is true you can buy a drinkable bottle for around 5 Euros in the supermarket but, do the math, you can do the same in NZ.  Other things, that you might expect to be less expensive because made in France, like cosmetics, are sometimes dearer than in New Zealand.

Nor is food cheap, either fresh produce or processed foods, although the selection is great.  A few food lines, that we would definitely put into the luxury class, are cheaper here – great cheese, artisan sausages and dried meat products, good quality pates.  But  that is a function of different food preferences and buying habits, and would be balanced out by the cost of the fresh products we take for granted.  For example, sushi here is ridiculously expensive, and any trip to the butcher that involves the purchase of lamb or free range chicken is a shock to the wallet.

Which reminds me.  A wallet is useless here.  Unlike NZ, the French have not retired their minor coins.  They still give change in 1, 2, 5, 10, 20, and 50 cent pieces, with 1 and 2 Euro coins as well.  As a consequence you must have a separate coin purse, because no wallet would ever close on the amount of shrapnel you accrue.  Further, the coins are almost indistinguishable in the poor light that prevails in the early evening when I am doing the shopping for my evening meal.  The girl in the boulangerie up the road is sick of me fiddling around trying to make up 0.85 Euros for a baguette while a queue forms behind me,.  She has taken to snatching a 1 Euro coin out of my handful of coins, and handing me my 15c change without the customary “merci à vous” that is supposed to proceed “au revoir”.

Those coins do come in useful at the supermarket though.  If you want a trolley you will need to put a 1 Euro coin in the locking mechanism to free one for your use.  The supermarkets are also more advanced than ours at reducing the level of services they provide in some areas, while increasing it in others.  For example you will need to weigh and print out the label for produce yourself, and woe betide the stupid foreigner (i.e. me) who gets to the counter not knowing this rule.  On the other hand, there are three men behind the wet fish counter, just dying for you to ask for their assistance.  Unfortunately, by the time I have wrestled a trolley out of its chains,  weighed and labelled my vegetables, and traversed three aisles of nothing but cheese, I am seldom in the mood to select wet fish.

Naturally, neither the cost, nor the difficulties of shopping in French, have slowed me down much.  I am somewhat put out by French (and even worse Italian) clothes sizes though.  Having in recent years shrunk sufficiently to be able to return to shopping in normal size clothing stores, I am aggrieved to find I am very much on the borderline here.  It is not that French women are not fat.  Although there are not the overwhelming numbers of overweight people we have in NZ, I see fat French women every day.  That is to say I see women who have rolls of fat around their middles, thick ankles, ponderous bosoms, and double-chins.  But, and this is my problem, they are simply smaller and more petite than the average NZer to start with.  So the clothes are smaller on the whole, which limits my choices.

Even so I have managed to acquire 3 hats, a gilet (look it up – actually two I now recall), four pulls, two pairs of socks, a pair of boots, a pair of high heeled shoes (basically unwearable in my present lifestyle), two each of bras and knickers, three scarves, knitting yarn and needles, three rings and two pairs of earrings, not counting tea towels, table cloths, a painting, books, yoga mat, a candle snuffer, and road marker (decorative) and a full set of Christmas presents for others.  This is an inclusive, not an exclusive list.  And I am not finished yet.

My interest has now strayed into the kitchenware (oh, and I forgot I bought a wine bottle stopper) and home decor shops, as well as the market stalls and stores with second-hand goods.  Do not imagine for a moment that you will wander into a little shop of dust covered antiques just waiting to be found.  The French hold onto their antiques.  By and large they are still, and always have been, in every day use.  When they do find their way to the market, their value is well understood.  You can expect to pay as much for an item as you would in NZ.

As far as clothes, bags, shoes etc are concerned, the better stores stocking ‘vintage’ are so exclusive you have to ring a bell and be vetted before you can enter.  Then, if you do not have the right look about you, they will totally ignore you in favour of other fur clad customers, and release the door to let you out without so much as a glance.

Which reminds me.  If you have to ring a bell to be granted entry to any store – and there are quite a lot in Aix – you probably cannot afford to buy anything there.  If you can afford to pay upwards of 5000 Euros for a coat, or 1500 for a cashmere jumper, go right ahead and ring that bell.

