Escaping

by Henrietta Taylor

  My final exams were in English, Maths, Chemistry, French and German. All my effort was put into Chemistry, as I had attended even fewer classes in that than in my other subjects. When I at last put some effort in, it was to my great surprise — and that of my teacher, Mr Ian Rose — that I discovered I had a real flair for the subject. I managed to gain an outstanding mark in the final exam.

  I wonder nowadays how differently my life would have turned out had I not had a massive hangover on the day I enrolled at Sydney University. Somehow I found myself in an Arts rather than a Science course, and decided I would study French, French History, Italian and German. I loved the concept of learning to express myself better through foreign languages and using them to travel around the world, absorbing other countries’ history and culture. Also, at the back of my immature mind, there was a vague idea that I should spread my net wide to see if Mr Right was waiting for me in some distant land; it would help if I could talk to him in his own language.

  This romantic notion had been fuelled by a recent family trip to Scotland for the marriage of my cousin Sheila — a very large and glamorous affair. In turn, it inspired my sister to hop on a plane bound for Sydney and return to Mark’s waiting arms — while the rest of us spent the next six weeks seeing the sights of France and Italy. But this wasn’t when I first caught the travel bug; of all my overseas trips, the one that always stands out from the rest is the family holiday we took when Kate and I were very young. My father drove us around in a small Renault 4, through England, Scotland, France, Spain, Portugal, Italy, Switzerland and Germany, finishing up in Amsterdam. It was one of the most perfect times that a family could spend together. I hoped that, armed with my degree in languages, I’d be able to replicate such memorable experiences.

  But during my first couple of years at university, 1976 and 1977, I proved to be about as diligent a student as I’d been at high school. There were just too many fun things to do for me to spend much time learning lists of irregular verbs in French, German and Italian. My days were idled away at the student bar, leering at young men and undressing them item by item while pretending to drink coffee and read highbrow articles on the poetry of space in the modern French novel.

  In retrospect, it seems very sad that I wasted so much of my time at university. There were many academic challenges on offer if I’d only realised it, but instead I carefully sidestepped anything that required a great deal of self-discipline. I was becoming older but not wiser. To add more fuel to this recipe for disaster, I had been awarded a teaching scholarship that allowed me a small degree of financial freedom. This was supplemented by weekend work in clothes shops in Mosman, where I tended to spend more than I earned.

  In a bid to increase international tourism, there was an airfare price war in Australia during the mid-seventies, which meant that all seats in planes were taken by students — including two of the Gibson girls, who were on the hunt for the bright lights of Europe. They were ready to be disgorged into London, hot on the trail of fame and fortune.

  The French Department at Sydney University had an intensive French program in Nice during the hiatus between the end of the university year in November and the beginning of the new year in March. My teaching scholarship could stretch only so far, and it certainly didn’t include enough for overseas travel. My wonderful parents offered to help pay for me to attend at the end of second year, hoping it would really give me a push ahead with my French studies. Kate and Mark were preparing for a small garden wedding and a Lord Howe Island honeymoon, with a contribution from my parents; Jack and Sheilagh felt it was only fair that they should also help me with my trip.

  My address book was bulging with the names of family and friends in the United Kingdom and the rest of Europe. There were Jack’s sisters in Scotland. The section under ‘B’ was exploding with the details of the Biggers family, who had recently been transferred from leafy Mosman to Tokyo; the Bratter brothers, friends of Mark’s who were working in Switzerland as ski instructors, the elder one an ex-boyfriend; and the Bayle family in Chamonix, in the French Alps — who I hoped lived near the ski fields. Monsieur Bayle was the uncle of my parents’ closest friend, Babette Hayes. The Bayles had invited me to stay for a fortnight before my language course began, mainly as a favour to their niece Babette. They had two daughters of their own: Catherine, a real-estate agent about eleven years older than me, and Marie, five years older, who worked in a tourist office; we would end up as lasting friends.

  And so I found myself with hundreds of others on a plane hurtling towards the unknown. Travel and accommodation had been arranged at discount rates by the uni, but little did we know then that these cheap fares gave the traveller many stopovers en route to the final destination. No wonder there was virtually no one on the plane except young, inexperienced students.

  A large bundle of my letters and postcards, tied up with some Christmas ribbon, was found recently by my father, along with other precious things like baby teeth and locks of hair that my mother had kept for decades at the back of her desk. I think she preserved the letters to hold up as prime exhibits of my egocentric and whiny character as a young woman. She could not believe that I had sprung from her loins! Today I read these and weep that I was so naïve and self-centred . . .

  Ginza Tokyu Hotel postcard

  15-9 Ginza 5-Chome

  Chuo-ku

  Tokyo

  28 November 1977

  Dear Mum and Dad,

  Can you believe it? I am actually here in Tokyo, even though it’s only briefly. We spend twenty hours here and then back to the airport to fly to London via Alaska. I am one of the lucky ones whose luggage has made it this far; most of the other travellers have luggage waiting for them in London, but apparently not a bed, as there has been a mistake with the numbers . . . not enough beds have been booked. I am so eternally grateful to Trish Biggers, who came to pick me up at Narita Airport. She whisked me away in a dishevelled mess for dinner at their home here in Tokyo. I am spending the day and night (in a proper bed, not an uncomfortable plane seat!) with them and then back to the airport so that I can continue with my trip.

