Beautiful Cynicism III

I’ve spent the last 5 days in a 3.5-star hotel in the heart of downtown Montreal. Virtually all expenses were taken care of – the cost of the room, every meal eaten on the premises; there were free newspapers and coffee waiting for me every morning, and access to free wine and beer every evening; my room was equipped with a king-sized bed, Internet access, and more toiletries than I could possibly use – also all free of charge, of course. My room key acted as a pass to the hotel’s ‘club’, where a breakfast buffet was available (again, free of charge) every morning, an array of newspapers in both English and French were available for the taking, and comfy armchairs, big-screen televisions, and computers and printers were set up and waiting to be used. Access to the penthouse apartment, normally reserved for the most exclusive hotel guests, was also granted in this exceptional case. In exchange for all of this, I had to put in a few 13-hour workdays whilst there, and of course had been working on this project for several months. Still, it somehow feels unbalanced – like I’ve gotten away with something… But it is what it is. We worked hard and pulled it off, and were rewarded for it.

Ah, Franglais, aka Frenglish, the language of much of my youth. Kids on the playground at school, calling out to each other in a French-English hybrid, our own personal creole. A sentence that begins in English ends in French, the two official languages of this country merging effortlessly. For these past few days here in Montréal, where virtually everyone is bilingual, I’ve been surrounded by this throwback to my elementary school days. It may seem crude or lazy, but to effectively speak this mélange requires a good grasp of both languages. It’s a choice, a way to better express oneself – as some things are simply better expressed in one or the other language. Sometimes one requires the precision of English, with its enormous vocabulary; so many ways of saying the same thing means a more elegant speech, with nuances that may be lost in other languages. Other times, one prefers the poetry of French, capturing an idea or a feeling in a more abstract way.

The hostel is an interesting place. So many different people, all ages and cultures and races, from all corners of the world. Just now there’s an elderly French gentleman who keeps coming round every few minutes. He sits on one of the benches, and works on a crossword puzzle. He then gets up and leaves, all the while muttering under his breath something about “c’est une catastrophe!” and repeating over and over “il faut aller chez soi, chez soi!” Then a few minutes later, he returns, and completes another puzzle, and repeats the whole process over. I’ve roomed with a Chinese girl, been chatted up by a Frenchman, and conversed with Italians, Australians, and fellow Canadians, and had an interesting encounter with an older Spaniard this morning over how to operate the luggage lockers and access the wireless internet (it took several tries of him saying “weee-feee” over and over until it clicked he meant the wireless – which many Anglos pronounce “why-fye”, of course ). Between his total lack of English and French, and my total lack of Spanish, we managed to sort everything out (mostly through extensive miming ).

I arrived yesterday under the cover of anonymity. Aside from bonding with my fellow foreigners, I’ve spent most of my time either sleeping, writing, reading, or playing games. I went out to buy a sandwich at a sidewalk bakery a few blocks away, and took the long way back to the hostel. Other than that, I’ve stayed indoors – I’m too exhausted and sore from yesterday’s travel to do anything. I haven’t called anyone, except for loved ones back home. Home; such an abstract concept. I’ve known for a long time that “home is where the heart is”, and isn’t really tied to geographical location (although certainly the essence of feeling “at home” can be tied to geographical features). Maybe that’s what’s missing after all: I have fond memories of France, I love Paris, and several French people are very dear to me; and I applied for this job, and put much time and effort and expense into the application process. And now here I am… but my heart just isn’t in it.

Well, to say it was “open” may be a bit of an understatement. The door was open a crack, mere millimeters, just enough for me to spy an eye looking me up and down. Then, a commanding voice bellowed from the crack:

“Yes?”

“Hello, I have an appointment for…” (I didn’t get to finish my sentence)

“What time?”

“Well, my appointment is for noon,” I quickly replied, sensing that this lady wasn’t in the mood for time-wasting conversation. Since I had no idea what time it actually was, I added apologetically, “I came straight from the airport so I’m not sure how early I am…” But the security guard had already lost interest.

