Such peace and tranquillity is followed by any tourist’s nightmare when I decide to return the Mercedes early. ‘There will be roadworks tomorrow blocking the route I know over the bridge. I’m not coping with detours, so we will return the car today,’ I declare.
‘We had a lovely experience yesterday, and it’s enough for me,’ says Jane.
It all seems simple enough. Find the gare (train station) where the Avis return office is. We had studied the city map, but behind the wheel, I turn into the walled city, realise my mistake instantly, turn right at the first street alongside the Office de Tourisme, which is one way, and pretty soon the Mercedes is tightly snaking between bollards defining a pedestrian mall. I’m terrified and Jane, bless her, says not a word. I think she’s scared speechless.
Once more, a charming French man comes to our rescue. He doesn’t speak the obvious, but simply asks where we want to go.
‘To the railway station,’ I say, wondering if he can detect the fear in my voice.
‘You’re very close. Out the city gates turn right and it’s right there on your left,’ he says. Patting the bonnet, he adds, ‘Bonne chance.’ Good luck.
However, at the first set of lights, we see a multi-storey building and a ‘P’ sign. I turn left and then right, up the narrow ramp to the parking station. Instantly, I know this is all so wrong. I need to make a sharp right-hand turn into the entrance where we need to take a ticket but the car is jammed sideways at the top of the ramp.
Jane gets out and with her hand signals I carefully manoeuvre the silver machine back and forth, sweating profusely with stress. Finally, with entry ticket in hand, I drive up five levels before finding a vacant space. Here there is a sign to an Ibis Hotel.
‘We are going there and asking,’ I state, almost hyperventilating. Luckily, I have parked the car without a scratch on it.
‘I’m not going near this car again,’ states Jane.
I silently agree.
The Ibis receptionist tells us the gare is right next door and points to the window. There below, at street level, is the station car park with the Avis office clearly marked. ‘You need to take the car there and then look for Avis reception in the railway station,’ says the hotel clerk.
No way is that going to happen. So we devise a plan. I will say that I have had a fainting fit. (Not so outlandish; I wouldn’t be surprised if I dropped dead of a heart attack.) I will add that I cannot possibly drive the car, even from the hotel car park to the gare. And the story will state that my head was spinning and I’m not covered by insurance if I’m sick and unfit to drive. It sounds wonderfully plausible.
Unfortunately, the Avis woman is on her lunch break. Until 2 pm. ‘We must have just missed her, let’s walk across the road and have our own lunch somewhere nice,’ I suggest.
Inside the walled city, we order ‘fish of the day’ at a seafood restaurant opposite the Office de Tourisme, and relax over a glass of red wine. Then we do the sensible tourist thing. We take a community bus parked at the kerb and in comfort, we familiarise ourselves with this gracious ancient city which, for seventy years, was the home of the Popes. Then, we return to Avis.
I feel so ashamed as I clutch at Jane’s arm as we approach the counter, but I thrust the paperwork towards the lady anyway.
‘I’m very sick, I’m faint,’ I state and when she looks confused, I add in French, ‘Je m’excuse, Madame, mais je dois m’asseoir là-bas.’ Excuse me, but I must sit down over there. I take myself off to a row of seats away from the counter. I can actually speak French well when it’s imperative, I think.
Jane takes up the case, and relates that I had had some ‘episode’ at the lights and wisely turned right there into the parking station rather than risk an accident so close to Avis. It is only a little white lie.
The woman sympathetically replies, ‘Of course.’ And that is that.
Gleefully, we return to the walled city and walk to the magnificent Palace of the Popes, by which time, my weak ankle has walked too far to tackle the Palace. ‘You go, Jane. I will sit here,’ perching myself at one of the cafés in the square.
Jane returns within the hour and we catch the local bus back to the village. When we alight, we ask a fellow passenger directions to the hotel.
‘Walk with me,’ invites the smart young woman with cascades of wavy hair flowing down her back. After a minute, she asks ‘Where are you from?’
‘Australia.’
‘I was born in Russia, but I’m now a French citizen. The village is beautiful, no?’
‘Absolutely,’ we respond in unison.
