Aix

The difference between France and Poland, just as between England and France, is that I have never missed my life in Poland and I miss my life in France dearly - all aware that I am that I'm much better off in England, I can't help but miss my little appartment at the foot of a pinaide, the terrasse with a rusty table that has seen so many bottles of rose and so many good times, and so many other big and little things that I left behind.
So every time the plane starts to descend above the Marseille Provence airport, a big ball of nostalgia climbs into my throat and it feels like coming home (ah, difficult notion that of home, when you're me... but on that another time).
Then I spot Mount Sainte Victoire as the plane turns, then the first shock of the heat, the first gush of the Mistral, the ball in my throat keeps growing.
Then we get on the coach to Aix and I see all those place names, Pinchinades, Vitrolles, la Duranne, les Milles, names that were once new and full of promises now greet me like old friends making the ball in my throat grow even more. I does not matter that I have never been in many of them, I have read them, seen them, heard them, savoured the way their sounds rolled out of my mouth so many times...

Aix is still Aix.
The colours, the little streets, the blue shutters spotting the ochre facades of the bastides, the baguettes, the cheese, the wine, Pastis, the marketplace, Mamie's ratatouille, everything stopping for lunch, the cycadas driving you mad with their monotonous screeching, the oppressing heat, people stopping in the middle of a roundabout to get a newspaper, the bourgeoises riding their shopping trollies across your feet and failing to apologise... and Mount Sainte Victoire reigning overlooking all this madness and beauty, impassible and majestic.

Some friends are gone, some are still there. Some have drifted away a force de distances, the important ones greet me as if I had never left.
I still have my seat at the bar in Cafe le Verdun (although you can't smoke in there anymore) and Pat still accepts a glass of wine I pay him and then knocks a round off my bill.
Mamie and Papy are still Mamie and Papy, growing older without changing at all but each time I see them, I feel the painfully aware that they are not eternal.

And the house at the Roc Fleuri is still there too, with the pinaide behind it and the terrasse in front, the rusty table that has seen so many bottles of rose and good times...

Indeed, places where you were once happy should not be allowed to go on without you.

On being told to shut up

The kind of child to tell you to 'shut up' (or 'f-off' as a matter of fact) is usually a distraught individual struggling to become human and thinking that being rude and fearless of consequences is what being an adult is all about. As far as they're concerned life is seriously shit and they will fight anything they can by all means possible, just in case.
And most of the time, you can see how distraught they get once they realise what they'd just said. Or, at the very least, how upset and worked up they got before saying it.
You still get angry, you shout at them, you give them detentions, but you don't hold grudges and deep inside you just wish you could use a magic wand make them less miserable and less angry at the entire world.
And then there is Kenisha (not a real name). Kenisha thinks you're dirt. Kenisha thinks that all is due to her and if she wants to talk, she will talk, whether you are trying to teach or not has no importance what so ever. And when you say 'Kenisha, could you please stop talking?', Kenisha looks at you as if you were a fly on her sandwich and says 'Shut up'.
Somehow I think Kenisha will follow into her sister's footsteps and get excluded before finishing year 10.
And I know that next time Kenisha sends a door into my face, I am not going to be willing to talk about it and make it go away in hope of establishing a positive relationship with her.
Screw that.

On Sports Days

We're having a Sports Day at my school soon. Each form had to come up with a team and students to volunteer for different events. There's this one girl, who is an angry young woman, constantly in trouble, but I've put her down for shot put as others claimed she was really good at it.
This morning she came to school after a few days of absence, and I broke the news to her.
"Ain't doing that!" she said "You can't flipping make me!"
An expected reaction, granted, but I wasn't going to give up easily.
"Oh come on, it's just one small event and I hear you're really good at it. Come on, please?"
I have to say, I did expect this to be met with another rude outburst of anger. Instead I heard: "All right then miss. I'll do it."
I still think I must have been dreaming!