“What’s your name?” (Ooh, I thought to myself: I got a complete sentence out of her!)

I told her my name, which caused her to flip through a small stack of papers she had been holding. A few seconds later, the door finally opened. I saw a rather bland waiting room, with industrial carpeting and large windows. There were two other people in the room, both women, each sitting primly in her chair, with a neat folders laid across her lap. I stepped into the room.

The guard pointed to the chairs and said, “Turn off your cell phone and sit down.” Then walked away wordlessly, and resumed her post behind the front desk. Phew.

I sat down, exchanging nervous smiles with my fellow applicants. It was then I got a good look at the rest of the office. There were two workers, sitting side by side behind a large glass window – or at least, what I thought was a large glass window. In fact, they were contained in a humongous glass booth – floor-to-ceiling soundproof glass. To communicate, one had to either gesticulate wildly, or make use of a tiny microphone set into the counter (kind of tricky, since one had to bend over to get close to it). Adding to the décor was a large wall, set a few feet back from the workers’ soundproof cage; signs posted all over the office implored everyone to “stay behind the wall” to ensure the privacy of those being served at the counter. (Which was rather amusing, since the microphone/speaker system was incredibly loud, so that whenever a worker would speak to the applicant, everyone within a 10km radius could hear all the applicant’s personal details.) There was a large-screen television by the door; the security guard was watching The Price Is Right.

As I sat, I couldn’t help but overhear (see above) the misadventures of the lone male in the room: a young man trying to get his hands on a student visa so he could spend the next year studying in France. He was sent away at least three times, for various reasons – transferring money to a different account, obtaining a missing signature, etc. Apparently, when one intends to study in France, one must have an enormous amount of money in one’s bank account. The gentleman had already set aside a substantial amount, but was just shy of the required minimum. He tried valiantly to convince the woman behind the counter that the remainder of the money would indeed be in his bank account by the time he would be leaving Canada in a few weeks; but she would have none of it. In an almost robotic tone, she just kept repeating the minimum required amount, over and over. He finally gave in, asking if he could come back later in the day if he found someone to lend him the money within a few hours. (She said yes.) He proceeded to walk out of the office for a third time, looking rather defeated. Everyone in that waiting room gave him a sympathetic smile. The guard just sneered.

Worker A called my name. I dutifully trundled up to the window, where I was greeted with a polite but distant “Bonjour.” A small drawer suddenly popped out of the wall beside me, and I carefully placed all my precious documents, photographs, photocopies and passport inside. The drawer shut automatically, and I was told (in English) to have a seat. About a half hour later, Worker B called me up to her window. It was at that point that I received the only smile on offer in that office all morning: when this woman asked – as she did all of us – if I spoke French, I answered “oui”. (Everyone else had said either “non” or “petit peu”. Upon hearing my answer, the slightest trace of a smile appeared on Worker B’s face. She then spoke French to me for the remainder of our brief meeting, and I walked out of that office 5 minutes later, visa in hand.

I’ve never taken off in the dark. As we leave the city behind, it’s not pitch black – the sky is a deep, dark navy, just showing the very first signs of life – but it’s still very dark. It’s a cool, fairly clear morning in Winnipeg, and all the city’s lights are perfectly visible as we climb into the clouds. I’m always amazed at how spread-out Winnipeg is; it’s not a very built-up city, but its tentacles reach far and wide. From the sky, the streetlights trace a spider’s web across a wide swath of prairie. Then it’s gone, and I see nothing but clouds.

A few minutes later, I notice a light catches my eye: my first thought is of lava pouring out of a volcano. In reality, it’s just the first light of the sun, breaking through the lower cloud layer. That light is impossibly bright, intense. It glows like hot metal, a small pool of orange in the middle of a thick blanket of ondulating white cloud. Within seconds the sun makes its appearance. I can honestly say I’ve never seen such a beautiful sunrise in my entire life. In the space of about 30 seconds, the entire sky ahead of us was bathed in orange light, with the sun taking centre stage. A thin cloud enveloped its perfectly circular shape, making it possible to look directly at it. The gentle ripples of the lower cloud layer were visually transformed into waves of hot lava lapping at the sky. And the more dense cloud layer above us simply reflected all the light back downwards. We were lost in a sea of warm light, with oranges and reds and yellows bouncing off the plane’s surface in a kind of complicated dance. It was breathtaking.