But the kitchen and home design stores are great hunting places.  The French have a kitchen gadget or a delightful container for every conceivable use.  They are not all expensive.  Electrical appliances are fun here too, and again not that expensive.  You can have fun just figuring out what they do, but it does not pay to fall for them because those funny plugs are  going to be a problem at home.  Uh oh, just remembered! I also bought an epilator while in Paris.  Exactly like the one I accidentally left at home, but newer and complete with funny plug.

The home decor and furniture stores are a joy.  I am not talking about Ikea, which does exist on the outskirts of town.  No, I mean the non-chain shops in town, with furnishing fabrics to die for, and furniture that someone has designed and crafted.  One can lust after a kitchen stool in this town.  At the moment I have my eye on some little clay figurines, but I am going to take advice before deciding whether to buy one, two or three.

And now that I have bought a painting from an antique stall in the market, I am keen to keep going back and checking out what I can find.

Ok, enough about my rampant consumerism.  Time for me to be getting on with my knitting.

For those of you still in suspense, ‘What grandma did next’ will resume shortly.

 

 

There can be no doubt that weather influences ones’ mood.  As a child I loved rainy days.  That delicious sense of being safe and cosy inside, with all pressure to  pursue outdoor activities suspended.  I still feel that way sometimes.

But two days of grey sky, rain, and now Le Mistral as well, is more than I can bear in sunny Provence.  The cold is fine, the wind bearable on its own, and the snow fell for less than a day.  Today is just plain miserable.   My only consolation that when I went out for my daily walk, I was, for once, better dressed for the weather than the locals.  I have with me a proper full length raincoat with a hood and a big zip up the front.  I was prepared and protected from both rain and wind.  A snazzy ski jacket that exposes your butt and an umbrella just does not cut it in this weather.

Now before anyone gloats, let me remind those of you back in Auckland that a couple of weeks ago you were complaining non-stop about the weather and predicting the worst summer ever.  Now you are complaining about the heat and predicting the hottest summer ever.  GET OVER IT.  One thing that living in a relatively stable continental climate teaches you, is that NZers are OBSESSED with the weather, and utterly incapable of dealing with its unpredictability.  The weather forecast tells me it will be fine here tomorrow.  I can trust the weather forecast here.  Consequently, je suis tranquille.

I have been accused of leaving my Grandma story hanging yesterday.  Well, yes.  That is what writers do.  I will come back to that part of the story, but in the meantime let’s fill in some more recent background.

My mother was just seven years old in September 1939 when Germany invaded Poland marking the start of WW2.  She was only 13 when it ended six years later with the signing of the Japanese surrender on board the USS Missouri in Tokyo Bay.  I have stood on the very spot on the Missouri where that occurred, but I was thinking about all those young American men who fought across the Pacific theatre at the time, not my mother’s war.  Although in fact the two were connected.

At the start of the war my mother had four older brothers, and a father who had seen active service and remained a sergeant in the Army reserve.  At 47 her father was probably too old for service in the regular Army, but he served nevertheless as a training Sergeant on the Home Front.  Oldest brother Bill, then 25, was already in the Air Force.  He had been  based at Hobsonville near Auckland since 1936.  At 23 the next brother in line was Jim, easily old enough to serve.  Both brothers entered officer training, Bill in the regulars and Jim in the Maori Battalion.  Only Jim made it through.

Bill had the right stuff all right, but he lost a bet gambling with a prisoner while in charge of the stockade.  Bill had a perverse sense of honour.  Gambling debts must be paid.  He let him out and was cashiered.  Not an officer, and no record of subsequent service can be found.

Jim went on to serve throughout the war in North Africa and Italy, rising to the rank of Major.  A faded newspaper clipping contains a photo of him and three other officers from the 28th Maori Battalion studying a map on 23 October 1942, the eve of the Alamein offensive.  He was a Lieutenant at the time, and the photo is deservedly a family treasure.  He survived that brutal campaign, and all that followed, unscathed physically.  But by the time I knew him he was starting to unravel under the twin and related burdens of alcohol and post-traumatic stress.  It was not dramatic.  In fact, it was pretty much par for the course for men who had been and done what he had.

