Bikes, Boats and Bodies

After a six hour formula-one race against Macho men on vacation, we collapsed into Viareggio, Northern Tuscany. Our friends had kindly loaned us their apartment for the week, which is on a busy, picture-postcard canal lined with an array of colourful boats. We tiptoed out of the car like a family of crabs, trying not to fall in.

We were in the aromatic mosh pit at the heart of Viareggio. Wafts of garlic from restaurants, fishermen’s fresh catch, their not-so-fresh nets hanging out to dry in the sun, coconut oil, sweat, paint, and sawdust from tradesmen working outside because of the heat.

Bicycles are the popular mode of transport in Viareggio. Our friends had left us two adult bikes, and we spotted two kids bikes for sale on the road. 

A tall man with grey hair stood on the street, sanding a wooden table. He was wearing work shorts and a white singlet top. The type with tiny holes all over. His wife sat at a table next to him, chopping vegetables. We inquired about the bikes in sign language. The tall man looked up to someone and screamed out in Italian.

A head poked out from the 3rd floor balcony, as one of the locals got up off his red plastic coca-cola chair and looked down. All he had on was a pair of baggy white underpants. A cigarette dangled from his mouth. Peering down at us, he nodded three times. We took it to mean, “I’ll be right down”.

By the time The Undies Man came downstairs, he had put on shorts, but no shirt. He was stocky and heavily-tanned, and bore an elaborate tattoo of Jesus on his upper arm. A quick handshake sufficed as an introduction, as he wasted no time in demonstrating the bikes. 

Like a kid, The Undies Man cocked his leg over bike number one, and animatedly hooned up the middle of the road. Peddling wildly, he stood up and performed a number of wheelies.The entertainment value was high, I had to hold back tears of laughter. For the finale, he sped towards us, and came to a screeching halt, beads of sweat bouncing off him, and onto us. The show wasn’t over yet, bike number two endured the same treatment, and we gave him a standing ovation. The children were ecstatic, and the sale was made. 

On the bike circuit, there were no limitations on age, attire or passenger load. It was not uncommon to see a grandmother with her grandchildren, and a few live chickens, all on the one bike. I could put my hair in rollers, squeeze on a pair of stilettos, throw a dog in the basket and my husband over the handle bars, and take off down the street. No one would blink an eyelid. 

Like pictures in a European glossy magazine, the beaches were lined with brightly colored umbrellas and sun beds as far as the eye could see. Body pride took on a new meaning here, surpassing the results of every confidence workshop I have ever undertaken. Beach goers of every shape and size were on display, leaving very little to the imagination. To blend in, would entail numerous visits to a tattoo parlor, piercing den, sun bed studio, and Brazilian waxer. Ouch!

After getting berated in a foreign language (as per usual) we learnt you can’t just plonk yourself down under an umbrella. The beach is divided into sections that are privately owned and operated. Each section has a cafe, bar, showers, and various levels of entertainment. Having fun in the sun costs, the beach is business.   

We spent a day at "b2k", where, as well as the beach, we had access to 5 different swimming pools, a gymnasium, restaurant, beauty parlor, bar, cafe, and WIFI. Pole position for people-watching is highly prized - don't move someone's beach umbrella an inch (as I made Rob), or you risk the wrath of an irate body builder in bikini bottoms! http://www.b2k.it/eng/beach.asp 

After spending a day exploring a village in the Cinque Terre, we stopped for a gelato, before boarding the ferry back to Viareggio. At the gelateria, I noticed a lady sitting at a table with someone, and had to do a double take. Then I realised that the someone was a dog, a big hairy dog. They looked like husband and wife. The lady held up a freshly scooped, double gelato cone, and gave her companion first lick! With their eyes hanging out, and fingers pointing, our children asked if the lady had bought the gelato especially for her dog, or were they sharing? Turned out they were sharing.

The Coca-Cola chair

Cinque Tere

The view from the balcony in Viareggio at different times of day

The Revenge of Edith Piaf

Her wish is your command. She never makes eye contact. She is patient, unswerving, and painfully annoying. She has strong convictions, and babbles on, it’s hard to get a word in. You are smarter than her, but you do whatever she says... 