About a minute later, the colour cooled as the sun, continuing its relentless climb, disappeared into the upper layer of cloud. Our plane seemed to follow it, heading into that same cloud, from which we both emerged at the same time. The orange and red gave way to pale yellow and white, and with no more cloud restricting its light, the sun was free to shine across the entire sky, which was already a clear, pale blue. From this new vantage point above all the clouds, it was like watching a second sunrise. Warmth flooded into the aircraft, and shades were drawn to keep out the blinding white light. Of all the things that could possibly go wrong today, at least the weather appeared to be cooperating…

Un autre matin calme et relax. Pendant que je boive mon café, je pense à une de mes tantes. D’abord, il faut savoir que ma mère et ses soeurs n’aiment pas les matins tranquilles: elles bougent tout le temps, elles font beaucoup de bruit, elles sont stressées du moment qu’elles se réveillent. (Tout le contraire de moi!) Mais une tante en particulier est plus… animé que les autres. Je me souviens des vacances de mon enfance, quand elle me réveillait tôt le matin. Je me plaignais: mais je suis en vacance! Elle me répondait: exactement – on ne peut pas se relaxer pendant les vacances, il y a trop à voir et à faire! Je bois mon café et je souris en pensant à ma tante; heureusement son attitude n’est pas présent ici, ce matin!

As with almost every other day I’ve been out in this city, a gray sky has descended on Paris, bringing with it chilly winds and intermittent rain. I feel my Canadian bona fides might be called into question soon, as I realise I’ve been shivering off and on; for some reason I always feel cold here. It’s absurd, considering I’ve just come from a Prairie winter, complete with massive snowbanks and deep freeze-like windchills… Aujourd’hui je reprends ma mission d’hier: je suis encore à la recherche d’un cordonnier. On trouve rapidement un gentil monsieur qui dit qu’il réparera mes chaussures en quelques minutes. En attendant, on retrouve une des boulangeries de ma liste, celle avec des pains en forme de la Tour Eiffel dans sa vitrine. Mais aujourd’hui c’est ouvert! Une “baguette présidentielle” sert comme collation pendant qu’on rebrousse le chemin vers la cordonnerie.

My repaired boots safely tucked away in the trunk, we drove through the streets for awhile, until the decision was made to visit the Eiffel Tower. It was something I had planned to do, but each time we drove past the monument the crowds were so large as to be discouraging. But since I only had two days left, it was now or never. There was already quite a crowd lined up when we arrived and took our spot in the queue. The wait was long, as we were herded like so much cattle through a labyrinthine setup of makeshift gates. Mother Nature put on a show: sunshine, clouds, rain, hail, wind all made appearances for us as we stood outside for what seemed like hours. Once inside, we slowly made our way up to the top. A heavy fog had settled over much of the city, but still the panoramic views were amazing. But the real treat came when we ventured outside: it snowed! A glacial wind was howling past, whipping up a weak blizzard all around us. Those who know me know that I adore the snow; and although I nearly froze, I found the weather exhilarating. With all of Paris spread out below, and delicate white flakes swirling around, the effect was almost magical. We spent the better part of the afternoon there, much to my surprise. I only took two pictures of the tower; it’s so iconic, I didn’t know how to treat it – any photo feels like a cliché. But as we walked away, I turned back to see that the clouds had begun to clear; with her elegant arches reaching up to the blue sky, it was impossible to resist snapping at least one last photo.
C’est marrant; j’avais vu la visite à la Tour Eiffel comme un petit aventure “obligatoire”, étant touriste. Mais au fait c’était une visite tout à fait agréable, que j’ai beaucoup aimée. Ce sont toujours ces petits moments inattendus qui nous apportent le plus grand plaisir…

