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.

English weather in the South of France

I’m back to Brum after a week of what was supposed to be sunshine, wine and cheese, and well, sunshine didn’t happen. Apparently the first weekend was glorious, but I missed it completely as I spent it dying in bed, cause as usual in the beginning of a holiday my body said ‘No more work? Letting go!’ and put me through all colds, migraines and stomach troubles it had bravely resisted through school time. Uh, oh.
I was going to put updates up regularly, but I found myself cut from the internet as my adoptive grandma’s computer died on her the day before our arrival. And now I’m at a loss, cause recounting everything would take pages and pages and so I should probably try to sum it up somehow, which is not easy at all.
It was blissful. In spite of the weather. Just seeing all those faces after having missed them so much!
Two huge emotional moments, first when spotting Sainte Victoire from the plane, then one evening at the dinner table, when I just wanted my life there back, but of course that is not possible and, of course, if I had not moved away, then… etc.
My still growing hair was a big hit, apparently it looks like a lion’s mane and I hide rainbows in it (as one can see on little Guillaume’s portrait of me, which he unfortunately refused to part with, cause wanted to remember me by).
Everyone was excited about meeting Paul, I was excited about everybody meeting Paul, Papi loved Paul absolutely which, if you know Papi, you know is not to be taken for granted.
And well, it was all smiling, hugging, making merry, talking, eating and drinking (uh, oh, body needs tea-totalling for a while now!).
All to be done all over again at Easter (cause it got somehow decided that we would be back at Easter and well, we did not protest too much) but hopefully in a better weather and in less of a hurry!

Nut day and my bits of Aix

I was having coffee with Hil this morning, and we were all happy and excited to be together again, and blabbering about what has happened, how life was and what was coming up when this elderly gentleman came up to our table and mainly told us off very vehemently for talking too loud when we had nothing to say. ‘All I can hear is your noise’ he said ‘and you have nothing to say’. My spontaneous reaction was to tell him that it wasn’t about the words coming out of our mouths but all the love behind them and that I was sorry he was to bitter to get that, but I bit my tongue. Why spoil his day? After all, being a Brit living in Frogland, he can’t have an opportunity to tell people off too often, so hey, cheers to you, hope it made you happy.
Then we wandered about the market and Hil bought a pear. The seller helper tried to put it in a bag for her, but the stall owner told her off for that cause you shouldn’t waste an expensive plastic bag for just one pear (she obviously thought we didn’t speak any French). That’s when we decided it was a nut day.
Anyway, off to buy some more bits of Provence and last drinks with friends.
Mantra changed to what Nick told me over a drink last Sat, when I was all whining about why the fuck did I leave and I want my life back: “Yes, you had a great life here, but it was going nowhere”.
Which doesn’t change the fact that I miss my life here.
And a final random thing: every time I walk into Cours Mirabeau heading for Rue Fabrot, I can’t help but turn my head and I can still see the Disappearing German waiting for me on the corner of Rue Thiers, and that smile, and the Dreamcatcher Hair, and Oh GOD. Beautiful memory it is indeed.

Aix en vacances

Travelling to places you used to belong to is a messy business. On one hand, you’re thrilled to see all the people and places you have been missing so much, but on the other hand you’re disheartened by the realisation that they are moving on without you, and, even worse, regardless of you.
I found my map of Aix unchanged and changed in the same time. I had a coffee on Cours Mirabeau in Belle Epoque with their rude waiters. I went to Papeterie Michel and felt the same urge to buy most of their stocks. I drove past my old boulangerie and the park where I used to jog. And I missed them not being mine anymore.
But what really got me was talking to my adoptive grandparents over home made dinner and explaining how I was subscribed to Iceland and the local Chinese, which made me think about cooking in my little kitchen corner at Roc Fleuri. It made me really want my life back.
I still think that leaving was the right thing to do. I have a constant mantra in my head, listing reasons why. But I had a great life here. Which makes me think, that what I really need to do, is get a proper life back in Brum.
But for now, I’ll put on my red shoes and dance the blues.