Usually, May is the best month of the year in France. Usually, the sun shines brightly as the days lengthen. Usually, the four public holidays* that we jam into the first three weeks of May allow for balmy hours spent lying on your back in blossoming parks (but not on the grass) sipping ice cold Rosé and reminding ourselves of how lucky we are to be in France. Usually, the strawberries that carpet every flat service by the door of every purveyor of fresh food are sweet, and red, and surprisingly cheap, because the little spotted hearts of juiciness have had months to ripen while lying under the sun of Southern France while Southern French farmers lay beside them drunk in awe at how lucky they are to be in Southern France in May.
Usually.
This year, after the coldest March on record and non-alpine snowfall in April, May 2013 is proving to be rather unusual. There is heavy rain, brief spurts of sunshine, sub-zero mornings and rather notably, freakish hailstorms. This May, the weather is more than a bit shit. This May, anyone with more than 20 Euros to their name has booked a last minute flight to anywhere in search of sunshine and a temperature slightly above 10. It is even warmer in Edinburgh than it is in Paris.
So, wallowing in a slightly deeper sun-starved depression than I usually swim in, my May has become the month that everything broke…including me.
I have been visiting a blood doctor to try and ascertain the root cause of the alien foot’s propensity for remaining, at all times, 20% larger than the other, visibly more terrestrial foot.
First, a woman covered me with lubricating gel and ultra-sounded my legs; it would appear my veins are a bit slower than they should be. Officially, I am circulatory challenged. Then a man laid me down on a table and started jabbing a needle into my thighs. You see I have recently learned that you can make veins disappear. I always thought I was made that way and walking upon legs that resemble topographical maps of mountains were as much me as the googly eyes and the big mouth. In any case, do you think anyone is going to notice that my legs are veinless if one foot looks like it belongs to a rhinoceros? Still no cure for the foot, but I now own rather raunchy lacy stay-up support stockings.
While my blood might now speed like Lewis Hamilton, the bank cancelled my credit card. So again, everything stopped.
My bank, the world’s local bank, the one from Hong Kong and Shanghai, have cancelled my card three times in the last 8 months. They keep doing this, they have explained to me, because I have a ridiculous habit of spending my own money. More specifically, I have a ridiculous habit of spending my own money in countries that are not France. Sacré Bleu!
I’ve been told that I am a high-risk client because I travel so much. I am a high-risk client because I buy so much online. I am a high-risk client because I earn money, pay my bills on time and work very hard, often overseas, hence the requisite online purchasing. I just don’t have the time or the energy to go shopping. I am a high-risk client because I don’t write cheques. I am a high-risk client because I rarely pay with cash. High-risk, in France, means 21st Century.
Based on recent events, I am a high risk client when I am in a foreign country and my bank has cancelled my card, leaving me with no money and no means of paying for my hotel. I am a high-risk client when I am forced to go to the HSBC and scream at someone until they help me. I am high-risk because if I had a weapon of even microscopic destruction, I’d happily smash windows and break every single poster of a smiley HSBC person helping someone else because they don’t bloody help me. I am high-risk because I’m a little bit stressed, very overworked and without any access to my own money, I cannot feed my two glasses of wine a day habit. The very high-risk habit I have that affords me the placidity required to operate in normal, low-risk society.
So I have fibre-optically fast blood, but a slow, medieval, bank.
Then…on a sunny day in the countryside, my computer broke. After 5 years of faithful service, my little silver folder of love that keeps me company every day just would not wake up. She went to sleep grasping within her aluminium hands my photos, my music and most importantly of all, every word I’ve ever written. I’m not a complete fool, and am blessed to have The Painted Saint among my circle of intimate friends. When he talks tech, I listen, and when he said I should have a back up, I made sure I had a back up. But I still had to buy a new lighter, slimmer silver backed confessional…online. Just don’t tell HSBC.
One good thing did happen in May.