It might have been expected that the two younger brothers, Jack 17 and Bob 13 in 1939, would escape active service.  Not so, of course, since the War went on for six long years.  Jack followed Jim into the Maori Battalion once of age, but not as an officer.  Bob, who might easily have avoided service altogether, persuaded his parents to consent to his going into the Merchant Marine at only 14.  My grandmother apparently did not object.  I am not sure if she lacked imagination or responsibility, or was simply happy to bask in the reflected glory of her four adventurous and courageous sons.  Not something many mothers would accept today, but times were different I suppose.

So my mother grew up with her older brothers coming and going, mostly going, and her parents in an uneasy union, which she did not really understand.  It would not be an overstatement to say her care was neglected.  There was a lot going on.

She was sent to the local convent school, and later to St Benedicts College, but barely provided with the required uniform, which became her default clothing in and out of school.  Food was never short in the household, but money often was.  My grandmother’s fondness for the horses was partly responsible for that.  But in any case, there were other things to spend money on than the care and comfort of my mother.  She was at the end of the line, and whatever largesse may have been conferred on the older children had definitely run out.  

In any case, and for whatever reason, my grandmother was more demanding than indulgent by nature.  My grandfather, although not unkind or even unloving, had his own reasons not to concern himself too greatly with her well-being.  And he too had other concerns and responsibilities.

My mother did have an older sister.  Maisie was 22 at the end of the war, and had already left home.  She seems to have been fond of my mother, but they were in fact worlds apart – in age and life experience.  Maisie, like her brothers, was adventurous, determined, and absolutely beyond the control of her parents.  Photos of the time show an extremely stylish and groomed young woman, always looking at the camera as if daring it to come closer.  NZ men may have been in short supply, but the Yanks were camped down the road on Waikaraka Park. Maisie, by all accounts, had a very good war. 

But there was one supportive and positive woman in my mother’s life.  Jim was already married when he headed overseas, and his wife Jean was a sterling character.  She came from a strict religious family in Hamilton, and her  union with my uncle must have caused no end of dismay at the time.  He was already a drinker, like all of the brothers a womaniser, but her personality, character and charisma was such that it seems to have been a genuine love match at the time.  I suppose she was seduced by his dashing good looks and manner, and sheer exoticism compared to her staid upbringing.  Before long the  unsuitability of the match must have become apparent, but they stayed together for life and raised an adoptive family when fertility eluded them.  

Whatever the perils of her marriage, Jean was a strong and intelligent woman.  She could read my grandmother, and indeed most people, like a book.  My mother needed nurturing, and she needed someone to nurture.  Under her care my mother got better care, better clothes, and a degree of moral and ethical guidance that might otherwise have been lacking.  She was also loved, and loved in return.  She says, with everlasting gratitude, that Jean ‘saved’ her, although from what it is not entirely clear.

If you saw my mother in those years, she was a stunningly beautiful, if rather unkempt child.  Petite, with dark curly hair, high cheek bones, and fine skin, she was undeniably attractive.  She has been lucky enough to retain those looks for most of her life.  She was always a sportswoman, and physically adventurous playing alongside her intrepid brothers.  Lively might be a good way to describe her.  Nor did she lack intelligence, doing well at school with the nuns.  She was also popular, with close friends at school.

But her family life was chaotic, and if it was not apparent to her why that should be, there were others who did not hesitate to make her feel second-rate. 

Stopping now.  Come again another time.

 

 

Not for me.

I am just sitting here on a rainy Sunday afternoon in Aix, vaguely taking in the all day tribute to Johnny Hallyday on the tv in the background.  Turns out he did a lot of covers, so humming along to songs I know being sung in French.  The French are so deeply in mourning I am surprised they have not declared a public holiday.

