Another great day in this land of France.
Woke up from a deep, deep sleep to sounds of family life: a baby boy crying softly, breakfast being prepared, hushed voices in the other rooms. I emerged from my cocoon to get a glass of water in the kitchen and then proceeded to get down to the business of carrying out my newest resolution: to do a minimum of ten minutes of my Ministry of Sound “Urban Work Out” video as soon as I am physically able. The fact that I am willing to engage in this incredibly goofy and ridiculous act, right in front of my nephew and sister-in-law, wearing nothing but my nightie, some socks and sneakers, underwear and an essential bra, is a testament to my new found dedication to bringing more regular aerobic exercise into my life.
Yes I felt much like a clown, mimicking the gorgeous music video dancer and her groupies engage in various supposedly “hip-hop”-ish kind of moves, involving jumping, criss-crossing legs, bending knees, waving arms, gyrating my hips and ass, while my sister-in-law sat looking politely disinterested and my nephew gazed upon me with bemusement. But damn it, I did it, I got through the ten minute warm-up and I felt proud. It’s essential that I do this everyday if I’m ever going to progress to the next section of the work-out and if I ever want to firm up the old tush and belly.
I have a great bod. But with a little effort and perseverance, it could be greater. Like professional music video dancer greater.
Anyways, my brother had perfect timing this morning and handed me a cup of expresso coffee, the minute I finished my work-out. Then I had the pleasure of feeding little Arthur some of my cereal. He really gets into eating. Every mouthful is anticipated with a wide open mouth and an “Aaaaaaahhhhh…”
My brother and I spent the day driving to the little village of St Dizier where his choir – which specializes in gospel music and spirituals — had a concert at four in the afternoon. He had asked me, in advance, if I’d be into going and I said sure. Why not? A ride into the countryside of France, good music and three uninterrupted hours of his company. How could I say no? Of my two brothers, let me tell you, he is the one I’d rather be stuck in a car with. (Sorry, Fred, you know exactly what I’m talking about – remember that little trip to Quebec City when we almost killed each other?! Gotcha.)
It was another gorgeous day. The sun was shining, the temperature hot, and wanting to avoid the expensive tolls on the freeways, we took the smaller country roads and saw plenty of beautiful scenery: farmland, lakes, rolling hills, the occasional chateau tower. We stopped in a nearby town for a badly needed second coffee (car rides make me sleep like a baby) and then a lunch of sandwiches and fruit in the town square. We made it to his rehearsal just in time and then I had a few hours “to kill” until concert time.
I wandered down the village streets and stumbled upon a kind of festival happening in a big green park: Tables with people selling their crafts and artisanal goods, a future outdoor concert setting up. Most important though: Green, green, greenery and sun, sun, sunshine. I wandered around a bit, checking out the goods and finally settled on a joke gift for loverboy back home (an extremely aged second hand tome of “Vie sexuelle des animaux et des plantes”) and then found a shady, quiet spot out of harm’s way, where I lay on the grass and tried to read my magazines for a while. After a few pages about Sarkozy’s problematic presidency, I realized I was not in the mood, and simply lay there and enjoyed my first day of vacay doing absolutely nothing. I listened to the birds chirping in various pitches, to the murmur of French people discussing their handiwork, I smelt the trees and blossoms surrounding me, I enjoyed the warmth of the sun on my skin. It had been a grey, cold and damp week back in Montreal before I left for this trip, so nothing but a good dose of sun on my face and I am in heaven on earth.
A highlight of this episode. At some point, I sat up and stretched only to witness an old man taking a pee in the bush right in front of me, in plain view. His wife was standing beside her so I commented to her that this was funny, how men always seem so indifferent — or oblivious — to someone witnessing their urination. She chuckled, slightly embarrassingly — and chastised the culprit when he turned around and buckled up his pants. He grumbled something that expressed indifference and they were on their merry way….
The outdoor concert was starting up and it sounded awful – some French lady singer singing so loud into her microphone it distorted to terible music appropriating generic Middle Eastern beats, so I quickly got up, found my way out of the park and walked to a nearby cafe, where I enjoyed yet another expresso coffee, the sunshine, and a book I’ve been working on: Cousine K, by the Algerian writer Yasmina Khadra. It is the story of a young man who seems, very sadly to be ignored, unloved, almost hated by his mother. Exquisitely written though, with the kind of French language I feel I can never aspire to. There are words I will need to go back to and look up in the dictionary.
Finally it was time for the concert. I purchased my ticked and program and found a spot on the balcony. Hot up here but with a good view and more conducive to enjoying the old theatre’s architecture. I sat down next to a friendly older woman and her husband, from the town, who confessed to me that they don’t miss an opportunity to hear gospel music. It is a funny thing, all these old French white folks who dig the gospel and spirituals so much. But here I was, surrounded by them, and listening to them sing these African-American songs, with their French accents. The concert was actually very beautiful and inspiring with two different choirs performing and occasionally coming together. The choir director is an American woman, with impeccable French, who seems to really know how to get the best out of her singers. Despite the heat of the building, we were all moved to clap and snap our fingers and occasionally join in.
After the concert, some food and champagne was served. I was happy to eventually manage to unlock myself from one of the stall’s in the lady’s bathroom, where I spent a good few panicked moments, rattling the doorknob, trying unsuccessfully to unbolt the deadbolt, every which way, feeling increasingly trapped and desperately texting my brother to get help.
Typical of me. I eventually figured it out.
People swarmed around the food table like rabid dogs. I have never seen such seemingly bourgeois “polite-seemng” people acting so pushy and impatient for food and drink. You really had to fight for your right to a piece of cake or olive tapenade toast. And the outcry at the fact that there were not enough glasses to go around! I found it cramped and stressful and spent most of my time, away from the madness and out on the much cooler balcony.
Finally, the three-hour ride home with bro, singing at the top of our lungs to the CDs we’d brought along: mostly eighties pop favourites and motown classics. We stopped at a lake called Lac du Der, where I didn’t hesitate to strip down to my undies and plunge in. The water was perfect! Something you must know about me: I can never pass up an opportunity to get wet and refreshed in a body of water. Couldn’t convince my brother to do the same, though. Then walking back to the car, he realized he’d had his bathing suit in there all along! Bummer. I know not everyone is as willing to embarass themselves in public wearing noting but their unmatched undies as I am. But hey! There was barely anyone on the beach anyways and … it felt damn good.
Some more singing alternating with dozing off in the car and finally, we approached the bright lights and vibrant buzz of Paris. And we’re home again. And I’ve got seven more days of good holiday times to go…
