Paris Dreaming

by Anita Heiss

  ‘What did she say, exactly?’ Caro was so cynical she made me laugh.

  ‘She said,’ and I grabbed the email Canelle had sent, ‘and I quote: “the 20th is the new yuppie-urban-professional area”. It’s undergoing gentrification.’

  ‘Gentrification, hah! Just what you need.’ Caro topped up our glasses.

  ‘It’s not that. I want to be around young people who aren’t tourists. I want to immerse myself in a community, a suburb …’

  Caro cut me off. ‘Firstly, they’re called arrondissements. And secondly, they start in the centre of Paris with the 1st and they snail around, so the 20th is a long way out. Where does Canelle live?’

  ‘She lives in Bastille on boulevard Voltaire, in the 11th,’ I had a map, ‘which is, according to Canelle, apparently a mix of hip journalists, actors, writers and working-class people. Canelle’s between the apartment I like and Place de la Bastille, which has clubs and restaurants.’

  ‘Well,’ Caro said, almost conceding defeat, ‘that sounds okay, then. Why don’t you go for the 11th instead of the 20th?’

  ‘I don’t want to live in her pocket. I think she probably already thinks I’m a freak for having emailed her about five times today. We’ve got to work together all day and she might think it’s strange if I move in next door. She seems cool and happy to show me around, but I think it’s good for me to be in a different area to my colleagues, it’ll force me to explore a few different bars … I mean, galleries.’

  ‘The 20th, hang on, that’s right near the Père Lachaise Cemetery, yes?’

  ‘That’s right, you know it?’

  ‘Of course, anyone who goes to Paris knows it. Edith Piaf’s buried there, with Morrison and Chopin.’

  ‘And also the scientist Edouard Branly,’ I added.

  ‘Is that who the musée is named after?’

  ‘Actually no. The quai Branly, the road that runs alongside the Seine, is named after him. And apparently it’s the road that actually leads to the musée itself.’

  ‘So, it’s indirectly named after him then?’ I loved it when Caro was matter-of-fact and lawyerly.

  ‘Yes, I guess it is.’ I laughed. ‘Anyway, I imagine I’ll spend a lot of time at the cemetery when I’m homesick.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It will remind me of dead Canberra!’

  ‘Oh god,’ Caro groaned. ‘It really is dead here compared to Paris.’ And we both looked out to our view of the car park.

  ‘Anyone for a drink?’ Denise asked, as she and Lauren arrived together.

  ‘Un verre de roog sivouplay, mademoiselle,’ I said.

  ‘What?’ Caro couldn’t understand my appalling accent.

  ‘I thought I was saying one red wine please, chick.’

  Caro shook her head in mock disgust at my poor effort. ‘I think I might have to give you some lessons so you can at least get some fluids into you when you go to Paris. Can’t have you dehydrating.’

  She was right. I knew I’d have to get onto some language classes asap, even though Emma’s email had confirmed my program could be delivered at the musée in English and visitors could utilise recorded translations.

  Denise was making a dramatic scan of the table, running her hands over it.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m looking for your lists,’ she laughed.

  ‘Hardy-har-har! Here,’ I pulled out a brand-new red Moleskine notebook. ‘Especially for my Paris lists. As you’ll see, I’ve got only four months here in Canberra to get organised, write the education program, research for the lectures, oversee the freight of the works there …’

  ‘Okay, Libs, we need a to-do list that also includes what other people will do as well. Some of that work you mentioned is mine, so don’t panic or get carried away.’ I could tell that I’d gently stepped on Lauren’s work toes.

  ‘You’re right, Loz, I’m just thinking and writing a million miles an hour, you know what I’m like. But two things you can’t do are go see Mum for me or learn French.’

  ‘No, I can’t do either but I can help you learn some fashion tips so you fit in better in Paris.’ Lauren adjusted my collar.

  ‘Don’t forget to add scarves to your list for Paris,’ Denise said.

  ‘It’s not buying them that’s the problem, it’s tying them.’

  ‘I’ll show you how to do that,’ Lauren said, looking as elegant as ever in a black-and-white wrap-around jersey dress with hot-pink slingbacks.

