Paris Dreaming

by Anita Heiss

  ‘Yes, I do.’ I took it off Mum and put it back in the box marked ‘Vinnies’.

  ‘And you can’t throw this cardie out, your Aunty Ann knitted it for you. She taught me how to knit, you know.’

  I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth, frowning but not allowing my frustration to be verbalised too harshly at Mum.

  ‘It doesn’t go with anything I wear,’ I said calmly. ‘Dark bottle-green is not my colour.’ Aunty Ann was colour blind but no-one ever said anything about it, and if Mum told me once more that Aunty Ann had taught her to knit, I would get her knitting needles and stab myself.

  ‘Mum,’ I took the cardie from her and put it back in the box, ‘why don’t you have a nap? We’ve got the Sorry Day march tomorrow, so don’t wear yourself out today.’

  ‘You’re right, dear girl, my line-dancing legs are fine but the rest of me needs a spell.’ With that, she took the green cardigan and the blue vase out of the Vinnies box yet again, and went into my room to lie down.

  As I continued to pack the clothes I’d leave behind at Lauren’s, and cleaned the place for the tenants I’d let to, Bonnie and Clyde sat staring at me from their respective cat beds. I was getting increasingly upset about leaving them behind and enormously grateful that Lauren and Wyatt had agreed to take care of them. I couldn’t imagine what kind of payback I was in for when I returned. Missing them was only going to be easier knowing they were with my favourite tidda.

  The next morning, Mum and I headed into the city to be part of the Sorry Day Memorial Walk across Commonwealth Avenue Bridge, marking the beginning of Reconciliation Week in Canberra.

  ‘Where are all the people?’ Mum was somehow disappointed at the turnout of about 300.

  ‘This is a good turnout, Mum. It’s Canberra, we’re a small city and people are at work, or doing other things today.’

  ‘I reckon since the Apology, the pressure’s off people to march so much, like it’s all over now and we don’t have to remember.’

  Mum was probably right, but before I had a chance to answer her she was straining her neck, looking to the back of the crowd to see if she knew anyone. She spotted Olga, who was yarning up with a group of ladies they both knew. As we walked, there was chatter but mostly peace as we remembered the day Kevin Rudd apologised in the building we were heading for.

  We spent the afternoon at the National Gallery and I was glad we didn’t have to queue for tickets, since it was the end of the exhibition season. We had an enjoyable afternoon together, with lunch in the Sculpture Garden Restaurant overlooking the Japanese fog sculpture. Mum loved it, and it was a good way for us to spend our last day together. Neither of us was worried about the five or so months apart because we were always geographically apart anyway.

  As soon as we pulled up in Braddon, Lauren texted me to say she and Wyatt were on their way over to get the cats. I panicked. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to Bonnie and Clyde, and Mum hadn’t stopped talking since the minute we left home that morning. My head was aching. I still needed to finish packing and now my babies were leaving.

  The doorbell rang and I felt a pang of sadness sweep over me.

  ‘Hey.’ I gave a fake Canberra smile as Wyatt and Lauren entered cheerily. ‘You know how much I appreciate this, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s our pleasure,’ Lauren said, kissing me on te cheek. ‘Actually, I thought it was a good opportunity for us to train to be parents. If we can manage cats then maybe we can manage kids.’

  ‘One day,’ Wyatt added. ‘It’s going to take me some time to learn all the rules of all your football codes before I can be a father.’

  Lauren just rolled her eyes.

  I walked outside carrying Bonnie. Wyatt had Clyde, both seeming to take to each other quickly. I kissed both cats on their heads and gave them long, loving strokes along their silky coats.

  I pushed my bottom lip out like a pouting child. ‘Don’t miss me too much.’

  ‘We’ll make sure they write often,’ Wyatt joked and then hugged me. ‘Have a great time, Libby, I’ll look after Lauren for you.’

  ‘I know you will, thanks.’

  ‘I’ll see you in the morning for the airport run, okay? And no tears, all right?’ Lauren said, hugging me tight.

  ‘Tears? Me? Never!’ I shooed Lauren away and went inside.