Ensuite, on a fait un passage éclair dans quelques magasins à la recherche d’un beret pour mon père (il en voulait un). Mais on a dû courir, car on était en retard pour un concert. Toujours généreux, le Coyote (peut-être ayant voulu faire découvrir un peu de culture à cette canadienne sauvage) m’avais invité à un concert de Fazil Say, un pianiste turc que je ne connaissais pas du tout. C’était une soirée remplie de Mozart et Moussorgski (et d’autres), suivi par un pause à un petit bistro près du théâtre (où j’ai découvert de la soupe à l’oignon végétarienne – contrairement à ce qu’on trouve au Canada), et une promenade dans la rue (où un roman d’amour était écrit en craie blanche sur le troittoir). “Hélène je t’aime!”

J’ouvre mes yeux. Bien que les volets soient fermés, je peux voir que je ne suis plus dans le sud; la lumière est différent à Paris. I’m already tired; I woke up several times in the night – because I was too hot! (A strange phenomenon, since the Cynic is almost always cold…) Not to worry: I’m eager to start the day. But first, I yawn, I stretch, I bury my face in the pillow, I stare at the books around me, I listen to the sounds of the street outside – in other words, I dawdle in bed, until I feel my voice wake up a little, and am able to see clearly through my sleepy eyes. For having been so warm all night, I now feel a little chilled. I pull on my warm, fuzzy socks, and venture out into the house.

La maison est tranquille. Je marche sur la pointe des pieds jusqu’à la cuisine, où je trouve le coyote avec son café. J’aime bien le silence du matin par ici; ça me fait du bien. On mange le petit déj tranquillement; le café me réchauffe et me réveille. Je ne me dépèche pas ce matin: sous la douche, je prends mon temps; je m’habille lentement; je me maquille soigneusement. Ce n’est pas de la paresse: mais après plus qu’une semaine d’activités et de rencontres (tout à fait agréables, bien entendu!), je ressens un nécessité de me comporter sans hâte. Je me sens à l’aise, détendue, et je veux que ce sentiment dure.

We climb in the car and make our way to Paris. My first mission: to find a cobbler. (No such luck, as it’s Sunday, and most small shops are closed.) Next: to find a bakery – but not just any bakery. I had brought with me to France a short list of award-winning bakeries, with the goal of tasting the baguettes of each one. Alas, this first attempt was fruitless – or should I say breadless? (Did I mention it’s Sunday and everything seems to be closed?) Instead, we wander. The streets are wet, the air is cool, and some sunlight has managed to pierce through the clouds. It’s always such a pleasure to walk these streets: I never cease to be amazed by the architecture, the history, the beauty inherent in the buildings and monuments. There is a palpable sense of pride here, evident in every shop window, every rugged cobblestone. Culture, history, and beauty are treasured and nurtured here, unlike so many places in North America. Where I come from, sadly, utility seems to be the driving force in most public spaces. And while there is something to be said for using a space efficiently and productively, there should always be room for splendour.

On retrouve la voiture; je passe mon temps en regardant par la fenêtre. On passe par la Tour Eiffel, mais il y a bien trop de monde là; je n’ai pas le moral de passer toute l’après-midi faire la queue. Au lieu de cela, on décide de déjeuner. En me racontant des histoires des cafés célèbres de Montparnasse, le canin chevaleresque me propose une pause à La Rotonde. (Pour les anglophones: suivez le lien en-dessous de la photo, et lisez la traduction anglaise du site si vous voulez rigoler ) Après le repas, on se promène à nouveau. On marche longuement sur les Champs-Elysées, ma première fois là-bas. C’est marrant: pour un lieu si symbolique de la France, il me rappellait des Etats-Unis avec tous les grands magasins… On passe par un petit café, où je découvre qu’on s’est assis à côté d’un table de canadiens. Notre promenade continue jusqu’à le soir, quand on rentre l’antre du coyote pour regarder un film et dîner sur la soupe chaude.