Introducing our GPS, Deborah. Named by the children.

Deborah spoke English, and showed us the ropes when we arrived in France. Now that my husband is practically French, Deborah needed some adjustments. We changed  Deborah’s language to French and she became Edith Piaf.

Edith Piaf was gee’d up to take us to Italy, via the French countryside. On our second night, Edith Piaf was en-route to Chateau Du Luc, in a town called Bez et Esperon. There was a lot of ground to cover, it was getting dark and the children were growing restless. “Will there be wifi?” “I feel sick, I’m gonna vomit”. “I wish that thing would shut up!”.

I couldn’t resist mimicking Edith Piaf either. The tension in the car was building.

Before we knew it, Edith Piaf had taken us completely off-road. It was no longer a road. We were driving up a narrow track of potholes over barren, rocky terrain. Thorny hedges  slowly scraped the sides of our long-suffering car. Turning around was not an option. 

I felt certain this kind of frivolity was no-go in our car rental agreement. I envisaged Rob walking to the road we turned off 5km back, to flag down help.

We stuttered on, hand over mouth in disbelief, snorting and gagging with each bump. Occasionally distracted by a deer or rabbit, we were passengers on the slow uphill climb of a roller coaster. 

Then, as soon as you can say, "What the...", we saw decent road again. Every ounce of panic and snorting flew out the window. All I was capable of saying was, “That was bad, hey”. We pulled into the driveway of Chateau Du Luc, singing, “Non... Je ne regrette rien”.

It was 10pm, almost dark, and we were two hours late. A tall, slender lady of about 75 years greeted us at the black, iron gates. She had poetic facial features; slender face, high cheekbones, and expressive blue eyes. Her grey hair had been pulled back with a pin. She wore long, tailored pants and a loose blouse. She smiled warmly. She was Madame Du Luc. This was her chateau.

Madame Du Luc lead us over white, pebbled ground to the house, and up a spiral staircase (the stairs and walls made entirely from sandstone). Rob had to duck as he entered. Once at the top, we eyed every inch of the house, like four laughing clowns. Madame instructed us that everything was Authentic Louis 16th period, around 400 years old. “Please do not to sit on any of the chairs, they are very fragile”, she said. I nodded with respect. Khira piped up, “But that’s what chairs are for... sitting on... you have to sit on chairs!”. Looking around the room there were many old paintings. The children were fixated on one in particular. Khira announced, “The lady in that painting scares me, who is she? ” Madame Du Luc answered, “She is my grandmother”. My face hurt from wincing. I just wanted to go to bed!

Madame Du Luc laid out a sumptuous breakfast in her Louis 16th dining room. I wanted to imagine we were royalty, but our thongs and table manners destroyed my fantasy. We sweetly departed for Italy.

Traveling together is give and take, so when we pulled in for gas next to a supermarket, I  assumed my role (caretaker of hunger and thirst). As I walked into the supermarket, while Rob filled the car, he yelled out, “don’t make it a big shop”. I gave him a marital ‘yes dear’ nod, and mouthed the words, “just some fruit and bread”, which I whole-heartedly meant. But once I was on the other side of the turnstiles, something happened. I was just like Ben Stiller in the movie Zoolander, when he heard the song, “Relax”. Only, I heard the Supermarket-Fairy say, “Browse the aisles and contemplate, you are safe here, take your time”.

When I waddled out, unbalanced with shopping bags in both hands, my eyes adjusted to daylight like a stunned animal. I awoke from the spell and realised what I had done. Sheepishly I said, “It’s all stuff we need”. But I knew I was in trouble. 

As we were now running late, we couldn’t stop for lunch, that’s when I brought out a platter of washed and peeled baby vegetables, with olives and two dipping sauces. Sweet baguettes, corn chips, ripe peaches and baby wipes to use when we were done. I was chuffed that I  remembered to buy baby wipes, but the smoke still emanating from Rob’s nostrils hinted that I would be feasting alone.

Ah, Italia! We arrived in Ventamiglia. The vast Mediterranean. Terraced green hills, clustered with colourful houses.