  Things to be aware of:

  1. Japanese are really short.

  2. They eat fish called sushi and sashimi that is RAW!

  3. There are men in white gloves to push you into trains.

  4. I am seriously thinking of turning to Buddhism because I just love that ethnic look of geta and tabi (Japanese shoes and socks) . . .

  Do Buddhists celebrate Christmas and can they eat meat?

  Love from the happy traveller,

  Hen.

  Alaska Airport postcard

  29 November 1977

  Dear Mum and Dad,

  ‘North to Alaska!’ Can’t get the bloody song out of my head! Which film did that come from? Something starring John Wayne? . . . I can’t wait to get to London and finish with all of this plane travel. This is the longest trip ever. My feet have swollen to melon size. If I can get my boots off, I will tip out the blood from the blisters! My head is swimming with jetlag and culture shock from Tokyo (which was very weird). I’m certainly getting my $500 worth of air travel!

  Hen.

  P.S. This is the most exciting thing I have done in my entire life.

  Postcard

  Somewhere in Austria

  2 December 1977

  Dear Mum and Dad,

  Do you mind if I call you Jack and Sheilagh? It seems ridiculous at nineteen still to be calling you Mum and Dad. (I’m sorry, Dad, but your good-looking days of being Steve McQueen are over!)

  What a trip! Tokyo to London took sixteen to seventeen hours, excluding the five-hour stopover in Alaska. Concerned that the pilot could not find London . . .

  I have managed to contact Philip Bratter (nice) and his brother Marcus (sigh!). I am going to share the cost of car hire with them, and they said that I can travel with them to Salzburg to pick up some skis for their sponsorship deal and then they will drop me off in Chamonix .
. .

  There is a general strike, chaos reigns in France and the hire car has been downgraded to a Peugeot 104. I don’t know how I’m going to drive on the right side of the road.

  I am in charge of organising accommodation and buying food. After all, I managed to scrape through my first year at university with passes in French, Italian and German. I will do my best.

  Auf Wiedersehen,

  Hühnchen.

  (Goodbye, from Hen.)

  Airletter

  50, rue du Dr Paccard

  74400 Chamonix, Mont Blanc

  8 December 1977

  Dear Jack and Sheilagh,

  Just letting you know that I have survived the journey with the Marx brothers. What a trip! They were like two dogs with one bone — they fought constantly. What a pair! I took matters in hand and changed the sleeping arrangements and that seemed to sort things out. Don’t ask. You don’t want to know!

  We went to Calais and from there we managed to visit Liechtenstein, Germany, Austria and Switzerland, finally ending up in Chamonix in the French Alps. It’s called ‘How to See Europe in One Week’! Marcus almost broke his neck showing us the latest toy he picked up: a short board thing with wheels like roller skates. He says it’s called a skateboard and it’s going to take over the world. Yeah, in your dreams, baby!

  Philip and Marcus dropped me off in Chamonix and then left to go to Geneva and then back to Verbier for the winter. Pretty amazing that they drove me halfway across Europe to drop me at my door! Thank you, boys!

  And so here I am. So far I have discovered many things:

  1. My German is abysmal!

  2. I feel like my French is even worse!

  3. I cannot have a conversation in French for more than two sentences and then I am restricted to my age and my address.

  4. The Bayles are a wonderful family, but nobody speaks English. I think that I am going MAD (is that fou or folle?).

  5. Already the gloss is wearing thin and I have been here less than twenty-four hours. The immersion technique for learning languages is just not for me. I am desperate to speak ENGLISH! . . .

  Missing you,

  Hen (Poule?).

  Airletter

  50, rue du Dr Paccard

  74400 Chamonix, Mont Blanc

  15 December 1977

  Dear Jack and Sheilagh,

  Well, it is starting to happen. It has been a whole week and I feel as though I am making très petits steps every day. It is so frustrating for everyone else. How do they put up with me? They must have the patience of saints (just as well that they are good Catholics!). They will not let a thing pass. Every sentence must be grammatically correct and if it is not, I am made to repeat the same phrase over and over again. It is mind-numbingly awful. I go with Madame Bayle in the morning to do the shopping and I am almost in tears because I can’t understand what the checkout operator is saying. I catch about one word every five minutes. My first-year French is pathetic and my accent unbearable. I keep very quiet about the fact that I am studying languages at university. I am humiliated every minute of the day. I hope fervently that this will become a positive experience but at the moment it is most humbling and upsetting. Will it never end?

  Poule (Hen).

  Airletter

  Magnan

  Université de Nice

  31, rue Louis de Coppet, Nice

  (But really in a pensione in Florence, Italy!)

