A week to go. A
What a strange limbo this is.
I went out to buy fruit the other day, paused at the end of the driveway, sighed, and turned left instead of right.
What a coward. Instead of heading to my favourite little fruit shack up the road, I went to the big, bland, unfriendly place down the road, spoke to no one and slunk back home with my inferior produce.
It’s so stupid to be avoiding the Raspberry Man who I have enjoyed talking with so much over the last 18 months.
Today I realised why I’ve been doing it. The business of
leaving is messing up the business of living. Continue reading
We used to be quite good at bartering.
In the markets and bazaars of South East Asia, Egypt and Turkey back in the day, things always went well if you took your time, showed respect and laughed a lot.
That was before Sabbatical Man and I had three lovely assistants: one small, one medium and one large.
The fruit and vegetable man showed me a little box of raspberries and slipped it in with my shopping.
Un petit cadeau [a little gift],” he said with a quick smile – turning back to the till to finish tallying up.
It’s nothing special for Monsieur C to give away his raspberries.
But the first time he gave
me raspberries I felt like he had picked me up and plonked me down into sunlight.
Bam. You, madam, are a customer. Welcome to the neighbourhood.
One of the least beautiful places in France: a Prefecture waiting room
“Non, non,” the Immigration Overlord warned, eyes widening as I began to stack up folders of paperwork in front of her.
Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. One pile for each member of the family.
Non, non, non, non, non.”
Her palms flew up and her head shook from side to side as she took in the volume of work I was dumping on her desk.
Oh là là ! What is all this? It’s for a carte de sejour renewal? But it’s too many papers!”
She prodded my impeccably collated, impossibly complicated application documents as if they were coated in anthrax.
This was not starting well.
It’s exactly one year since we left New Zealand on this big adventure.
Tomorrow we celebrate by heading to the local prefecture to see about extending our visitors’ visas.
Working through the bureaucracy will be an exercise in masochism.
France has seduced us with her wit, charm and good looks – and now that we’re gagging for more, the old madame is going to make us pay.
The girlfriends are coming.
They’ve got leave passes from real life to sneak over to the other side of the world for a couple of weeks.
An itinerary seems in order but I don’t want to be bossy, so I’m working on a pick’n’mix.
Sometimes it rains.
Sometimes there is work to be done.
Sometimes there is traffic.
Sometimes the food is average.
Face down in the white, skis at odds, snowflakes up my left nostril, I practiced mindfulness and observed silence.
The silence of the mountains.
The silence of a metre of fresh snow.
The silence of The Instructor, a relentlessly positive man, finally lost for words.
Clarity came at last.
Skiing is suicide and I am not ready to die.
“No backups for 277 days.”
That’s what the laptop tells me today (although I
am backing up – just not to the hard drive in New Zealand that my homesick laptop prefers).
Two hundred and seventy seven
Each day a new number that looks a lot closer to 365 than it did five minutes ago when the entire year stretched out before us.
Our year in France is evaporating – one bland, un-ignorable, inaccurate Apple warning at a time.
Camera too small, landscape too big.
I was struggling with this problem yet again in Iceland, on the side of an enormous glacier, when an Australian approached.
We exchanged adjectives and smiled at the view.
“Still,” he said. “It must be just like home for you here.”