A little while ago I zipped my Rains coat (I thought I was never going to need to wear it here) up to my chin, pulled the hood up, and ventured out to the convenience store up the road.  I felt lazy, so instead of going all the way to the Utile on the corner, I dived into the wee store that I usually avoid because the entrance is lined with nothing but booze and snacks.  However, the proprietor, who works every single day, was charming, and out the back were all the necessities of life.  I got my sparkling water, greek yoghurt and laundry capsules – unfortunately no sugar free Red Bull available – and high-tailed it back home.

The shopping trip was necessary, but also a way of putting off writing, since the Grandma story is, as I say, getting complicated.

Gisborne, in the second decade of the twentieth century, was a busy and go ahead place.  It was essential to the vast farming area it served, with large and wealthy sheep stations established by the late 1800s, and the port to support both exports and coastal shipping.  But the sisters did not remain in Gisborne.

Te Karaka is a small town 31 kilometres north of Gisborne, just off what is now State Highway 2 through the Waioeka Gorge.  It is another 16 km east of the main road up the valley of the Waipaoa River to Whatatutu.  Perfect country for farming sheep, and the most beautiful and iconic of New Zealand rolling farmland.  Provided you close your mind to the effect of deforestation on erosion.  Now days this tiny East Coast settlement has a population of about 300, and a couple of years ago was the centre of a controversy about fracking*.  It was probably not much different in the decade before World War I, but in those days the gold was wool and sheep meat, not oil or natural gas.

Mary’s husband, Uncle Denny to my mother, was a driver.  Presumably she arrived in Te Karaka by truck, and at least she had to go no further.  They would not have owned a house at that stage, but basic rental housing would have been available.  The big stations needed workers and support services, and those people had to live somewhere.  But although both places were small, there could have been very little comfort in comparing Te Karaka to Jersey.  

The latter had been settled since Roman times.  Its stone houses are solid and ancient.  There were shops and services, and constant contact with Brittany and England by ship.  Wealthy English and French people came to stay, and there were businesses that catered to their needs.  A concentrated and well-defined social order prevailed.  Te Karaka had none of those things.  The social order in particular must have been confusing to say the least.  Perhaps that is where my grandmother came unstuck.  

Isolation, it turns out, is a relative thing.  The Channel Islands are isolated, but a town at the back of beyond in God’s last, loneliest, loveliest country is more isolated. No wonder that Mary, with a young child and a new husband who was virtually a stranger, was keen to have a visit from her younger sister.  Unfortunately, it probably did not occur to her that she would be ‘in loco parentis’, and that she was not really qualified for that job.

Having attained respectability through marriage, Mary was about to lose it vicariously through her sister.  And make no mistake, respectability was an asset then as now.  It is just that we measure it a little differently now.

William Aperahama was born at Whangaroa in the Far North, and the whanau still has coastal land to the north of the Whangaroa Harbour.  But like other young men, no doubt including South Islander Uncle Denny, he would have been drawn to the work available on the farm stations in the area.  Hardworking, good looking and popular with his fellows, he had a streak of integrity and self-determination that may have made him stand out from the predominantly Maori workforce in the area.  In any case, it can be assumed that he and Uncle Denny knew each other.  Whether or not they were actually mates is another question.  There were not many Maoris in Geraldine where Uncle Denny came from, and in later years the relationship between the sisters seemed to involve activities that excluded the menfolk.

Into this rural backwater, where men were men and women kept their thoughts to themselves, drifted my grandmother in the early part of 1913, just before the western world exploded.  She must have been shocked and exhilarated in equal measure by what she came to.  Substandard housing in the ranges north of Gisborne with winter approaching, housekeeping and child care duties, and no way to get out.  But the freedom.  The unaccustomed ability to do whatever she chose.  And it should not be assumed she was naive or inexperienced with men.  There is a strong suggestion in the meagre correspondence available that she may have left a lover behind her in Jersey.  In any case, it should be assumed that she knew what she liked, and she liked men.

How she met my grandfather is a mystery.  He was working on a station at Whatatutu, and she was living with Mary and Uncle Denny in Te Karaka.  But the distance was not that great, with a brother in law who drove a truck to service the surrounding farms, or even by horse back.  She knew how to ride a horse, and so did William Aperahama.  Even so, he was not necessarily her first romantic entanglement in the district.