  Mum had just made a pot of tea.

  ‘Here you go, dear girl.’ She put a mug of black tea in front of me and I burst into tears. ‘There, there, you know they will be all right.’

  ‘How did you know I was crying about B and C?’

  ‘Because I am a mother, and those cats are like your kids. Of course I understand, but can you give me grandkids one day, please, cos I’m not taking photos of your cats and their kittens to linedancing.’

  I laughed at that. Mum always knew how to make me feel better.

  ‘Now, you are going to Paris and you will have fun, and do good work and you will make us all proud.’ Mum pushed damp hair out of my face. ‘Just don’t tell me you’re getting married to a Frenchman, okay? You know there’s no way I’ll fly that far for a wedding, not even my own daughter’s.’

  ‘I can assure you, Mum, there will be no French wedding for you to worry about. Trust me.’

  As I lay on the couch that night I could hear the faintest of snores from Mum in the bedroom. There were only a few hours to go before I’d be putting her on a bus back to Moree and Lauren would be putting me on the plane to Paris.

  The plane touched down at Charles de Gaulle and I thought I would explode with excitement. I took a photo of the tarmac like I was one of those tourists who wear an ‘I love [insert city]’ t-shirt.

  The captain spoke in French and then in English, welcoming us to Paris and informing us that some of the baggage had not been loaded on to our plane back in Singapore. There was no explanation as to why.

  I looked around – no other passengers seemed to be moaning or complaining, so neither did I. Perhaps the first thing I would learn was that it was Parisian to be relaxed. I had arrived in Paris, even if my luggage hadn’t. So what? It was the fashion capital of the world; I could buy clothes if I needed to, but thankfully, on Caro’s advice, I had packed three outfits in my hand luggage. I just wanted to get out and explore, and thaw out in the Parisian sun!

  I went through security easily and straight to the baggage claim area with the slightest hope that my suitcases had miraculously arrived while others’ hadn’t. I chatted with an American girl who’d just flown in from Chicago whose bags hadn’t arrived either. She was calm. I wondered if I would become less stressed and controlling in Paris. That couldn’t be a bad thing.

  I filled out the forms for the baggage mob so they could send my missing luggage on to me when it arrived. Although I was jet-lagged, I found it easy to navigate myself around the eighth busiest airport in the world. My Lonely Planet guide had recommended taking the RER rail network into the city but, not using public transport much back home, I wasn’t keen on throwing myself onto it in a foreign country after a twenty-four hour flight across the Indian Ocean.

  While following the signs to the cab rank, I soaked up the various accents of tourists and locals, businessmen and women, lovers and children. The airport seemed completely under control, even if no-one knew where my luggage was.

  A late-model, roomy, clean black cab was my chariot heading towards the 20th and I couldn’t stop smiling. The city was twenty-three kilometres away but the time flew by as I absorbed the moment of arrival in Gay Paree. I was bursting with excitement and wanted to shout at the top of my lungs, ‘I’m in Paris!’, as if I was Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic and ‘King of the World!’

  It was early Wednesday morning but the sun already promised a stunning day, with not a cloud in the baby-blue sky. My sense of awe was only broken by the crazy way the driver sped in and out of lanes and beeped and yelled at other drivers. But he did it with such a delicious French accent, he didn’t even sound angry.

  I was struck by the t
raffic in the many chaotic roundabouts in Paris that were so large they made the ones in Canberra look like silent cops. In Paris, the roundabouts had five or six lanes, and no-one seemed to stay in them. I was nervous for all the cyclists who rode amongst the traffic without a helmet, and yet I didn’t see any accidents.

  There were an extraordinary number of French flags flying throughout the city and it reminded me of how the Aussie flag always came out a few days before January 26 and every bogan had them stuck to their cars and tattooed on their foreheads. Some how the flag was different in Paris. Maybe because the French had decent dress sense and didn’t wear them as capes or bikinis.

  I immediately fell in love with some of the tree-lined backstreets we took. They were a lush backdrop that made the well-dressed local people look even more elegant. Even the grungy-looking youth seemed fashionable and the local women were well-groomed. I felt suddenly more gritty and untidy in the back of the cab.