  Dear Jack and Sheilagh,

  Only just arrived in Nice University and . . . this week’s course of French lessons has been woeful. There are not enough levels. I do not belong in Beginners’ French. The fortnight in Chamonix with the Bayles has pushed me further and faster than all those years at school and this year at Sydney University . . .

  I arrived this morning in Florence to drown my sorrows with a solid afternoon of window-shopping and a couple of hours in the Uffizi. Not completely on my own. My uni friend Vicki Minton is staying the weekend with me, before we go back to Nice next week. I have found the worst pensione in Florence, by the station, with many stairs. Very cheap. Budget is just in check (probably not for long!) . . .

  Love,

  Pollo (this means Hen in Italian — as if you didn’t know, Mamma!).

  P.S. Amo Firenze. I think this means ‘I love Florence.’ One day I am going to live here. This is paradise on earth.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Latin Lover

  BY THE END OF 1978, I was twenty years old and the holder of a Bachelor of Arts degree with a chequered knowledge of French and Italian literature. My feeble attempts to learn German had collapsed after my first year at university, while my spoken Italian was limited to basic expressions to do with shopping for clothes and shoes and ordering coffees from bars — singularly unimpressive. But my ten weeks studying in France at the end of 1977 had pushed my French abilities to new levels, giving me the confidence to breeze through the rest of my course. Sadly this didn’t bring any radical change to my level of attendance at lectures, where my chronic absence continued to be noted.

  While I’d gained good marks in French in the final year of my Arts degree, I wasn’t much further down the track as an accomplished linguist. My travels had given me a high degree of insecurity about what it meant to be a naïve and ignorant Australian in Europe that would take decades to slough off. But by now I’d worked out that travel was one of the things in life I loved the most.

  The English system of encouraging students to have a gap year during their tertiary studies had always seemed like an excellent idea to me. But in Australia in the seventies it was not promoted. After three years at university, I felt stale from writing too many essays and dissertations on subjects that had very little immediate impact on my life. I was too young to be locked up in the library weekend after weekend!

  My decision to take a year off was made easily when once again there was a price war in overseas travel. I had no driving career ambition at this stage, so it seemed plausible to live and work in France or Italy for a year to polish my linguistic skills. Having a Scottish father, and therefore access to a British passport, meant I could work in Europe easily. But whatever I did for a year had to be constructive; just frittering the time away was not my aim. Then I would either return to university or find some sort of work where I could use my languages.

  In the meantime, living overseas cost money, and I would need to work to supplement the paltry savings I had managed to accrue from my scholarship and the spasmodic shop work on weekends. There were only a couple of viable alternatives on offer: working as an extra pair of hands for a French family, or as a chalet girl making beds and skiing on my days off.

  In late January 1979, I ended up becoming an au pair — a mother’s helper — in an elegant quartier in the northwest outskirts of Paris, a position arranged for me by a friend of Marcus Bratter’s. Le Vésinet was a very hip and chic suburb, home to bankers who were busy making fortunes and their wives who were busy spending them. These wives had very little time for trivial domestic problems like children, housework and putting food on the table.

  The house I went to provided a steep J-curve in understanding another culture and family. Within a week of my arrival, the wife left with the husband’s best friend, saying that she had had enough of his absences and lack of attention. I felt as if I were caught up in a French farce, watching the husband and wife and their lovers skipping in and out of beds en route to work and hair appointments. It was fun writing letters home to my parents — but even through my inexperienced eyes, I could see that emotionally the two little girls were paying a very high price. Everything in their lives was unravelling at the seams: the dogs were unruly and not house-trained, the cat had a massive litter of kittens when she missed her appointment at the vet’s, and bedlam reigned in this house in one of the most sought-after suburbs in Paris. My picture-perfect idea of life in France was fast losing its charm, amid the harsh reality that the marriage was breaking down and everyone was suffering. I had never s
een a marriage crumble at such close quarters, and found it extremely confronting to witness such raw aggression and such a lack of compassion.

  Yet as I negotiated my way through family politics, I learnt to speak French flawlessly. One morning I was listening to the radio, and as my hand lifted the receiver of the telephone I realised that I was about to call French talkback. I had understood every single word. My heart filled with pride. But this achievement wasn’t really surprising, as I hadn’t spoken one word of English for over seven months. During the day my thoughts were solely in French, and at night my dreams were in French. I understood when to use various levels of language: the correct slang with young people and the mot juste for the mature set.

  My knowledge of French culture was increasing too, and I rarely made mistakes when voicing my opinions on politics and religion. I had learnt to eat smaller portions and not dive into the cheese platter. Knowledge of a cuisine that involved cooking animal parts only served up to dogs or pigs back in Australia became part of my extensive repertoire. I could talk in great detail about boudin noir (blood sausage), heart, liver, sweetbreads, horsemeat, frogs’ legs, sanglier (wild pig), snails and pituitary glands. My culinary understanding had extended beyond all my expectations.