  As I sat there with my posse, I mentally pinched myself for the life I had in Canberra with wonderfully kind and generous tiddas, and for the life ahead of me where I’d grow professionally and even, with some help, fashionably.

  Over the next four months I took on my Paris planning with gusto. I wanted to get into the Parisian/French headspace. I wanted to hear the language, to see how much of the landscape of the city I could work out before I got there. I went to the local library and Blockbuster and borrowed anything I could get my hands on. Gigi reminded me of social class and women having to marry upwards, Woman Times Seven with Shirley MacLaine managed to confuse me and, out of curiosity, I even watched Last Tango in Paris, which put me off Marlon Brando forever.

  I also read travel guides and researched online. I read the entire musée website before moving onto learning about the current political climate in France. I was increasingly concerned and confused about the movement to ban the burqa. I had always imagined France, and certainly Paris, to be very multicultural. I knew that over 40 per cent of the country’s population came through immigration and was surprised to learn that France was the only European nation with one official language.

  I was starting to fear the intolerance that I might be challenged with in Paris. Not because I was an Aborigine – because I knew the French were still largely obsessed with the exotic Indigenous other – but because I might witness intolerance towards Muslims and others. The latest issues I’d seen in the news were about the fallout over France’s new policy of deporting Romanian gypsies and shutting down illegal camps. Headlines in the news had used words like ‘xenophobia’ and made me recall the intolerance that the ultra-conservative politician Pauline Hanson had fuelled amongst many Australians who hated difference.

  I googled Nicolas Sarkozy and his wife Carla Bruni, she of the sexy quotes, an Italian-born but now French singer, songwriter and former model. She looked gorgeous in every photo and I wondered if Australia would ever have a first lady so stunning.

  As I counted down each day on my firey calendar in the kitchen, I continued working long hours and saw the seasons change from summer to autumn – from Mr February wearing only his fire-engine red briefs, holding his fire hose, to a colder Mr April wearing boots and helmet as well. Then the temperature dropped dramatically on Anzac Day, as it always did. You could mark the change of your wardrobe by April 25 every year. The days grew darker quicker and autumnal orange leaves lined Northbourne Avenue and the trees around the NAG. I had already started checking the weather in Paris and I was looking forward to escaping winter and having my first European summer.

  It was harder to run in the morning as it grew colder, but I knew I had to keep up the exercise routine with all the gourmet food awaiting me in France, and I kidded myself that the sixpack was soon to emerge from under my skin. I also used my exercise time to listen to and recite my French language lessons on my iPod. I tried to imagine words phonetically in my head, ‘Zhe swee Oztraylienne. Parlayvoo Onglay?’

  When the time arrived for me to leave, I was as prepared as I was ever going to be. Although not completely fluent in French, I felt confident that I was prepared for the challenge of working at the musée and starting my new short-term life in Paris. And I was more than ready to head to warmer climes.

  I sat in the Library Cocktail Bar at the Diamant Hotel waiting for the girls. It was a place I’d been to many times alone to think, read and chill out while drinking coffee or a cocktail. It was the perfect spot for a hot chocolate also, especially o
n a cold weekend afternoon when Caro was away and Denise and Lauren were with their fellas.

  As I waited for the girls to arrive to celebrate my final hurrah before leaving Canberra, I thought about my brothers. I had wanted to fly up to see the boys, touch the ground of my Gamilaroi country again before leaving, stroll through the Moree Plains Gallery, and go to the Moree on a Plate Festival that Mum had been raving about. The winner of Masterchef would be there this year. I wanted to go to the Moree Library and donate some art books to the Aboriginal collection.

  On a more spiritual level, I wanted to spend time in the healing waters of Moree’s artesian pool. I’d done it rarely since Andy I were there years before, but my body was in dire need of some therapeutic assistance from the percolating underground water. Aside from my family, relaxing at the pool – which only thirty years ago hadn’t let Blackfellas in – was the one thing I really missed about Moree. And it was the one thing I knew I would truly appreciate physically before I boarded the long twenty-hour-plus flight to Europe. But Mum was adamant that she would come to Canberra to say goodbye.

