I chose not to look at my phone this morning. When I came downstairs to make my coffee I chose not to turn on the television, I don’t want to hear more bad news from around the world, I’ll catch up with it later. It’s another gorgeous sunny day but unlike previous days it’s not windy. The tall pine trees aren’t moving. And if you just looked into the distance it would seem like any other day. The birds are chirping and some frogs have begun croaking. Except they are in our swimming pool which has yet to be cleaned out for the season. It’s too early of course but the days are getting warmer. You could pretend that life was normal and everything was dandy.
But the stress is still there. It’s a constant undercurrent manifesting in aches here and there. Sometimes in the head, other times in the back or neck. When under stress it certainly helps to talk about it. But no one here wants to listen to me. My kids keep telling me, “Mom, you’re going on an on about the coronavirus, okay, we get it, it’s dangerous. Can you stop now?” People like my hubby deal with stress by going out and being physical. In his case it’s extreme; he spent 8 hours chopping and stacking wood yesterday and today he’s out using the chain saw and clearing the brush. I’m nothing like that. I put pen to paper…or rather fingers to keyboard.
While sipping my coffee and staring out at the view of tall pine trees so many memories came flooding back to me when I asked myself, how did we get here? My girls are now 12 and almost 16. I’ve been with my Frenchman who is originally from Normandy, for 17 years. We’ve lived in Cotignac for 10 and a half years. I’ve lived in France for more years than anywhere else now and I am now pretty sure I’ll spend the rest of my life here. But my first year was rough – I didn’t speak the language and lived pretty much alone. It was Winter of 2002. I arrived at Nice aeroport with all my luggage and two cats that I brought over from Hong Kong. My English husband at the time had purchased a vacation villa in Théoule sur Mer so I chose to live there after being laid off from a publishing job in Hong Kong – a direct result of the economic collapse due to the terrorist attack, the collapse of the Twin Towers, in the United States. It was a beautiful villa with a breathtaking view of the Cannes Bay but arriving on the Riviera in the dead of Winter was a bit of a damper. Needless to say my marriage to the Englishman did not last, but life in France became the new beginning.
I did not do well in French class at Berkeley high school. I loved my teacher though: Madame Claudine. She was a plump lady with thick round glasses and hefty laugh. She would brag about her Summer trips to Paris and would bring back these big colourful books full of photographs of stylish cafés that I remember flipping through. I used to fantasise about being there. My mother once met Mme Claudine during a teacher-parent session and told me that she said “Susana is not very good at French but she’s great on stage!” You see, I was much more interested in Drama class and theatre than any other subject.
But the practice of stage performance gave me the life skills I needed to survive; a good load of self esteem and presentation skills that would get me the jobs and the confidence needed to adapt to changes, whether they were environmental, cultural, or learning a new language – in this case all of the above, which came in very handy for starting a new life in France, on my own.
When I was young my mother used to call me into the living room whenever she saw something exciting on television. One funny memory comes flooding back to me the most. “Sooooozieeee! Look! It’s the Cannes film festival on TV, isn’t it WONDERFUL?” She pronounced the “s” in Cannes, like it was the plural version of can. But then I didnt know how it was pronounced before I used to visit the area. It’s pronounced “canne” with a soft “a” and a little emphasis on the “n”. I enrolled in three weeks of intense French lessons at the College Internationale de Cannes then forced myself to communicate in the language but taking the easy route of finding a French lover. Voila, works a charm!
Looking back it’s amazing to think I now call this place my home. I still pinch myself from time to time. I owe Mme Claudine a lot. If I could see her again I would thank her for all her positive energy and enthusiasm for France that influenced me so many years ago. I wonder what she might think of what became of me? Would she even remember me? But I will never know; she passed away from cancer just a few years after my time with her.
…to be continued 🙂