This does not, of course, mean that she'll actually show up on the day though...





PS. Later update: She didn't.

On tea

Last night, as I was struggling to fall asleep, I have come to realise an astonishing truth: ever since I moved to the UK, I've been drinking a lot less tea than before.
Ok, fine, I have one cup of proper tea with milk a day (or something like that), which is me adopting local habits, but I used to have 2-3 cups of green tea a day before and what happened to that?
Well, school happened to that.
Need to buy a kettle and put it in my cupboard.
Green tea is good for you.

On wonders

We went to see Stevie Wonder in the Hyde Park yesterday and my God was it great!
The man is absolutely beautiful - the joy in his face as he plays the music would be enough for ten people or more.
Made me seriously happy.
What a brilliant day.

57 miles

Up to 4 miles, cycling is no fun. It's only after that distance that your muscles are properly warmed up and you start enjoying it as opposed to just wanting to go home and feel sorry for yourself. I know that, so I don't get discouraged and I apply all my energy to warming my muscles up.
After that, up to ca. 20 miles, it's seriously fun, sun is shining, interesting birds are flying, all hills are ascendable and it's so cool to ride down them!
Past 20 miles it's time for a small rest, a stretch, a sandwich, and off we go again, all positive and happy, cause it is such a beautiful day and I'm going to beat my distance record and all.
At around 25 miles, it is however starting to become harder, the muscles feel tired and on steeper inclines I start to struggle - or so it feels, as I always end up getting both me and Bob the bike to the top. .
At 30 miles I'm properly tired. I'm starting to speculate whether I actually do have to do those 50 miles or if I could just go home now. But soon I want to continue, cause look, I've beaten my record and I'm still cycling! Besides soon we'll make a proper stop and have a good rest, it will be fine.
A couple of miles later, all I can think of is a pub or a shop where we could refill our bottles hence forcing the stop, cause God it hurts when it's uphill!
And after that stop it is all better, I'm still tired but I think that if we can stop when needed, I'll be fine. I'm just slightly worried: Paul has to pull my gloves off for me, as my fingers are no longer prehensile.
45th mile: I get off my bike, sit down and cry. 'I can't do it, it is too hard' I sob pathetically blowing my nose into the surrounding foliage.
Paul takes me litterally and suggests we find me a nice place to wait and he'll go and get the car, as nothing is worth such misery.
It takes me a while to make him understand that I was just letting off pressure and that I'm fine, really, and I really meant 'I'm finding this very difficult, I need some encouragement, but I'll still do it'.
'Well, that's not what you said' says Paul and I think he is a little bit annoyed that I'm speaking female at him and expect him to understand.
But anyway - we get back on our bikes and get safely home, 57 miles on the counter all together. We shower and put the barbacue on. We have a couple of beers. My legs aren't even hurting really (though the fingers in my left hand still refuse to cooperate) and I feel extremely proud of myself.

On stag dos

I’m not sure if I understand the idea of stag/hen weekends away. I mean, in some cases it is obvious – go away where no one knows you in order to get laid one more time with a total stranger before you make your vow of fidelity and, at least in theory, have to give up that kind of behaviours forever (but then why take your friends with you – after all one of them could say something to someone on another drunken night and your other half could still find out).
Anyway, that reason being out of the question, what’s the point?
Paul’s just been on one in Munich and what they did was: drink beer, go go-carting, play football in the park, drink some more beer. All of which they could have done over here without paying an arm and a leg for flights and hotels. I would have understood if they had done one thing that was actually about Munich – but they didn’t! Unless you count drinking beer, that is...
Two years ago another friend of his was getting married and they went to Amsterdam, which made sense as the point was for the said friend to get stoned braindead as he loves to get stoned so Amsterdam was the place to go and he couldn’t have done that over here. But this one?
Don’t get me wrong – when/if it comes to my hen do, I would love to go away somewhere with my friends. But I would see something of the place on top of merry making...