  ‘You know I visit twice a year, Libby, it’s time for me to get on that bus. And anyway, Olga from line-dancing is going to visit her daughter so we can travel together,’ she said down the line. I knew there was no arguing with Mum. At least I could take her to see the Masterpieces from Paris at the National Gallery while she was here. I didn’t mind going to see it again as some extra last-minute research before I left for France. It would also give Mum some understanding of the works of the city I was heading to. It was times like these that I trusted the universe knew what she was doing.

  I sighed deeply at the thought of Mum arriving, me not seeing my brothers at all – and annoyed that none of them could be bothered to come see me. But I was looking forward to the night ahead with the girls. I was excited about leaving Australia, but I already missed my friends. I felt strangely emotional, which wasn’t like me. Lauren was the sooky one, I was the strong, sensible one. But I was overwhelmed by what lay ahead.

  I took a deep breath as the girls walked into the bar carrying a bundle of gift bags.

  ‘You’re here already!’ Caro said, motioning the waiter over.

  ‘I just needed to chill a minute. Mum arrives on Sunday and I fly out Tuesday. I think I need another suitcase.’ I was seeing visions of all the crap I had to pack into my two black cases swimming around in my head.

  ‘Well, you better make some room for this too.’ Denise handed me a gift: it was soft and wrapped in red cellophane.

  ‘CD?’ I joked.

  ‘Yes, a CD. Open the card first though.’

  The card was in a hot-pink envelope and when I took it out it had three firemen just in their duds with braces, red helmets and no shirts.

  ‘Perfect!’ I held the image up for the others to see. ‘You just reminded me, I need to pack my firey calendar so I can keep track of the days in Paris.’

  ‘Keeping track, that’s what we call perving these days, is it?’ Caro said dryly.

  ‘Keeping track is my only vice, and you know it.’

  I smiled as I unwrapped the present: it was a gorgeous purple, pink, black-and-white silk scarf by a local Aboriginal designer.

  ‘I think warm colours suit your skin tone.’ Denise draped it over my shoulders.

  ‘I’ve been practising tying scarves already,’ I said enthusiastically, remembering how Mum used to wear one tied on the top of her head when she did the washing. When she wore rollers in her hair, she had a scarf tied underneath at the nape of her neck.

  ‘You know I didn’t want gifts, I didn’t expect them. I just wanted to have dinner and drinks, that’s all.’ I don’t know why I always got embarrassed when I received presents, especially since I loved giving them.

  ‘Stop it,’ Lauren said, handing me a signature Tiffany blue bag.

  ‘What did you do? You better not have spent too much money – you’ve got a wedding to save for.’

  ‘This is essential for you, for Paris. It should go in your survival kit.’

  I opened the box within the bag which revealed a silk, egg-shell blue Tiffany scarf, and we all laughed.

  ‘Great minds,’ Denise said.

  ‘Your colours are warm colours, Libs, but this will set off your blue eyes, and you need more than one scarf. This is a different shape to Denise’s, so you can tie it like this.’

  Lauren expertly adjusted the scarf to look like a man’s tie.

  ‘See it falls perfectly into that abundant cleavage,’ Lauren said.

  ‘You jealous?’ Denise asked.

  ‘Yes, I have to do the push-up bra thing.’ Lauren squeezed her chest together. ‘And our tidda here has it all without any assistance.’

  I looked down at my assets. ‘Let me tell you, my girls get in the way sometimes, especially when men talk to them rather than my eyes!’

  ‘Very chic,’ Caro said, referring to the scarf. ‘You will fit in strolling down the Champs-Elysées for sure.’

  I smiled, imagining myself actually looking glamorous with the new accessories I’d never have bought myself. I stood up and prepared to do a catwalk turn.

  ‘And this is from me.’ Caro handed me a big gift bag.

  ‘Another CD I see.’ I sat back down.

  ‘Just open it.’

  I did and found a stunning black patent tote just like the one Caro owned.

  ‘This is too much.’ I was speechless with gratitude and had a lump in my throat which I tried hard to swallow quickly. I didn’t want to make a scene in public.