Taking advantage of Jesus Day and War Day and Another Day, I took off for a couple of days. I had no idea where I was going; I just knew that I had to be at The Body’s flat at 7pm with a towel and enough clothes for 3 days. I did make a point of remembering that I would be in Burgundy, place famous for making wine. I prepared myself, and my liver, for my own kind of hajj.
The Body, who is half English and half German, is a pretty fantastic friend to have. Not only has she been kind enough to go and live in Dublin and Florence, then invite me to come and stay for the weekend, she also drives a red mini. I think all my friends should go and live in places I want to visit and drive cool little British cars so that I have something to do every weekend.
The Body unwittingly lives in the great heights of Bestest Friend in the Universe and then takes it a giant step higher. She has parents who own a huge house in the countryside, in the middle of a shitload of wineries. If Ryan Gosling were her brother, I’d quit my job and never leave her side.
The Fashionista is also a good friend to have. She always looks fantastic, she has more style in her little finger than I’ve had in my entire lifetime and she speaks so fast, an hour spent with her is like a day spent with a normal person. Her speech, like her person, are compacted into a smaller than expected space, everything about her is more intense, more concentrated and inevitably, more stylish.
The Body loves music, The Fashionista loves Food and we all love wine. Cram all of that love into a red mini for the two-hour drive to Auxerre, and you’ve got the ingredients for a girly mini-break…just add Ibuprofen.
I break into a sweat when my phone has to be switched off during a 2-hour flight. Taking the Tube, with its lack of phone reception is so stressful that I would rather walk, even if it were snowing. Spending three days in a place so hidden away from the rest of the modern world that I was deprived of 2G, 3G or anyG, nearly induced cardiac arrest after 3 hours.
Astonishingly, when soaked in a heady mix of Pinot Noir and Chardonnay the human body can adapt to almost anything.
No phone, meh. Broken computer, meh. I was still smiling. In fact, you could have walked up and king-hit me and I would have laughed in your face.
But what was the reason for my delirium of calm and happiness?
There were of course the copious flagons of wine. The Fashionista became a sort of barometer of inebriation for the rest of us. Her being so much smaller, we knew that when she started to slur, we should all stop drinking, (even if I didn’t).
There were also the long walks in the countryside, talking to donkeys, gossiping and chatting, staring into the fluorescent haze of Canola flowers. There is also a particularly fantastic house just next to The Body’s cottage. Standing at the end of a circular driveway between a tiny chapel and a dovecote, I nicknamed it Pemberley. I was completely convinced that Colin Firth was going to appear, white shirt drenched and hair all mussed up at any moment. Again, the brain can conjure up all kinds of things when marinated in fermented grapes.
After careful reflection and the appropriate amount of time to allow my liver to regenerate, I’ve decided that the main reason I was so easily able to turn off for three days was that I was staying in a family home with someone else’s family.
The Body’s dad, like my own, is British. He, like my own, tells the most ridiculous jokes and has nicknames for everything; coasters are doofers. The Body’s mother loves to cook and cater and lay a magnificent table for breakfast and both of them work in music. Sitting around a family table, with a mum and a dad, even if they weren’t mine, felt normal. It felt like coming home after school and hooking into a bowl of Spag Bol, while watching Degrassi and talking about homework. It felt relaxing.
No phone, no computer, parents and washing up. We could call it a retro-holiday. Pretend that you are 15 yrs old and forget the troubles of the modern (high-risk) world.
Just add wine.
* Labour Day – the day French people protest in celebration of their right to protest. End of the War Day – the day French people do all but say out loud, we laid down and let the Germans walk all over us. Jesus went up in the sky day – the day French people are happy to forget that the Republique is secular and enjoy a day off from their hardworking, 35-hour week. Jesus went to Pentecost day – the day French people look at each other and wonder what the hell Pentecost means, but not for long, because after all, we are on a day off and can’t work too hard.
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