Or What! You’re overseas again?? Are you kidding me??
Remember a few weeks ago when my surgeon asked me why I was bothering continuing with French lessons since I had never got any better in spite of decades of trying? Well, it obviously still rankles. I decided on the spur of the moment shortly after that that I would go overseas somewhere for a fortnight of full time lessons. Of course, I could have gone somewhere much nearer home – New Caledonia or Tahiti – but that doesn’t take into account the influence of another man in my life – my husband. Some years ago I bought a couple of little figurines in a shop in Provence, but they mysteriously went missing around the time when we last shifted house. I have been waiting for them to eventually turn up, as missing items are wont to do, but so far, nothing. Of course my husband disclaims all knowledge of them, but my suspicion is that he threw them out. So, I’ve decided to go back to the shop and buy them again, and having language lessons in Aix en Provence is the perfect excuse. You can’t say I’m not supremely gifted at nurturing a grudge.
Our deputy HOD and schedulers gave the impression that it was all arranged just to cause maximum inconvenience to them, which is a bit rough considering I deliberately avoided the school holidays – you just can’t please some people. Luckily I have hundreds of hours of leave owing to me so there was some pressure on them to let me go. Thanks, guys!
So now, here I am, finally in bed in my hotel in Paris after 36 hours in various levels of consciousness on planes and in airports around the world. The Air NZ flight to LA was fine, but I then had a six hour layover at the airport waiting for my next flight to Paris. It was 32 degrees in LA! I tell you, for most of us in NZ, climate change is something that is going to affect us soon with sea level rises and erratic weather, but many places around the world are already on fire. Hideous. I was back in the cheap seats for my Air France flight from LAX to Paris. The flight was full, and I was sitting next to a man who was built like a brick shit house (should I say sh*t house? Substitute if preferred). The plane had come to LA from Papeete, which didn’t surprise me as this man looked like a PI rugby player. I don’t know what language he spoke as we mostly communicated by hand gestures, with lots of smiling and nodding. He seemed really a lovely man but sadly not of economy seat proportions. I spent the night squeezed into the outside half of my seat, being regularly knocked by passers by, as I tried not to be too close to him. Honestly I haven’t been pressed that close to a man who wasn’t my husband for many a year. He tried initially to raise the arm rest between us, but I wasn’t having it. I’m sure it wasn’t comfortable for him, but there was enough of him spilling over onto my side as it was. This is why one ought not to travel alone, but with a friend, partner or child who can act a buffer between you and other people. I was quite glad when we finally arrived in France, and I ended up stealing my headphones as a kind of silent protest.
Keeping to the budget theme, I then took the train into town. I got some abuse for taking up more than one seat with all my luggage, but at least I wasn’t robbed, as others I know have, so I was quite pleased overall. I am staying at a lovely little hotel in the Latin quarter, a stones throw from Notre Dame cathedral (or what’s left of it, sadly).
After checking in, I managed to avoid the temptation of having just a little nap, had a shower and went for a walk. It was a lovely Autumn evening in Paris, with many people out and about – not all tourists, I’m sure – and people eating outside cute cafes along the streets. I found a little place to eat, where I had french onion soup at a tiny table on the footpath, squeezed between a table full of glamorous young women speaking rapid fire Spanish at each other and smoking furiously, and a couple on the other side who were speaking English. I couldn’t pick their accent so I finally asked where they were from. They were Kiwis. They were living in Mount Vic in Wellington until earlier this year when they moved to Berlin. I had a lovely chat with Lucy and Matt, catching up on house prices, the best places to live in Wellington, and local body politics (poor Justin!). A bit ironic for the first night of my fortnight of immersive French. Never mind. Surely the chances of my meeting any kiwis in Provence must be vanishingly remote…