‘But the people here do not make you welcome. I feel very alone,’ she continues. ‘I met my husband in Egypt and I returned here to his home as his wife. But they don’t accept me because my language is not good.’ And just as I am about to question her further, she points down the street towards those black bollards.
‘Merci Madame,’ I say and Jane adds, ‘Au revoir.’
On our third and last day, we take an afternoon regional wine tour. Our chauffeur is an Australian in his early middle years, and because I sit in the front with him, he peppers his tourist jargon with macho talk in his broad Aussie accent. French women find him ‘exotic’, he brags. When I ask if he is married to a French woman, he laughs. ‘Why would I tie myself to one when I can have a smorgasbord?’
I cast an eye towards Jane sitting behind him and she raises her eyebrows. I do wonder what the other passengers think of his brash manner. However, he knows the back tracks, taking us through vast vineyards with stunning vistas to a purple hilly haze on the horizon. A visit to the small village of Gigondas in the southern Rhône Valley, where the Romans first planted vines, is followed by a sublime wine tasting in a centuries-old cellar in Châteauneuf-du-Pape.
At dusk, Jane and I take a table at the local bar, L’Aubergine, in the Villeneuve lès Avignon village square and watch as the outside tables begin to fill with the local villagers—young and old, mothers and daughters, young men and their girlfriends and middle-aged married couples. It’s noisy and convivial and everyone knows everyone else and we feel absolute strangers.
‘I think I understand how that Russian woman must feel,’ I say. ‘Living in France sounds a dream, but I think in reality the rigid French culture would be a huge barrier to real happiness.’
Conversation then turns to the Italian-background Australian tour guide.
‘Wasn’t he ghastly?’ says Jane. ‘I can’t imagine why French women would find him attractive.’
‘He left me cold when he said his mother, who had flown from Australia to visit relatives in Italy, wanted him to come to Rome to meet her and he told her he couldn’t get away from work,’ I recount.
‘At least he never married. He would have been a terrible unfeeling husband,’ adds Jane.
‘Men can be such mixed bags in our lives,’ I say. ‘The trouble is women look for love, instead of a man of quality able to fill their emotional needs.’
‘What about sex?’ she adds.
‘Oh, I think decent men want a loving partner—and sex.’ It crystallises my thinking so I add, ‘Well, I don’t want to fall in love again.’
I have had three decent men as husbands and I don’t want to tempt fate. I need to learn to be content as a widow. Finding another man is not a solution to my aloneness.
‘I don’t know that you’re going to be happy alone, Nadine,’ comments Jane, with a concerned look.
Edith Piaf said living without love is a ‘petit malaise’—in other words a small illness. ‘It’s truly hard to have no one to love and care for you, but Piaf’s life was absolute chaos because of her insatiable search for love. I don’t want to be like that.’
‘To vulnerable French women, Mr Tour Guide would be considered Prince Charming; a desirable bachelor on the market,’ comments Jane.
‘I rest my case!’
On the one hand, love is such a dangerous drug, which intoxicates women and binds them to unsatisfactory
men. On the other, love is indeed the elixir of happiness. And then I fell in love with Olivier and experienced all the wonderful qualities a loving man can bring to a woman’s life.
We are all inclined to eulogise our loved ones after they depart, but Olivier had an exceptional intellect and a lively mind. I would get so frustrated because he would beat me each week in The Advertiser ‘Brainwaves’ test. ‘You’re not allowed to beat me all the time. I’m the wordsmith and you’re French!’ I would complain. But I never did beat him—even in hospital when we did it together on a Saturday morning. He had a fabulous wit, and best of all, he was such a charmer. Elegant, too. A handyman, a gardener, a businessman, and a leader. I said all of this—and more—in his eulogy. Everyone in the congregation would have agreed.
But now, as a widow, the notion of love presents a conundrum. Sometimes I feel intensely alone and wish for a companion to share an evening out, or watch a favourite TV series or have a lively discussion about a controversial film. To share the simple acts of daily living which create a fulfilling relationship. But I also still love my husband and don’t want to take the risk with another man, and possibly end up in misery and strife. Over the years of my career, I have heard many distressing stories from women about their difficult relationships and how happiness was so elusive. The scales tip decidedly one way. I need to learn to be content alone.