The B&B we booked on-line was up a steep, winding road. Driving up this one-lane, narrow road, another car drove towards us intending to pass. Usually one car reverses a few metres, until the other can pass. Rob reversed, but the lady in the other car drove towards us, like a bulldozer. After 500 meters of us reversing, and her bulldozing, she passed, without a thank you or a wave.

Since no-one was at the B&B, we let ourselves in. After we had all used the bathroom and made ourselves at home, (beds chosen, bags dumped), a stout lady with a limp, appeared through the door. The owner. We told her how thrilled we were with the accommodation, (smiling, our hands outstretched). To this, she frowned and said “NO”.

She rudely motioned for us to leave, by waving her hand at approximately buttocks’ height, towards the front door. Confused, we walked out, and she said, “Not for you, Another family, not for you, Another family”.

That’s when she showed us to our tiny room with 2 double beds and a table. The youth hostel section. Fine, no problem. Looking out to the postcard view, we saw a swimming pool and spa. There were coloured scatter cushions and deck chairs. The kids asked to swim straight away, but the owner scowled and said, “Not for you, Another family, not for you, Another family”.

As soon as she was out of sight, we bailed, in search of friendlier proprietors. The stout lady with a limp would have to find ‘Another family’ for our room.

Low on petrol, our car just made it to the top of the mountain, where we were greeted by a hotel manager, who was a dead ringer for David Hasselhoff. He showed us to a cosy room, swimming pool, spaghetti, fresh mussels and Italian white wine. David Hasselhoff wore all black, and spoke Italian. On entering any area of the little hotel, David Hasselhoff would show up. I lost count of how many times I said “ciao” to him in a day. The restaurant waiters were Harpo and Zeppo from the Marx Brothers. Their smiles were genuine, and they loved feeding our children.

Three days later we drove down the mountain, past the first B&B, rejoicing, as we demonstrated our maturity to the children, by blowing raspberries at the stout, mean lady. We explained that in Italy, when you communicate, it is important to show your emotions.

Entering Beze et Esperon

Looking out from our window at Chateau Du Luc

Breakfast at Chateau Du Luc

Beze et Esperon

Artist at work

Amphitheatre at Nimes

Harpo and Zeppo - Ventamiglia

What have I said?

Knowing only a few basic French phrases makes me feel like a fish out of water, so I decided to bite the bullet and start French lessons. Yay me!

Now I have a lovely teacher, called Stephanie. At the start of my first lesson, I discovered I had been inappropriately familiar with the butcher, the baker and the custard tart maker. I've been saying "Cava?" (Aussie slang = how's it going mate?) instead of "Comment allez-vous?" (formal, polite version). The question is, is it too late to start over? And if so, will that extra duck breast no longer be thrown in?    

The start of my second French lesson opened with "I am", "I have" phrases. This is where complete strangers bare their souls, by disclosing their age, marital status and how many cars they own (par example). Along with that, one might be asked if one lives in a three story house with a large swimming pool and pretty garden, very close to the forest (par example). Like filling in a passport application, except that the answers are received with the enthusiasm of watching fireworks, "Wow, you live on a busy, main road... ah, fantastique, very good". 

It was my turn to ask a question. Following the class program, I asked "Tu es marriee?" (are you married?) Stephanie answered: "No, j' ai celibataire". Woah now, steady on... Surely that couldn't be the expression for being single... My eyebrows raised and head nodded with understanding.

With courage, and to break the silence, I asked Stephanie if she had a boyfriend. Of course I had to ask what the expression for boyfriend was. "Petit ami" (little friend). I tried to imagine introducing Rob as my little friend, back in the day when we were dating.

We were asked to introduce our own word to the question pool. Feeling nervous and rushed, I pointed down to my runners, looking up, my eyebrows raised in question. "Chausseurs", Stephanie explained. Great! I know how to say shoes. Stephanie asked, "OK Melita, combien de chaussures as-tu?" I had to think on my feet (excuse the pun), and show how hard I'd been practicing my numbers. "J'ai cinqante chausseurs" (I have 50 shoes). No fireworks this time, now Stephanie's eyebrows were raised. "Vraiment Melita!" 