Picture her for a moment.  In the first flush of youth.  An upright, forthright and handsome woman.  Her family in Jersey had fallen on hard times after her father’s death, but before that she had been raised with a degree of luxury.  She had had a governess, been taught deportment and  social skills.  She might have had to work as a domestic, but her mind and manner were far above that.  Add to that a certain looseness in the face of convention, an openness to risk taking, and you have an intoxicating attraction for certain kinds of men.

My grandfather was that kind of man, but there would certainly have been others.  And as with any wealthy country area, there would have been occasions to meet.  Dances, race meetings, fetes, picnics – look at any archive of NZ history and you will see the photos.  My grandmother would have stood out like the fairy on a Christmas tree, and she would have known how to make the most of any event.  I am not sure if she was in danger from the men, or the men in danger from her.

But of course, it was 1913, and only women get pregnant.

D’accord, enough for now.  I have now had at least 8 straight hours of Johnny Hallyday, and it shows no signs of stopping.  If someone assassinated Trump it would not get the coverage this pop singer is getting.

 

 

 

*There is oil in those idyllic rolling hills and valleys folks, and apparently it can be extracted by hydraulic fracturing.  Not a popular idea with the natives.

 

I love having visitors.  But they create a distraction.  It is almost a week since I did any writing, and there have been complaints.  Well one complaint to be precise.  So here I am back again.

Having visitors is a lot of work for someone used to living alone most of the time.  Both here in Aix and at home in Auckland I basically do what I like without having to account for the needs of others.  Not that these others were demanding.  My friend Jacqui bends over backwards not to be a nuisance, and her friend Robyn is someone I have travelled with in the past and is never a problem.  Take a look at this trio of middle-aged women out and about on a very cold evening in Aix.

Yes, I know, still getting there with the selfies.

Anyway, the point about visitors is that you need to organise activities.  And here in France I can barely organise my way out of a paper bag.  To begin with I had to pick them up from the Marseille Provence Airport at Marignane.  Note to flyers – if you come by EasyJet or Ryan Air you will be assigned to Terminal 2, which is not nice. Readers might recall that it snowed the day before this pick-up, putting me into a bit of a spin.  But the next day was brilliantly fine, although very cold, and the drive south was through fields and banks still covered in unmelted snow.  No problems in fact, but still a bit of a mission for me.

Fortunately they were easily entertained that evening by dinner out and a quick tour of the Christmas markets.

The next day, Monday, also posed a problem.  Most people are shocked and dismayed to find provincial France largely closed on a Sunday – especially the tourists I see every week morosely towing their suitcases over the cobbles and looking lost.  However Mondays are only marginally better, even in a town  the size of Aix.  Many of the shops remain closed, unless part of a national or international chain.  After all, they are usually owner operated, and everyone needs a break.  So we set off to explore the old town, and fortunately as neither are great shoppers, it did not matter too much.  Many photographs were taken and posted on FaceBook that night.

Like most visitors they were keen for a leisurely lunch in a local restaurant, and in the afternoon we took a look at the most modern part of the city around and south of Les Allées d’Aix.   The library entrance and the view of the performing arts building are particularly worth a look.

Tuesday is a regular market day, so that easily took up the morning, and a few purchases were made.  Then first a delightful lunch in the Hôtel de Caumont salon, before taking in the wonderful new exhibition, ‘Bottero Dialogue Avec Picasso’.

This was a very cleverly curated exhibition in a very elegant building, so definitely a hit with the visitors.

On Wednesday I decided to get brave and venture out of town en ma voiture.  This was not an easy decision for me.  I do not especially enjoy driving in France.  The problem is not being on the wrong side of the road.  My brain has adjusted to that.  It is that I do not know where I am going, and the satnav, while marvellously efficient in all circumstances, is demanding on one’s concentration.  So when you have a couple of excited and talkative passengers, and you are negotiating motorways cross-exchanges or tiny back roads, driving is not the most relaxing occupation.  However, we decided Chateau-la-Coste, deserved a visit.