Sharing our apéritif time in the square is so pleasant that when Jane refuses to join me for dinner at our hotel, I’m more philosophical. That’s three evenings in a row, though. So, once more I take my seat in the dining room trying to transpose annoyance with cheerful resignation. And in case the waiter thinks I’m perched here waiting to be picked up, I smile so sweetly and say ‘Mon amie est très fatiguée ce soir, mais j’aime votre nourriture.’ My friend is very tired tonight, but I love your food.
When I return upstairs, Jane is tucked up in bed reading her novel. On the bedside table is an apple core.
Despite the hiccup over dinner, we have had the best day together. But she is missing a big part of our holiday—sharing superb French fare.
Later, I’m writing my diary entry, when Jane—working on her iPad next to me—bursts out laughing. She is rocking with infectious mirth.
‘Here’s an email from Peter and he writes, “You don’t die easily in a Mercedes.”’
‘You wrote and told Peter about screaming at me?’
‘Of course! But I said you nearly got us killed at least a dozen times.’
‘Let me see!’
Then I read that she also wrote that I was courageous and ‘it was a terrific achievement for her to drive in Europe, it’s something I could never do.’ And I am pleased. Jane has picked up on something I didn’t see myself. I have taken a big step towards my new life as an independent widow. I have passed the fear test, because fear becomes only a word if you can face off with its crippling power.
FOUR
A RIVETING VISIT TO THE ÉLYSÉE PALACE
‘Be to their virtue very kind; be to their faults a little blind.’
Matthew Prior
If I hadn’t scoured newspapers for my work, I might have missed the small item in the International Herald Tribune announcing that the Élysée Palace, the home of the president of France, will be open today.
We are on the train to Paris and before I open my mouth I work out how long it will take to go from the Montparnasse railway station to our hotel (both on the Left Bank), drop our bags and race off to the Palace Open Day on the Right Bank.
After five days of holidaying together, I have learnt to have all the facts ready for she who does not change her ‘no’ to ‘yes’.
So I give a spirited rundown of Patrimoine Day and I read aloud the newspaper article, which notes many historic buildings will be open on the weekend to celebrate the one hundredth anniversary of the law decreeing the preservation of all historic buildings.
‘Paris is a heavenly city because of its famous buildings. It really is like living in a museum of marvellous monuments.’
She doesn’t respond and continues reading.
‘It says here that the Élysée Palace is open to the public today as part of Patrimoine Day—and it is only open every ten years!’
I assume Jane isn’t sure of its relevance, so I add. ‘It’s the exquisite palace in the centre of Paris where the president of France, François Hollande, lives. It’s at the head of the Champs-Élysées and will be a once-in-a-lifetime experience.’
She doesn’t seem enthused, but she does not say ‘no’. I assume this is ‘yes’.
We can see the open day seems to have taken over Paris with queues outside many heritage buildings as our taxi makes its way to L’hôtel Sainte-Geneviève at 17 Rue Descartes. But the driver stops halfway up the hill; Rue Descartes is blocked because of the open day for the schools in the Latin Quarter. Dragging our heavy bags about fifty metres up this Paris hillock is no mean feat, and I’m puffing by the time we reach the hotel’s courtyard.
We check in, and take the curved staircase to the first level. I sigh with delight when we enter our room. It is absolutely lovely—almost a suite overlooking gracious gardens. ‘It’s heaven for Paris,’ I say to Jane.
So in this lovely room with its tasteful floral curtaining and plush carpeting, I begin my first holiday in Paris since Olivier died sixteen months ago. He took me to Paris six times and this monumental city never failed to take my breath away. The River Seine, connecting the right and left banks with glorious bridges, flows like a main artery pumping life throughout Paris. And I never get sick of seeing those kilometres of nineteenth-century six-storey Haussmannian apartment buildings, designed by Baron Haussmann—as high as the boulevards are wide—with magnificent timber doorways large enough for the horse-drawn carriages of the era. Their ornate facades, mansard roofing, French windows, and iron balcony railings indelibly stamp Paris with its gracious style.