In English, I could bend the truth, but in French, there was no time for a convoluted lie. My shoe collection is my private world (an unhealthy world, yes) and I had just let a stranger in. Not even my husband is privy to that information. My shoes are scattered in several rooms to disguise the magnitude of my fettish. Mind you, Rob sometimes calls me Imelda anyway. Does one include hiking boots? Surely not, they're a speciality! Thongs don't count, they're like underwear, etc.

The tables turned, my turn to ask Stephanie how many shoes she had. Her answer... F-O-U-R. Perhaps she was messing with me? No. She explained (in French) exactly what each pair of her shoes was for. Any wonder she's celibate!

Khira at the beach in Anglet

A rainy day in Biarritz

Walking around the coast in Biarritz

Paella! San Sebastien, Spain

San Sebastien, Spain

Keeping in shape

Yesterday lunch I went to buy some groceries and noticed the local butcher was closed. His outdoor sign was missing, in fact, the whole shopping village looked vacant. The other shops in the strip were also closed. It was the middle of the day. Why were the shops closed? There were no CLOSED signs on front windows, but rather a dramatic curtain swept across the facade of every shop. They were closed for lunch, how civilised! Between the hours of 12-3pm it's, "Talk to the curtain, check back for the second act when the actors are ready".

I've become a regular at the local gym, a necessary evil, considering the boulangerie is right next door to our house. Every morning, the sweet smell of freshly baked baguettes drifts over the fence and into our house, (at least it's only passive bread inhalation). This is where I buy our bread and pastries. If they are out of croissants, there are always more in the oven. No "Lucky last" customers, like our bakery in Merewether. We usually visit the boulangerie for act one and two each day. I walk in, choose my bread, and as I hand over my money, the owner puts two lollies in my palm for the children and winks.

I decided to partake in a yoga class at the gym. Feeling unfazed it would be in French, I headed to the class thinking "I've done yoga before, I can watch the others, no problem". On arrival, there were fellow yogis waiting outside the studio, and our instructor, Boris arrived. Boris looked more like a Brad. He was tall, lanky and yoga-like. His hair was fashionably tussled, he wore an over-sized t-shirt and a pair of loose-fitting, no-brand shorts. No shoes of course.

We took our places, sat crossed-legged on our mats and started chanting, which is usual in Ashtanga yoga. I am familiar with this process. It felt so good to belt out a long "Ommmmmm". No one to correct my pronunciation or diction, and I could say it loud, with my eyes closed! Following the big "Om", there is a short series of phrases (recited in Sanskrit by Boris), then repeated by the participants. I even knew some of these phrases from previous Ashtanga classes in Australia. "I'm not such an outsider after all". This ancient Indian Yoga chant was the most I've uttered in this country (apart from to my husband and children) in 4 weeks!

For the next one hour and 15 minutes, I didn't understand a single word. There were some commonly used expressions like 'expirer', which I soon worked out  meant, 'breath out' and not 'die' and "chien vers le bas" and "chien tete en bas" seemed to have something to do with a dog. Boris walked slowly around the class, occasionally correcting people's posture. When it came to my turn, I felt my heart rate speed up. Was I  there under false pretences? Would I be found out? Was Boris going to be disappointed that I just turned up masquerading as a Frenchy? He stood in front of me; my legs were apart, in a warrior stance. I looked up trembling and whispered "Je ne parle pas Francais". There, I'd said it. He just looked down at my feet, and commanded "wi-der!'

Having lunch in Biarritz (where the specialty of the house is french fries cooked in duck fat - delicious!)

Dancing at the beach in Anglet

Biking through Bayonne

Zis iz la diff-erence

It would seem the French insist their rent be payed in advance, no negotiation. When we wired six months lump sum to the owner for an unseen house, we hit send, crossing our fingers that we had chosen the right house.

Now we're locked in for the next six months. We had seen photos of the house, which evoked charm and character; original Basque-style architecture, outdoor living and cosy red shutters on all the windows. A studio for art and music and a working piano. The owner's brother was even a piano tuner! When we moved in it was all true. The house is quaint and terrific. We just didn't know it was on a freeway-like main road.

