: : Sandgropers day out : :
Thursday, November 11, 2004
Way back in January (only just realised this whole year has passed by in a blur - I had Keru and Kezza, two lovely lasses from Perth staying with me off and on for a month in Paris.
Well, bless her cotton socks to coin a phrase, Kezza wrote a story about her adventure - and sent it to me. Now I am going to post it below but please be advised:
1. Much artistic/creative license has been taken and the story is a micture of fact and fiction - namely, I did NOT have "the runs" as quoted numerous times in the text.
2. I did not have any cash. I did eat potatoes a lot but this was reflective of my 200€ per month disposable income. Maxed out credit back home meant that I did not even have a buffer zone of borrowed cash - I was dirt poor.
3. The rest is pretty close to how it was living in gay paris....
And so, I proudly present: Kezza!"Yo BRETTO !
Its long lost kezza here! Seeing how you doin!?!
Ive tried to msg you, to post to you on .net- come back to us and tell us all about your faci experience, about your life- everything!
In fact, i been thinking about you lately and I've written a little something for an creative writing unit that I am doing as part of my English major in my other degree *cough cough Arts*, but its been pretty fun and ive
re-lived some of the great times.
Just ignore any imbellishments or events that didn't really happen- it all adds to the effect- dont you think?!
I hope you dont mind my class of 20 having a copy of this story either- lets just say that you are a bit of a hero in their eyes now!!
Toilet Paper, Train Rides and Twisties:
Tales from the Throne in Paris
By Kerry Ann Hill,2004
Dedicated to:
Brett Hofman
Sorry to have imposed Brettles, but it was worth it’s weight in rough leather…
Keru Wong
Sorry for being such a lunatic at times, happy 19th birthday (I never got to buy you your present), and thankyou for putting up with my spontaneity…
I frantically line the cracked toilet seat with layers of peach toilet paper. Brett’s got the runs at the moment and I from what I recall, the diarrhea virus is highly contagious. Look, I'm no risk taker. Layers and layers of two euros fifty papier du toilette later, I relax, knowing that I've potentially saved myself hours on the toilet.
Call me crazy but I savoured my bathroom times like this during my trip to France. Brett's apartment had the most quintessentially Parisian view straight out the toilet window. Looking over the clusters of gabled roofs and ash stained terracotta chimney pots, the breath taking view was complete with the Eiffel Tower perched in the not so far distance. The view was even more spectacular at night, with the legendary tower shimmering for fifteen minutes on every hour of darkness, like those silvery lamée sequined disco dresses you saw your mum wear back in the 80’s.
It is mid February and it’s bloody freezing. The toilet seat was positively glacial, despite my layering efforts. Minutes pass and the seat begins to warm slowly and I vacantly stare at the checkered black and white floor below my feet. Has Brett ever mopped the damn thing? I don’t even think he owns a mop, let alone a decent bed or crockery set. He sleeps in a corner in the living room on a mattress cum barrel kind of contraption. At least I think it’s a barrel- both the mattress and the long cylinder are covered by a doona that he brought from Perth. Brett reckons it stops him from rolling off the mattress and waking up the twist-pile carpet in his mouth. His crockery collection is equally as interesting. Last night we ate our dinner straight out of rusted saucepans complete with either melted or missing handles.
Right now, he’s asleep, knocked out by a strong dose of anti-diarrhea tablets. Poor bloke. He’s obviously not going to make it to the office today but he’ll be right. He’s got me and our friend Keru to take care of him. He’d been living on his own for about eight months, working in finance for the international non-government organisation that we all worked for. He scored the post out in Paris after running the finances at both the state and national offices back at home like a stingy old man.
So Keru and I came here almost five weeks ago to find the poor guy a bit bored, lonesome and homesick. Could ya bring me blades? he desperately asked before I left Perth. And some Twisties he said. Tough-and-Rough-as-Guts Brett was undone like a zipper- he begged us for those Twisties. It’s funny what living away from home does to you.
Suddenly there’s a mad thumping at the door. Kerry I Need to Go!
Right. I grab the roll and fumble for some paper, making like buggery to get off the john. Pleeeeease Kerry! he begs. I flush and dash out and he clamours past me, clutching his belly and slamming the door behind him.