  ‘Shut up. I was worried you might pinch mine one day. You’ll need a bag that size with all the freaking scarves you’ve got now.’

  Lauren handed me yet another gift bag. ‘And this is from Emma – she wanted to drop in but had kid issues to deal with.’

  I undid the ribbon and saw that it was a Moleskine on the city of Paris. ‘This is so cool, it’s got maps and …’ I flicked through it slowly, ‘and most importantly it’s got plenty of pages for all my lists!’

  ‘It’s from the Moleskine City range, I got myself one on Barcelona,’ Caro said.

  And then, against all efforts, I started to cry.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Caro filled up my glass.

  ‘I feel all emotional,’ I blubbered.

  ‘Why? You got two scarves, a bag and a notebook so you don’t show up at the very glamorous musée looking less than you should. Don’t be emotional, be happy we think so much of you that we have to dress you! Personally, I’d be offended.’ Caro shrugged her shoulders and did her usual deflecting-the-emotional-to-the-funny.

  ‘Bon voyage, my friend,’ Denise said, holding up her glass in a toast.

  ‘We’ll miss you,’ Lauren added, putting her glass up also.

  I cried some more and then so did Lauren and Denise.

  ‘Oh for godsake, women, will you stop it!’ Caro was embarrassed by the emotional scene in front of her. ‘She’s going to Paris, the most stunning city in the world. If you’re crying it better be because you’re jealous.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said, composing myself and wiping tears from my eyes, ‘and just to get you even more jealous, here’s my list of things to do, oh, I don’t know, in the first week!’

  I showed them my list that included the Musée d’Orsay, the Louvre, Notre Dame, the typically touristy Eiffel Tower and the Champs-Elysées. ‘That’s my goal, but seeing as I have nearly six months, I guess there’s no rush, is there?’

  ‘Stop bragging,’ Denise said.

  ‘Sorry,’ I giggled. ‘And Canelle said she’ll walk the Champs-Elysées with me the first Saturday after I begin work and then we’re heading to the fancy department stores. I can’t wait.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve got a new best friend already,’ Lauren said, pouting like a child.

  ‘Never!’ I put my arm around her, held my camera up above our heads and took a photo of us both smiling big and slightly red-eyed.

  Me goi
ng to Paris was very different to when Lauren left for New York and her mum, dad and brother Max saw her off. I wasn’t as needy as Lauren. I’d been self-sufficient and had lived away from home since I moved to Melbourne to do my degree at the Wilin Centre. I hadn’t been coerced into leaving Canberra like Lauren had to be. And unlike Lauren, I wasn’t so dependent on my mother.

  Mum and I loved each other, but her life revolved around her sons mostly, especially the three that still lived at home. The two that lived five minutes away got extra-special treatment when they visited her. The boys appeared to need her more than I did. It was as if none of my brothers ever grew up. Even though two were married, they still went home to Mum every weekend and she pandered to them, always. God knows how their wives coped.

  I had tension in my neck as I waited at the Northbourne Avenue bus terminal for Mum to arrive. As soon as she stepped off the bus, I felt oddly at peace. Maybe that was something that mums did for their children without even knowing.

  ‘Libby!’ she screamed above all the other newly arrived passengers standing with their families.

  She waddled over with the Koori Radio backpack I’d given her on my last visit. I could see her knitting needles poking out of the top, ready to pierce anyone who got too close.

  ‘Hi Mum.’ I leant in and hugged her tightly. ‘Let me get your bags and then I’ll take you home for a hot cuppa, eh?’

  ‘That sounds perfect, dear girl. It’s so good to be here and we had the best time on the way down, didn’t we, Olga?’

  Olga, Mum’s line-dancing friend, was standing by her side looking worried that her own daughter had forgotten to pick her up, but at that moment a lanky brown woman waved her arms frantically in the air and came flying towards us. Olga sighed so loudly everyone within close proximity turned around. I nodded to Olga’s daughter, signalling the ‘looking after Mum for a few days’ code, and we headed to our respective cars and homes.

  ‘You don’t want to throw this out,’ Mum said, holding an ugly blue vase one of Bazza’s ex-girlfriends had given me for Christmas.