Cars (and buses) whiz up and down like it's a freeway, but the road is the width of a median strip. And the footpaths are almost non-existant. "Single file, single file", we say every time we walk out of the house with our children. To soften the blow, our neighbour two doors down, is the Boulangerie, although we must be careful - we can't afford to get any wider. Our children think there is a French sign at the end of our road that says, "Drive like a maniac". To calm our nerves we have the, "Cave a vin" (bottle-o) as our neighbour on the other side.

Our fabulous babysitter, Paola, is as much babysitting us, the parents, as our children. Rob told Paola that he would like to busk on the streets whilst in France. She didn't know what busking was, so he tried to translate for her. After a lengthy explanation, Paola said, "Ear-in-ah... Fronce, zis is what we call-ah... begging".

There is an impressive sports stadium near our place, called Stade d'Aguiléra. After a game of tennis one day, I went to the bar of the stadium and ordered a drink, in my Fr/inglish. The barman took my order and nodded, (there can't be too many interpretations of the word Campari). He walked outside into the fresh air and lit up a cigarette. I thought, "He must be going to a special outdoor cupboard to get the Campari for my drink". I stood at the bar and waited, and waited, and watched him suck down on his cigarette for a long five minutes. The other staff members walked past; laughing, lighting up their own cigarettes. Eventually he ambled back inside and made my drink.

In our new house: the girls and I cooked Rob a birthday cake

Phoebe took this photo at Rob's birthday dinner

Hello France!

When flying with children, there should be a treat for you the parent, not for the children. Why can't the kids stay in the cockpit with the pilot anymore? - after all they were disarmed of their art scissors.

In usual contrast to each other, our children have different views of travel. Half way through our flight,  Khira urged us for information as to whether Dubai was a democracy or monarchy, and Phoebe urged us to change to first class. When I told Phoebe this was impossible, she asked if we could at least use the first class toilets.

On arrival to Paris we were met by a shuttle bus, which would take us to our hire car. So there we were, new surroundings, new language. Our driver was kind and patient. Khira tried to break the ice, and told our driver that her grandfather once taught her a French song. I waited to hear "Frére Jacques", but she proudly belted out "There's a place in France, where the ladies wear no pants and the men go around with their ............. hanging down." Then, she explained that there was a little tune that comes in after the verse, and sang that too.

Our destination for the night was Orleans. Tired and weary, but once in the hotel, the kids switched every light on and off repeatedly, like cavemen discovering electricity. Orleans is where Joan of Arc triumphantly vanquished the English. The kids were interested in this story, especially how young Joan of Arc was. They wanted details of how she was burnt at the stake. How they physically got her to the stake, and why she didn't push them away and run off. And what happens to someone when they burn. Does their flesh burn off, and does their skeleton burn into a pile of ashes?

The following day we drove to Bordeaux. It was a European heatwave of 44 degrees. A trip to the local swimming pool was an unforgettable experience. Swimmers, check. Goggles, check. Towels, check. Simple... you would think. After paying an entry fee, we were escorted by a lady into a family change room. She gave a speech that we didn't understand, so we took off our clothes in front of her, to reveal our swimmers. I sensed that, 'weird family experience number one' was about to begin. Still chanting, the lady pointed to our heads. Swimming caps! Ok, NO PROBLEMO. We bought four caps from a vending machine. She still didn't let us through the gate. What's the problem? You close in half an hour and we are melting here. We just want to swim. Our bags... It's forbidden to take bags through to the swimming area. We stuffed our belongings into a locker, and were finally released from the change area to the pool. Just as Rob's toe stepped into the water, a guard stopped him. What now? Wait for it... No boardies allowed. True! I looked around, and we were surrounded by a few hundred men in bikini bottoms. This, was the last pool rule, then we managed to have some fun and cool off.

Cramming and Planning

With four weeks 'til our departure, I am a walking post-it note. There is a bulk waste collection this weekend. It'll be the first council throw-out I don't scan the streets for old wicker chairs and ping-pong tables.

My friend Julie has assured me, it doesn't matter that I don't speak French. She is a General Practitioner, and did a training term in a Paris hospital some years back. Her French vocabulary consisted of three phrases: " Hello my name is Doctor Julie", "You are having a heart attack", and "Will you go to bed with me?"

 

These CD'S are actually fantastique! Penton Overseas Inc.

"Together's a Crowd". Wonderful French film.