Jane has never been to Paris and I hope she will be as awestruck by its beauty as I was on my first visit with Oli nine years ago. The Eiffel Tower is like a magnificent exclamation mark calling out ‘Here is Paris!’ Yet, Oli would never take me up. Instead, he took me to Sacré-Coeur Basilica in Montmartre. ‘Here is the best view of Paris,’ he had stated.
Within fifteen minutes we are in a taxi and alighting onto Avenue de Marigny, alongside the Élysée Palace where two huge queues lead in different directions. It is almost 3 pm and police are in the process of placing barricades blocking off one of the huge queues extending perhaps 100 metres along the footpath. People are packed in like a football final with the barricades allowing pedestrians to walk behind to the city’s expensive shopping precinct.
Once inside, Jane charges forth along the garden path and I limp behind. By the time I reach the side entrance after taking photographs of the facade of the eighteenth-century palace, she is nowhere to be seen.
So, I file into the first chambre (room) which is a divine ice-white whimsical space with delicately painted cherubs in panelling edged in silver scrollwork. Its ancient French crystal chandelier shimmers in wall mirrors. Then I let out an involuntary gasp of surprise. The sign states that I have stepped into the salon of the world’s most notorious mistress, Madame de Pompadour, and I know so much about her amazing, yet tragic life. Such a delightful discovery, but there is no one I can share my excitement with. Oh Jane, where are you? I would love to tell you all about Madame Pompadour. Her life wasn’t as you would expect. Did you know, Jane, that the King made her a Marquise, almost royalty, and called her La Marquise because she was not of noble birth? And, did you know she wasn’t a libertine like one expects of a mistress, but was only his lover for five years because she didn’t like sex. However, she remained his friend, confidant and political adviser for 14 years, wielding enormous power. He gave her the Élysée Palace as her Parisian home in 1753. And she bequeathed it back to him. Which is why it became the property of Emperor Napoléon Bonaparte, who in turn gave it to Empress Joséphine to ease
the pain of his request for a divorce. And this is why Élysée Palace has been home to all of the French Presidents except one since 1874. ‘It is so famous,’ I would state.
The crowd jostles me along into the Bibliothèque of Napoléon III with its semicircle of timber bookcases before we reach another salon where, we read, La Marquise would receive her official guests. Here in a gilded wall panel is a portrait of a beautiful young woman. She is looking directly at me and I assume she is Jeanne-Antoinette. Her hair is swept back off her forehead to frame her gentle features. She has a high forehead, defined with a ‘Widow’s Peak’, large brown eyes and lush black eyebrows, a long, straight nose, rosy cheeks and a small rosebud mouth. I feel very much in her presence.
According to Robertson Davies in Madame de Pompadour, La Marquise was the only one who placed the king at ease. ‘It was to Pompadour that he talked, and it was to Pompadour that he listened.’ Her allure was to not only to allow him to relax, but to entertain him with a never-ending supply of stories and to involve him in her many artistic commissions and theatre productions. As I mull over Jeanne-Antoinette’s moving love story, she embeds a nugget of wisdom in my mind. After sex fades women can seek enduring friendship with men—as well as women—to their emotional enrichment. Louis XV showed his true love for La Pompadour because he allowed her to die at Versailles, and in an unheard of precedent for a former mistress, he afforded her a state funeral, but did not attend. However, he stood on the balcony at Versailles, weeping as he watched the procession pass below. And what was the king’s farewell comment? Princess Michael of Kent, in her book Cupid and the King, writes that he whispered to his valet, ‘This is the only homage I’m allowed to offer her. Think of it: to a friendship lasting twenty years.’
I haven’t seen Jane during the whole tour, but I have had time to think about sexual relations in France, unique in behaviour and terminology. The word affaire is not often associated with sex. Instead someone having an affair would be ‘cette personne a une aventure’. The different connotation of meaning is interesting. For us an affair alludes to deceitful forbidden sex, but in France, people simply have ‘une aventure’. No wonder it’s no big deal socially and why French wives (and husbands) turn a blind eye to their spouse’s ‘adventures’ while we would say he or she is ‘unfaithful’, a ‘philanderer’ or ‘committing adultery’.
Farewell My French Love Page 8