Eating From the Pot
Phil\ippe (3rd from Right) the Strapping Young ManSo much for taking preventative measures, I realise, Brett’s fingers must have been all over the toilet roll like a rash. I wash my hands until they become pink and sore. I really don’t want the runs to ruin this trip.
* * *
Tuesday was market day. We trip along the brown cobblestones that mark the way along the icy canal until we reached the fruit and veg market. The scent of freshly roasted chestnuts greeted us so we bought a paper cup full from an Algerian fellow who carries a steel bin of hot coals cooking the nuts as he walks. Vehement smelling sacks of fresh coriander and spices, jars of ginger and chilli pickled veggies, as well as hand woven baskets spilling over with orange split peas and red lima beans conjures a colourful display of sensual aromas and tastes. The market was a swarming hub of cultures, people, sights and sounds. I imagined that we’re in Northern Africa, Israel, India and China- this market was anywhere but the clichéd Paris you see on the television.
We carefully selected two shiny purplish eggplants, a handful of juicy lychees, a bagful of potatoes, three ripe tomatoes and a bundle of cos lettuce. This is luxury, Brett mentioned, normally I only get a sack of potatoes. The ever-stingy Brett hadn’t changed, even though he was earning a modest amount, he insisted on living on a shoestring budget.
We returned to the office so Keru can check her email. I sat down in the tearoom with a bloke called Arnaud (pronounced Arn-o) who helped me practice my pronunciation. Tomorrow we would leave for Lille to stay at a friend’s farmhouse and it was time to put our French speaking skills into action. No more wussing out like we did here in Paris.
* * *
Brett, Keru and I managed to score a ride with Philippe. He was the twenty-nine year old brother of our friend Elizabeth, who worked with Brett. The thing was, Philippe looked like he was sixty! We didn’t expect to be greeted by a well-dressed gentleman in a hounds-tooth sports jacket complete with suspenders and brown trousers with a rapidly receding hairline. Poor little bugger, remarked Brett.
The farmhouse belonged to their parents, which had been in the family for almost four hundred years. Four hundred years! We couldn’t wait to check it out. We especially couldn’t wait for the party – Elizabeth was holding a cabaret soirée that evening.
We arrived in Lille in a matter of three hours. I honestly expected a ten hour journey so I had readied myself with a backpack full of lollies, magazines and novels. I soon learned that in France, a trip to the countryside is only a short car-ride or TGV train journey away.
The farmhouse was exquisite. It was located twenty minutes from village of Lille (which was a fancy city if you ask me!). The brown-bricked house was smattered with crawling vines and covered with powdery snow on the roof top. The rooms had low doorways (much to giant Brett’s dismay) and were extremely dark, decked out with sixteenth century positively Lion-The-Witch-and-The-Wardrobe style
The Strangely Artistic Creations
Getting Started in the Telephone Boxgothic looking mahogany furniture. Apparently their ancestors had purchased the furniture from an extremely wealthy Count who lived in some châteaux- like a fairy tale! The gardens were even more breathtaking; there was an absolutely picturesque lake lined with weeping willows, complete with a deteriorating iron bridge and ducks.
After the impressive tour, Elizabeth rounded us up to meet her old high school mates. We entered the dining room to meet a team of guys playing poker and eating spaghetti. So, you are Australian! exclaimed one guy. You don’t look Australian!
I sighed, tired of these kinds of remarks and patiently attempted to explain in French that my father is Australian and my mother is from the Philippines. Keru copped it too- both her parents are from Malaysia, yet she was born and raised in Perth. Somehow it didn’t bug her so much.
Brett tried to explain to me that they didn’t really get half-castes out in the country. You are a novelty, a real charm to them, he explained. Crikey.
After introductions, Philippe dropped us off at the train station. We wanted to get smashed so we took a train into the village to get booze. Before we know it, we are in Lille- dubbed the 2004 Cultural Capital of Europe. There was an amazing festival happening and the streets were buzzing with theatrical acts, parades and strangely artistic creations. I felt like we were in a movie- there were so many exciting things to see and do, but we were on a mission.