We’re just pulling away from the station at Avignon. I’ve spent the ride thus far just staring out the window, lost in my thoughts. This being one of the “Zen” cars, I’m mostly surrounded by silence. Le soleil s’est déjà couché; le train est tout illuminé. Je suis entouré par des hommes: celui en face de moi utilise son DVD portatif; un autre, qui me rappelle un peu du personnage de Mr. Bean, lit un livre de philosophie; un autre joue avec son PalmPilot. Et puis il y a celui à côté de moi: à peu près de mon âge, il écoute du rap et il “chante” et danse dans sa siège. Déjà il a bu 5 petites bouteilles d’alcool, et nous ne sommes sur le train pendant qu’environ une heure et demi! Cependant, quand il m’adresse, il est un gentleman extraordinaire: “Excusez-moi, madame, je vous en prie…” C’est un truc que j’ai observé chez les français (surtout les parisiens): de la nonchalance, presque l’impolitesse, dans leur comportement – mais toujours de la courtoisie extrème dans leurs paroles. C’est curieux.

I feel weepy; I watch the landscape pass me by at high speed and I realise I’m saying goodbye to it, as I won’t be returning to this region – at least not during this trip. My seatmate is entirely engrossed with his music; his eyes are closed, and he bops his head to and fro as he mouths the surely scandalous lyrics blaring through his headphones. I stare past him out the window, watching the sky begin to glow from the setting sun. The hills are bathed in the cool light of dusk, darkening by the minute. I see a castle on a hill; it seems there’s always a castle on a hill here. Walking through Cannes by myself this morning was empowering; being in a strange place on one’s own, even if only for a short while, is thrilling. Rapping seatmate (very politely) asks to be excused again – as he has numerous times already – meaning I have to move, given that I have the aisle seat. Each time we do this little dance in the narrow aisle, my eyes meet those of several passengers, who give me sympathetic looks. Pour la première fois pendant ce voyage, le Canada me manque un peu. Je pense à mon retour éventuel chez moi. Mon chum avait raison: ce voyage m’a changé, mais c’est une changement que je ne peux pas encore décrire.

The absentminded intellectual across the aisle is preparing himself a little dinner. He pulls out a tea towel, and lays it out across his table, as a tablecloth. Out of his backpack comes a tin of peas and carrots, a package of deli slices, and a sturdy loaf of bread that smells like a stout sourdough. Il prépare son repas soigneusement: il dépose la charcuterie délicatement sur un bout de pain, puis le goûte: il sourit. Puis il sort son ouvre-boîte et attaque la boîte de légumes; il utilise une cuillère à thé pour manger directement de la boîte. Il a l’air satisfait. Les autres passagers du train lui regardent avec horreur. Je souris. I admire eccentrics; they do whatever tickles their fancy, blissfully unaware (or utterly indifferent to) the reactions of others. With his slightly mismatched clothing and shock of gray hair, he could pass for an Albert Einstein, but his behaviour definitely smacks of Mr. Bean – even more so considering what he’s made for dinner: it reminds me of the episode with the live goldfish and the sock-cum-salad spinner… But I do hate the smell of tinned veggies.

Darkness has fallen; there’s no longer anything to see out the window except for the silhouettes of trees and houses on a distant horizon. I’m forced to plant my gaze somewhere inside the car, as is everyone else, though we all seem to be having a terrifically difficult time doing so. We eye each other warily, trying to avoid eye contact. L’air est parfumé d’alcool et des légumes “en boîte”. Un des passagers a la tête de Tom Selleck; il porte des chaussettes argyle bleu-gris. Le gars hip hop à côté de moi est endormi, ses jambes s’empiétant sur ma place. Quelle heure est-il? Je fini le Paris Match que j’avais reçu vendredi. Mes yeux ferment; je dors. “Gare de Lyon.” A man’s polite but forceful voice blares over the loudspeaker system and jolts me out of my rêverie. Suddenly, after a peaceful ride, the car fairly explodes into action. People jump out of their seats to fetch their things from the overhead racks, some rush to the doors. I’m puzzled; squinting at the darkness in the window I can’t see much, but we don’t appear to be anywhere near the station yet. Peu importe: déjà plusieurs passagers font la queue à la porte. Je repose ma tête sur ma siège et regarde toute cette activité avec intérêt. Quand je vois qu’on est à la gare, une dizaine de minutes plus tard, là je me prépare. Manteau, sac à mains, sac, valise, et hop! je passe par les portes et je suis dans un grand vent. Il y a des personnes partout: comment trouver mon canin chevalier? Je suis perdue dans la foule; on bouge ensemble vers l’intérieur de la gare. Je marche et je marche, tout le long du train; toujours dans ce grand vent, mes cheveux dans les yeux. Ma valise rebelle, ne voulant pas coopérer, frappe les jambes des autres passagers. Enfin je lui vois: le coyote qui m’attend.