  I’d taken some leave to have a few days holidaying in Paris before I started work, but my apartment wouldn’t be ready until Sunday, so I took Canelle’s recommendation and checked into a hotel called Mama’s Shelter. It was only steps away from rue Saint-Blaise where I would spend the next five months. I looked forward to exploring the city before taking up the challenge that would be working at the musée.

  The hotel was slick, groovy and famous for having been designed by Philippe Starck. I liked the lifts, which had trivia written on the walls in French and English. On my first ride to the third floor, I learned that it was impossible to lick my elbow, and upon attempting it, found it was true.

  My room was incredibly dark even with ten lights in it, but it was modern and I liked that. Living in Canberra – especially in the city – you get used to almost everything being contemporary, new and clean. Mama’s Shelter was therefore a good way to ease me into the city, even though my hotel – and my apartment to be – was a long way from the Parisian centre itself.

  I was glad I’d packed those three frocks and my toiletries in my hand luggage, which would see me through until my suitcases showed up. I wasn’t stressed at all, but I was exhausted. Although I was hungry, I just collapsed onto my double bed. One side of the bedhead was decorated with a polar bear plastic mask, with a tiger mask on the other. I thought to myself that Starck must be some kinky fella.

  My phone rang at 1 am to tell me my bags had arrived at the hotel. A young man delivered them to my room five minutes later and I went straight back to sleep.

  I woke up at 9 am groggy with jet lag but determined to get out and play tourist. I looked at my to-do list. It included scouting for coffee and pastries and checking out the local markets. I went down to the front desk where the young staff helped me work out the buses I needed to get round.

  I turned right out of the hotel and the first thing I noticed again was the fresh morning and the warmth of the sun. Memories of frosty Canberra dissolved almost immediately. I found the bus stop for the #69 bus I needed to catch to the Louvre, which was in walking distance of the musée. I also found the #76 I could catch to Bastille where Canelle lived. I was grateful both stops were close to my hotel and my new home to be. Canelle’s advice had been spot on.

  I walked to the corner and found what would become my temporary pâtisserie. My stomach grumbled as if to say oohlala loudly enough to be embarrassing and so I entered, ready also for some social engagement, although nervous about trying to speak the language. I had until then been lazy and had spoken only English to the hotel staff.

  ‘Un croissant au chocolat, please,’ I said and then added, ‘s’il vous plaît.’

  ‘You speak English?’ the pastry chef asked, almost accusingly. My poor pronunciation with my Aussie accent had blown my cover in one sentence.

  ‘I speak English, but I’m Australian.’ I felt the need to distinguish myself from the supposed cultural enemy of the French and at least remain on semi-neutral ground.

  ‘Un café au lait, merci,’ I added to my order.

  ‘Your French is good,’ he said, with a look and sound of surprise.

  ‘This is all I have. I can get a cake and coffee.’

  ‘The best coffee in the world is in Paris,’ he said proudly. ‘And it is the same for the pastries.’

  I loved his accent and the way he waved his hands over the gorgeous cakes, flans and croissants in front of us both. And I loved that he was making the experience easier than anticipated.

  ‘So, what more could you want?’ he asked, holding his palms to the sky, looking for answers.

  I nodded in agreement. What more could I want, indeed? I was in Paris, ordering coffee and a chocolate croissant in French, and chatting with a nice guy as if I were a local.

  ‘Are you new to Paris?’ The shop was empty and the pastry chef seemed determined to keep talking. I didn’t mind. I had nowhere to be, had no friends yet and I needed to practise my minimal language skills.

  ‘I arrived yesterday, and I am just showing myself around today.’

  ‘Well, welcome, I am Michel.’ He held his hand out for me to shake.

  ‘And I am Libby,’ I said, letting go of his noticeably soft hand. ‘Your English is excellent,’ I added.

  ‘I have travelled a lot as a backpacker,’ he responded.

  And shagged a few backpackers too, I thought.

  ‘Au revoir.’