One of the best things about France is how cheap the alcohol is. We found the supermarché and headed straight to the beverage isle; we were in heaven! Shelf after shelf, row after row and crate after crate of cheap yet top quality drinks beckon us like a bunch of seedy blokes to the skimpies. Like typical Australians, we were drinking to get plastered that evening. None of that socially acceptable wine sipping shit. We settled on a bottle of mango-infused Bacardi (which you cannot get at home!), apple schnapps and some bourbon mixers. An icy chill blanketed the early night air in so we made our way back to the train station, eager to get dressed for the party.
Twenty minutes later, we arrived at the station closest to the farmhouse and proceeded to call Philippe. Time passed and there was no answer. Naturally, we began to get a bit pissed off and desperate. We have to get started, Brett announced, there is no time to waste. Feeling the bite of the frost, we huddled together into the phone booth, trying to call Philippe whilst taking swigs of the Bacardi to keep us warm.
Eventually, a group of people in cabaret clothing rocked up at the station- coincidently friends of Brett. Apparently Philippe had arranged earlier in the day to pick them up from here at this time. Rescued! Philippe arrived two minutes later and the lot of us crammed into the cobalt grey Mini Cooper.
It was unanimous that Keru and I were the smallest so we got the pleasure of sprawling ourselves across the five other poor souls in the back seat. The Mini, in its’ over packed glory reeled along the country road like a reluctant pregnant blowfish. Soon, we drove into an evening of swing dancing, shapeless silky negligees, pearl strings, dangly feather boas and dapper men in suits. Elizabeth had outdone herself with the cabaret
Silky Negligees and Dapper Men
Enjoying a Lullaby With Pierresoiree. Before I knew it, with a dozen shots of Bacardi later, I’d passed out in my party frock and pearls in a medieval mahogany bed upstairs and was crooned to sleep by a French lullaby sung by a young fellow dressed in drag named Pierre.
* * *
The next day we returned to Paris. Hauling my bags of dirty clothing to the laundry mat midmorning, a brand new BMW motorbike slid across the path in front of me. Verglas. Black Ice. Unlike the fatal nature of what lurks below the surface around an iceberg, black ice was astoundingly more sinister- you couldn’t see it at all. At below zero temperatures, a thin layer of water from melted snowflakes or the lightest rainfall would freeze over the bitchumen surface without you even knowing. It proved particularly dangerous for motorcycle riders- accidents caused by the verglas were notorious on the roads of Paris. Beautiful, shiny machines, motorcycles and their riders would fall victim to this disastrous winter phenomenon like a thoroughbred and it’s jockey in a horrific fall in a horse race. The bikes’ high gloss body would meet its match with the ground from even the slightest slip.
Horizontally, the black bike’s leather-clad rider was caught under the beast. I ditched my bags and leapt to the assistance of the rider- desperately trying to heave the damn machine off the woman. She remained calm- neither a whimper nor a yelp- and when I managed to pull the bike from on top of her, she thanked me and went on her way. Odd. I retrieved my hastily thrown bags which had burst open; the clothing was damp and slightly soiled by the flow of drain water along the curb. At home, I reckon I would have been hailed a national hero. It would have been on every news channel, but here, I soon saw it happen everyday.
But everyday in France was coming to an end. As I sit in Brett’s apartment, gazing out at the dusty sky, over the pigeon poo-clad roofs and chimney pots from the safety of the harshly cold plastic toilet seat, I feel a pang in my stomach. It wasn’t the dodgy Algerian food we ate last night, nor the diarrhea virus I was now suffering from but pangs of remorse and regret that my contact with the beauty of this country would soon be through a text book back at university. I would have to soon return to complete my studies in French about the history of feminism, the migration of the French to North America and the plight of the Africans from Morocco. As interesting and insightful these subjects would be, I knew that I had had a taste of what the culture and the people were really like and I would be forever enriched through my experiences, no matter how hard I studied. But like the peach coloured toilet paper, my life was only a quarter of the way through the roll. It was a fat and chunky roll with triple layers for extra comfort and I knew that everything I have learnt in the last six weeks would give me the padding and comfort to get by in my degree and in my life, back at home.
Kerry Hill