J’ai eu un sommeil sans regrets, une nuit reposante. Ce matin, je n’ai pas envie de me lever immédiatement; au lieu de cela, je me mets à lire. Je vois la soleil à travers les volets; j’entends les rires des enfants dans la rue. Il fait beau. Quelle heure est-il? Pendant ma première semaine ici, j’ai dormi dans quatre chambres différents; aucune avait une horloge! Donc chaque matin je me sentais un peu perdue. Dans l’étagère à livres qui se trouve au bout de mon lit, j’ai trouvé La part manquante, de Christian Bobin. I snuggle under the covers again to reread this lovely book, paying special attention to the section entitled la voix, la neige (it being my favourite part).

The doorway leading to the moonbeam is blocked; I quietly make my way down the narrow staircase, taking care not to slip in my fuzzy socks. I see the remnants of the previous evening: the teacups and teapot, the breadcrumbs, the books pulled from the downstairs bookshelf. I sit on the floor, in the doorway of the downstairs bedroom, crossing my legs and tucking my feet under my body. I lean back against the wall, and eat my orange in silence. L’appartement est tranquille. Je vois l’horloge: il n’est que 8h30! Ma valise est en désordre; je commence à ranger mes choses. Je prends mon temps, car il est tellement tôt… Quelques heures plus tard, mes bagages sont préparés, ma chambre est rangé, et je suis présentable. A quick chat with my travel companion reveals that she isn’t feeling well, and we decide to go our separate ways this morning. I immediately take to the streets of Cannes. I do what I’ve been doing best on this trip: I walk. I wander the streets, dodging lost tourists and wayward scooters. I weave in and out of the sidewalk displays of shoes, postcards, and fish. I duck in to small shops, and play “guess my size” in some boutiques when I realise that I’m utterly ignorant of the conversion between Canadian and French clothing sizes. Les rues semblent vide, puisque les cravates ont quitté Cannes hier soir. Je marche partout. À un moment, un couple me demande où se trouve une rue (je ne me souviens plus laquelle); c’était évident qu’ils étaient des touristes. I am a tourist too – but for a moment, I don’t feel like one. I have to return to the apartment to change my boots, due to another broken heel. I’m on to my third (and last) pair of shoes; I make a mental note to find a cobbler as soon as possible when I get back to Paris. Le rayon de lune et moi se réunissent dans la rue; on achètent des quiches avant de précipiter à l’appartement pour ramasser mes bagages.

The 15-minute walk from the apartment to the train convinces me that France would definitely be difficult to navigate from a wheelchair; by the time I arrived at the station I had worked up a sweat just trying to wheel my suitcase down the sidewalk. High curbs and staircases dotted the walkways, forcing me to use the street instead, sometimes having to squeeze myself between cars and the curb, dragging my suitcase behind me. Add to that the bright sunshine and warm Mediterranean air, and I got quite a workout. But it was certainly a nicer setting than a gym! Pendant qu’on attend le train, la tristesse monte en moi. Je n’aime pas les adieux… Le train arrive. Bisous pour le rayon de lune le plus brillant du ciel. Je monte l’escalier; il y a un tas de gens à la porte du train. Je comprends vite pourquoi: l’impossibilité de ranger ses valises sur l’étagère! Il n’y avait qu’une place pour ma valise – sur l’étagère la plus haut! Pour moi, une petite canadienne avec une valise assez lourde, c’est impossible. Est-ce qu’il y a un gentleman ou une dame sympathique pour m’aider? Absolumment pas. So I struggle alone with my suitcase, cursing the extra clothes I had brought along because I was unsure of the weather, all under the impatient glares of the other passengers. Finally, a kind man approached and moved his bag from the bottom shelf to the top shelf, leaving an empty space for me at knee-level – that, I could manage. I attempt to regain my composure, and steel myself to my seat. Everything is quiet around me; this car is mostly empty, and most people seem to be travelling alone. Those who are chatting do so in hushed tones. I breathe a sigh of relief.

