You may think that strength is physical.
I know plenty of people who spend hours and days and weeks in sweaty rooms lifting moulded doughnuts of iron, pushing against their own weight or running on the spot in a measured effort to better define the slabs of muscle that surround their nipples or their groin. Effort that renders their physique that much more appealing to the human eye. Effort that is by no means wasted. Tom Hiddleston recently released a video on YouTube demonstrating just how much the fine-tuning of the human form can transform a woman from sentient being to quivering jelly of oestrogen-infused energy. I’m all for the pursuit of physical strength, I only wish I could master the talent myself.
Instead, my strength is mental.
I’m not very clever when it comes to physical acts of force; caber-tossing, karate-chopping cinder blocks and such…when a perfectly finished manicure is at risk, I prefer oenological feats. Walking in a straight line without clashing against a wall, a doorjamb or another person has oft proved to be a challenge beyond the bounds of my ambulant skills. All of which could be due, in part, to the oenological athleticism.
But when required to withstand the onslaught of abuse inherent in any family, in any professional setting or as of late, while engaged in the search for gainful employment, I stand up better than most. I’ve got all the fancy words, the witty turns of phrase and the litany of filthy words to hold my own…and then some.
Granted, I don’t do it alone.
Spending one’s days fruitlessly is tiring. Spending one’s days fruitlessly without the comforts of home is just plain exhausting.
For two weeks now, I’ve been forcibly relocated from chez moi; the little red box on the hill in Montmartre is undergoing much-needed repairs. The walls have been falling away from their struts for four years when the pipes from up above exploded under the weight of a hundred years of Parisian showers and Parisian sewerage and lord knows what else.
Not willing to spend the days alienated from my professional life in a garret leaning across the darker side of La Butte, I took the opportunity to get the hell out of Dodge and escape to the welcome embrace of my French family in the South. I’ve written several times before of the blonde brood that occupy the Little House on the Prairie in the South; The Blondes of Salies de Bearn.
Papa and Maman are my French parents. I met them when I was 16 years old fresh off a plane from Sydney. They tell me that I was a bit of a monster at the time; all adolescent expertise and unruly mouth, unwilling to listen to anyone or heed the warnings of those with more life experience than I. In the 20 years since, not much has changed, but they assure me that I’m a little more tolerant of their interjections. I’d argue that they’ve just become a little more tolerant of me, of my outbursts, of my inherent aggression and my obsessive need to be right…all the time. Which I usually am.
They are doted with three children; Michelangelo, an elder son crowned with his trademark cherubic blond curls, Raphael, a middle son branded with all the drama intrinsic to any middle child and Leonarda, an ultimate daughter, doctor of chemistry and the without question, the brains of the whole outfit. ^
Unlike their Parisian parents, the children grew up among the cornfields of the Pyrenees-Atlantiques; a trapezium of yellow and green hugged to the south by the snow-capped heights of the Pyrenees, to the North by the duck-farm expanses of Les Landes, to the west by the fruited vines that produce the finest yellow wine in the world, Jurançon, and to the right by the only thing in France that reminds me of Australia. The Atlantic coast on either side of Biarritz; surf beaches, wetsuited surfers, the European headquarters of Rip Curl, Billabong, Quiksilver and if you are very lucky, fish and chips.
The brash, young Australian of the early nineties has given way to the mouthy, aging Parisienne of the teenies. While I was once horrified by the sleepy village that afforded little amusement for a suburban teenager, today I am enamoured with the rolling green fields of harvested corn that offer welcome respite from the dense grey fudge that is Paris in the wintertime.
More to the point, in the South-West of France, one eats like a king. I don’t know about you, but for me, the ennui of modern life is much assuaged with a tonic of fermented grapes and force-fed poultry.
It isn’t for nothing that Yves Camdeborde, originally from Pau, is recognised among the best Chefs in France…and a judge on French Masterchef. Chefs from this part of the world use the local Piment d’Espelette instead of pepper. The little red peppers, the fattened duck and the salted ham are certainly the reason that there are more than twenty Michelin starred restaurants within the 64*. This tiny corner of France is famous for duck in all its forms, for Foie Gras, for Poulet Basquaise, for Jambon de Bayonne, for some of the best seafood beyond Brittany…and it is also the home of the beret and the espadrille. Such a small pocket of countryside has given the un-Gallic world so much of what France is renowned for, it’s no surprise that the Atlantic Coast is among the most visited regions of France.
A few days in the country was exactly the prescription to alleviate the stress of being homeless, the waiting game of a job search and the abject solitude of being the only person I know who has nothing to do during standard working hours.
Fortified with duck fat, the blood-red perfume of Madiron, the syrupy sugar of Jurançon and the spark from the red peppers of Espelette, I am now strong enough, like a bird of prey, to return to the North, cross the channel and conquer all that awaits me.
There’s also a bit of a crush on the horizon, but you’ll have to wait a bit longer for any news about that. I’ve waited twenty years…I’m now strong enough to wait twenty more.
So can you.
^All references to teenagers and mutants are entirely intentional
*The department number for the Pyrenees-Atlantiques
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