This is essentially a vineyard with tourism tacked on.  There is a small, original chateau, vineyards and olive groves, a wineshop and tastings, an art gallery, a hotel, two restaurants one of which is fine dining, an outdoor music auditorium, a two hour sculpture trail, multiple mini marvels of modern architecture, and probably more I have forgotten.  All set in the foothills of the Luberon, with a view over the most gorgeous countryside to a fortified hill village.  Worth a 25 minute drive really.

Even if the snow had been much heavier in this area and still covered the ground we walked on; and despite the two wrong turns (one down to Jacqui, the other to me) and the cross country drive on a single lane gravel road to get back on track.

Thursday was the final full day for my visitors, and we decided to carry on with the art theme.  In the morning we did the antique market, and I managed to score and/or was conned into buying a small oil on canvas of a Provencal landscape by a local artist.  Judge for yourself below.  It is definitely old and the frame is good.  A price in Francs is written on the back from a previous sale.  I cannot track the artist online.  But the colours are wonderful and I only paid 25 Euros, so I figure it is a good buy for me.

After the obligatory big lunch we visited both of the Musée Granet sites – first the Jean Planque Collection at the wonderful and not too large Chapelle Granet XXème, and then the principal site in the Place St Jean de Malte.  The first collection is something I have raved about in a previous blog, so I will not repeat myself.  But on my previous visit to the main site I had not fully explored the galleries, and they are in fact extensive.  Ignoring the ‘Cézanne at Home’ collection, which I can afford to be blasé about in his home town, there are a range of works that to my simple mind are more imposing than impressive.  Take a little look below.

Anyway, by the end of the visit we were so wilted that not even the gift shop could hold our attention.  We marched out the door into the late afternoon chill, down the road, and straight into the nearest bar.  All we could manage for dinner later was a baguette, cheese, pate, and some left over cold chicken – oh, and a bottle of red, bien sûr.

This morning I dropped them off at the Aix-en-Provence TGV station, which is a very annoying 20 minute and three motorway switches drive south of the city.  It is a massive and very modern structure that straddles the motorway like a giant spaceship, and the vehicular access is dire.  The massive carparks are permanently full, and cars line the motorway off- and on- ramps, which they use (apparently without consequences like being towed away) as all day overflow car parking.  The instructions for getting in and out, even with satnav, are confusing to say the least.  My poor friends ended up being dropped at the opposite side of the terminal to where they needed to be.  The bright side is that I now know where the arrivées hall is for when I pick Johan up next week.

I only took one wrong turn on the motorway home.  The satnav lady set me back on track in no time.

Also I had to get out and move a road works barrier to get into my driveway, because there were works at either end of the road.  It is not really my fault that before I could park and return to put it back in place a couple of cars got through and drove the wrong way down the one way road, which in any case had another barrier in place at the far end so they would not have been able to get out or turn around (it is too narrow for that).  The road worker I was in time to see running down the road and yelling after them did not speak English, so I did not bother to explain that I was the culprit as I slunk away.

Before I go a quick update on the Grandma story.  More episodes are on the way, but I have got back a little bit of research, and consequently there are some edits to the blog titled “Research and Procrastination”.  Turns out there really is a reason I should do research.  Anyway, if you happen to be following that story, you might want to take another look.

I am not sure whether or not I have mentioned this before, but the main reason I am in the SOUTH of France, is that I hate snow.  I am already mildly obsessing about what will happen when I go to Belgium and the Netherlands at the end of the month, but this morning I woke up to this.

It was supposed to RAIN today.  But instead at 6 am I thought the light through the gap in my curtains looked a funny colour, and sure enough it was snowing.  By the time it was daylight it was heavy, and not looking to stop.  Now I am guessing most of you would just love this, but not me.  All I could think about was the down padded vest I had passed up on buying last night, and the Marseille Airport run I have to do tomorrow afternoon.  I was not happy.  The fact that it was warm enough inside at 6 am for me to wander around the apartment naked peering out the windows was no consolation.  I was going to have to go out in the snow, and I was not looking forward to it.

Ok, have breakfast (I was up anyway), and calm down a bit with some yoga.  Shower, dress, faire le macquillage – feeling marginally better.  No putting it off any longer.  Time to go out.  I had to go out because I now knew I needed that padded vest, and the shop would not be open Sunday or Monday.  This is me dressed to go out in the snow.