Je suis fatiguée. Dans ce lit confortable, après cette longue journée, je tomberai endormi assez vite. J’entends le bruit d’un rayon de lune à l’étage en-dessous; elle fait ses préparations pour la nuit. Nous avons passé la soirée “chez nous” dans l’appartement; j’ai fait un peu de tofu à la sésame, nous avons rigolé des photos qui ont été prises en les jours précédents, nous avons discuté jusque tard dans la nuit. Avant de dormir, je réfléchi sur la journée.

Nous avons passé beaucoup de temps dehors, encore. La journée a commencé bien: on m’avait dit qu’il y aurait beaucoup de bruit dans la rue sous ma fenêtre, à cause de l’école en face de l’appartement, mais j’ai entendu rien. I must have slept soundly. And I’m not surprised; there’s something calming about this room, and this apartment. The sounds coming from the city outside are muffled; the air is cool; there is lots of natural light. The bedroom I’m sleeping in belongs to the son of Miss Moonbeam’s friends, who is away in Asia; the walls are wood, the room is full of computers and books and charts. Whilst perusing my surroundings, I discover that according to my “tree horoscope” I am a pine tree (“loves agreeable company, good companion, everything disappoints until it finds its ideal”). I find several Christian Bobin texts. I notice a few papers scattered on the chest at the foot of the bed – some have handwritten quotations scrawled on them, others appear to be paintings from childhood days. The bed is pushed into the corner by the window, away from the cacaphony of literature and images; it’s a quiet corner, embued with a certain serenity. I feel comfortable in this room.

But not so comfortable as to want to stay in bed all day! Cannes beckons; there are things to do, people to see, places to go… Le jukebox lunaire est déjà debout dans la cuisine quand je descends l’escalier. On se prépare vite pour la journée, car on est invité sur un bateau pour le repas de midi. Une infusion, une orange, un petit morceau de pain et hop! on part. On marche jusqu’à le port, une promenade agréable sous le soleil matinal. Une fois sur le quai, les talons de mes chaussures se coincent entre les planches de bois. On trouve le bateau et on est accueilli chaleureusement par deux constellations de la galaxie du rayon de lune. On passe quelques heures tout à fait agréable sur le bateau, sous le soleil éclatant. C’était un beau moment: étant une fille qui vivait tout près de l’océan, ces dernières années sur les prairies ont été difficile. L’eau me manque beaucoup. Après un repas végétarien délicieux, et une bonne conversation, on quitte le bateau et embarque sur un nouveau aventure.

Je me lève tard, comme est mon habitude ici. Je rentre la salle à manger et je vois l’horloge: houlà! Il est déjà midi et quart! Oublions le petit déjeuner – il est déjà l’heure du repas de midi! Je m’installe sur la terrasse; le soleil brille fort, mais sa chaleur est tempéré par le vent. The bright vase overflowing with mimosa sits atop the table, the flowers’s delicate yellow tufts quivering in the breeze. Soon there is a photography session, with each of my hosts taking turns posing with their timid Canadian guest. Although the early afternoon slips by quietly, there is a sense of purpose to the day: preparations for the upcoming road trip quickly begin.