  I walked out of the shop, beaming with coffee and cake in my hands and a new friend already. I found a wooden bench to sit on and watched people pass by. One young man in his early twenties resembled an arts student from back home. He wore black jeans, a t-shirt and carried a canvas bag whilst listening to his iPod. As he sat down next to me, he tapped his foot gently. We were joined by a woman with a toddler whose ice-cream was melting down his little milky arm. It really was more suburban than touristy here. Most people looked like they were on their way to work as opposed to visiting the city. I finished the best coffee in the world, as defined by Michel, and started exploring my area.

  I walked around the 20th trying to pronounce the names properly: rue des Orteaux, rue des Pyrénées, boulevard de Charonne. They really made Commonwealth Circle sound boring. Time passed easily as I discovered little parks, markets, and interesting people with sexy accents that sang in my ears.

  Every corner I turned inspired me with its melding of authentically French cafés next to modern-looking boulangeries. Women dressed in neutral-coloured linen dresses and pant suits rode old-fashioned pushbikes and looked elegant in their perfectly postured positions. Middle-aged men in suits drove expensive new cars. On rue des Vignoles, I followed a narrow pedestrian path that led into what I guessed was very modern public housing with enormous trellises and blooming wisteria plants climbing all over it.

  I stumbled upon a tacky French souvenir shop and couldn’t help myself. I acted like a tourist but told myself I needed to send something back to Mum in Moree and the aunties she went linedancing with. I got aprons with baguettes on them, an umbrella decorated with a picture of the Eiffel Tower, some postcards, gloves, keyrings, and ‘J’adore Paris’ t-shirts to send to Lauren and Denise. They would probably only wear them to bed, but I didn’t think Caro would wear one at all.

  I found a nineteenth-century flea market – the Marché Aux Puces de Montreuil – not far away, with rows of homewares like linen tablecloths and retro crockery and glasses. I wasn’t sure what would work in the apartment I would move into soon, so I didn’t buy anything. Still, I mentally photographed everything I liked on first sight.

  I was mostly impressed by the stalls with vintage clothes and designer seconds. I knew Lauren and Denise would’ve loved them and I needed the girls there to help me ‘dress’ myself. As I walked through, the men working in stalls looked me up and down and spoke to each other in French, what I thought was Arabic, Portuguese and Italian. Paris was truly multicultural and it seemed the ultimate integrated society.

  Caro had warned me against using the big paper maps as they were hard to follo
w and made you stand out as a tourist, so I used a little map booklet I bought at a roadside newsagent. I walked about twenty kilometres trying to get my bearings, sussing out where the laundromat, supermarket and pharmacy were – the essentials I’d need to make my life actually a life here in Paris. I’d always believed that walking was the only way to get a real ‘feel’ for any place, even Canberra.

  By 4 pm I was ready to collapse I was so exhausted with jet lag and walking. I’d absorbed more culture in seven hours it seemed than was possible in weeks back in our capital. The contrast in everything was so stark. The sky was a different blue, but I couldn’t imagine the air was cleaner with so many cars and such a densely populated city.

  Just as I approached the corner of my street, my hotel looking like an oasis, a small trinket store beckoned me in. I didn’t need to buy anything, I didn’t want to buy anything, I wanted to sleep, but there was a silver ring in the window with a stone that matched the scarf Lauren had given me. I simply had to have it. I wasn’t the accessory girl, I wasn’t the shopper of the group, but for some reason I needed the ring.

  ‘I love this. What stone is it?’ I asked the girl behind the counter, who was wearing the most extraordinarily artistic skirt I had ever seen: a patchwork of linens, cotton and corduroys in a range of neutral colours.

  ‘It is an apatite, the stone of acceptance.’ The girl responded in English with a European accent that was not French, and in a sad voice, as if she didn’t care whether I bought the ring or not.

  ‘I’ll take it, and I’ll take one of these.’ I took a business card from the counter as she wrapped my new gift to myself.

  ‘And I really like your skirt,’ I said, as I walked towards the door of the shop.

  ‘Really?’ Her tone improved. ‘I made it myself. You really like it?’

  ‘Yes, I think it’s funky. You don’t see anything like that in Canberra, Australia, where I come from.’