Put the other glove on.  Focus.  Two tasks.  1.  Buy padded vest.  2. Buy berries for guests’ breakfast tomorrow (thank God I did my supermarket shopping yesterday).  Both less than a 1 km walk away  in Rue d’Italie.

I check out the window – yes still coming down in big drifts – descend the stairs, and out the front door.  Not as cold as I expected, but not barmy either.  The immediate problem was not to fall over.  My new kick arse boots have treads like a truck tire, but the white stuff on the ground looked slippery.  And it was everywhere, except for the road crossings, where it was churned up to the consistency of a brown slushy.  So I walk, slowly and cautiously at first, but gaining a little confidence as I see others also walking and remaining upright.

So I am out in the falling snow.  Last time I did this I was on Mt Ruapehu, more or less properly dressed for the snow, and I didn’t much like it then either.  I think I was 22, so that was how many? …. let’s just say, quite a few years ago.  But here, all I have is a woollen overcoat that has only one button at the throat (hence the need for the padded vest), and a woollen hat.  Wool is good and warm, but snow is wet.  Johan, who comes from a ridiculously cold place, assured me that snow was dry when falling, and that you could just brush it off.  He is wrong.  It is very, very wet.  I think he has been in NZ for so long he remembers less temperate climates through rose-coloured spectacles.

I make it to Jott, where they sell nothing but designer padded jackets made locally in Marseille.  I should have known my climate expectations were overly optimistic the moment I saw that store.  There is a vestibule with the entrance to one side.  I shake the snow off my coat, hat and gloves.  The shop assistant taking a break outside laughs at the look on my face, and assures me they are used to people tracking snow into the shop.  Much to my surprise, at just after the 10 am opening, the store is not packed with people like me desperate for snow protection.  I purchase the vest that I tried on last night and head back out.

Not wanting to be a total whimp, I venture a little further along the street to the top of the Cours Mirabeau.  It is not an inspiring sight.

No doubt it would have been been if the snow had been falling at night, with the Christmas lights to create atmosphere.  Nothing to see here, and I am not keen on walking further in the snow, so I turn back home.

I head for the green grocer, where I quickly make my purchases and begin the home leg.  I am slightly afraid my heavy paper bag from Jott will disintegrate and not make it.  Anyway, I am awkward with my unaccustomed gloves, and get 300 m down the road before I realise that after putting my change away I am absent a glove.  By this time the snow is dropping off my hat and running down my nose, which is also running independently.  My handkerchief is wet inside my pocket, as is my remaining glove from continually brushing snow off my coat.  But I need that glove.

So back I go, rehearsing how to ask in the green grocer if anyone has handed in mon grant.  Lying in the middle of the road outside the shop in a sopping wet brown mess.  Yes, it is my Italian leather cashmere lined glove.  I am glad to re reunited with it despite its state, and shove my hand back into it anyway.  Finally I get across the intersection with Rue de Roi Rene, and the snow is thicker on the pavement where there are fewer pedestrians.  I remember the homeless man I passed on the way out sitting in under the arches  out side the pharmacy, and stop to exchange comments on the weather and to empty my coin purse into his cup.  No one should be homeless in this weather.

As I walk away I think I should have dug deeper and given more, but begging on the streets is something I have yet to come to terms with.  Not especially proud of myself when I consider the sum I have just spent on a garment I will probably only wear for the next month.  Oh well, he will still be there tomorrow, and the next day.  There is time to be more generous.

Soon after I get home, by about 11am, the snow stops.  A couple of hours later, the trees are slowly turning green again as the snow melts in great drops and falls to the ground.  The footpath is largely visible again.  Only the untouched flat surfaces remain white-covered, but out on my deck it feels colder than it did when the snow was falling.  The cars out the back remain covered in snow, and many of those driving past still have a load of snow on the roof.  I am sending up a silent prayer of thanks for my tiny garage as I type.

But I guess it was not so bad.  Maybe I will put on my new vest and venture out again later.  Maybe.

 

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.