I’m left alone for a moment in the place I’ve called “home” for the past few days. I settle on the couch under the stairs, curling my legs under my body, and just sit there. The house is silent; everything is still. Sunshine is streaming in through the windows, casting bizarre shadows on the floor before me. Not only can I hear the wind, whistling through the trees outside; I can see the wind: the long grass of the backyard undulates with each gust of wind that blows through, like waves on the sea. I bask in this moment of peace, enjoying the last of my whirlwind trip through Provence… My hosts return and there’s a flurry of activity. Je prépare mes bagages et descend l’escalier pour la dernière fois. On dit nos adieux à Monsieur Moonbeam, et on part. Puis, cinq minutes plus tard, hop! on revient: j’avais oublié mon billet pour le train. Quelques minutes plus tard, on est sur l’autoroute, en route à la prochaine destination.

Le voyage dans la voiture a été agréable: la mer sur un côté, les collines sur l’autre, et le soleil qui se couchait derrière tout. Il est presque le soir quand on arrive à Cannes. Il y a des voitures partout: c’est un embouteillage complet. On trouve notre appartement – mais où peut-on laisser la voiture? Il n’y a pas de parking… Le rayon de lune décide de faire confiance en sa bonne étoile – et après quelques tours autour du pâté de maisons, on trouve une place libre juste à côté de l’appartement! I quickly discover the charming apartment in which I am to rest my weary head for the next two nights. Small but spacious, cosy yet roomy, it’s situated directly across the street from a school, and mere minutes away from the harbour. I take the larger room at the top of the narrow staircase, with a window that opens on to the street. This is to be my fourth “homebase” of the trip, and it suits me just fine!

We two ladies wander out in the evening and don’t return until late at night. We walked for hours, weaving our way through the throngs of tourists and men in business suits (there was a real estate broker conference in town). We paused briefly for a late dinner at an Asian restaurant, then resumed our grand tour. We walked along the shoreline, admiring the fancy dress parties being thrown for the various real estate companies; we peered into boutique windows to evaluate the season’s trends; we climbed the many steps up to the church and the museum, and surveyed the city below. We were even treated to a fireworks display. Cannes at night was bustling, full of energy, with late-night revelers milling about and tourists snapping photos. The air was warm and festive.

I stir slowly; I stretch; I open my eyes. Then I’m faced with the first big decision of the day: do I get dressed immediately, or do I lounge around in my pyjamas for awhile? That is about as high a level of stress I could muster here; everything is always so calm! I elect to keep the pyjamas on, and head downstairs. The sun is out in full force this morning. On the table outside, I see a large vase of mimosas, along with a sprig of hyacinths (thoughtfully collected by the man of the house): some bright colours and sweet fragrance to go accompany breakfast. Another lazy morning, waking up late, eating slowly, listening to the leaves rustle in the wind, contemplating the light and the shadows… It’s a pace of life one could get used to!

The arrival of the afternoon heralded another exploratory tour of the region. We made our way along the winding highway, which hugged the curves of the bays and weaved its way through villages and through the valleys between the foothills. There was Sanary-sur-mer, where the air smelled of the sea and fishermen plied their trade from the backs of their boats and on the docks; it’s also where I ate violet petals for the first time, and where I bought this trip’s only bottle of wine (which I promise not to drink for another 5 years). The sun was just beginning to set, and the entire bay was bathed in muted pink light. The air was cool, the water was calm, the sky was alight; it was impossible not to be enchanted.

Nous avons ensuite rentré chez ma guide pour chercher une chemise: malgré le soleil du jour et le climat doux du sud, l’air est frais le soir. Puis nous avons repris notre chemin vers la Calanque de Port d’Alon, sur la route entre St. Cyr et Bandol. Quand nous nous sommes arrivé, le soleil s’est couché, et la crépuscule et ses couleurs du soir se répandaient le ciel. L’eau froid, la plage rocheuse, les arbres conifères: bien que je savais que j’étais dans le sud de la France, ce région me rappellait beaucoup du côte ouest du Canada, malgré les différences entre les régions. Ce ne serait pas la dernière fois pendant ma visite que j’ai noté une ressemblance à mon région natal.