Our House is Definitely Not in Paris Read online

  ‘Oh, but Paris isn’t for changing planes, it’s … it’s for changing your outlook, for … for throwing open the windows and letting in … letting in la vie en rose.’

  — Sabrina Fairchild in Sabrina (1954), Starring Humphrey Bogart, Audrey Hepburn and William Holden

  ‘There are only two places in the world where we can live happy: at home,

  and in Paris.’

  — Ernest Hemingway

  Unless of course … it’s a petite maison in Cuzance in le Lot.

  To Mumma — Bonne eightieth anniversaire

  and for all your love and support, in every possible way.

  A glossary can be found at the end of this memoir

  Prologue

  ‘'I really enjoyed the domesticity and innocence of it. I loved Enid Blyton as a kid and I wanted to live in an Enid Blyton novel. I feel like I’ve read a very sophisticated adult version of her in the sense that I would love to be in that French world; it just seems so idyllic and innocent. It really is like magic.’

  Our House is Certainly Not in Paris — Ros Mahon

  These words are a wonderful evocation of our time stolen from life, when we return each summer to our petite corner of France. It conveys a sense of a time long past and encapsulates our other life perfectly. It is indeed like a life long gone, one that we have somehow captured and for one summer each year, revel in removing ourselves from what we have come to call ‘the real world’.

  Yet at the same time, our seamless days of solitude, wrapped in our country life, still hold elements of sadness, humour, drama and tragedy. For our petite village is but a microcosm of the world at large, that laps at the edges of our carefree days.

  * * *

  As you get older, the years pass more rapidly. So it is that our fourth visit to our little house in le Lot in south-west France comes upon us in a rush. After all, life at home is a renovating one, and we work full-time. Yet now we also have an old farmhouse that we renovate on our annual working vacances, on the other side of the world. Our French life has absorbed us so seamlessly and happily that it is no longer just us who refer to it as our ‘other life’, but all those who know about Pied de la Croix.

  This year, though, is the first that I have felt so fully, and indeed quickly, absorbed into our other life. We have worked so tirelessly and relentlessly during our past three French summers that now we are reaping the rewards, for the rénovation is almost fin — though the crazy paving is not and the jardin will long remain a rambling, rustique one. This year, not only does our petite maison fling wide its shutters to welcome us back into its warm embrace, under the stone heart encasing the date ‘1882’ above the door that tells the story of truffle farmers long gone. So, too, our village Cuzance has come to quickly embrace the return each year of the rénovation Australians.

  The endless days of golden French sunlight march into autumn during our summer sojourn. There are reunions with our French amis, many apéritifs, déjeuners and dîners, friends and family who will stay with us, our treasured weekly visits to vide-grenier, and the drives of delight through the rural landscape. It is one that only changes with the seasons, rather than time, when you feel like you are transported back to a quieter, gentler way of life.

  It is still with a sense of wonder and astonishment that this will be our fourth French summer in our petite maison. The south-west region of France made an indelible impression on us on our first visit together to France five years previously. The rural landscape, adorned with sentinel rows of walnut groves, the charming villages with maisons glowing in golden stone and adorned with an artist’s palette of wooden window shutters, the towering limestone cliffs, the thickly canopied forests, the smooth gliding rivers, the tight-cornered, winding country roads — all of it reached deep into our hearts. It was a tug on our heartstrings of such strong emotional resonance that within six months, Stuart had a fleeting visit back to France in the icy, treacherous depths of winter to inspect a short-list of possible houses to buy. Within a mere matter of days, our fanciful dream became a French reality. Never in our wildest flights of fancy did we ever imagine that after twenty years of marriage, life would lead us to a small corner of rural France, just across the Channel, in fact, from where we were both born.

  Life’s fascinating journey meant that we met and married in Istanbul within seven months of meeting. From a childhood in England and immigration at the age of five, a year’s working holiday in England and travel through Europe in my twenties as a young teacher, a love affair with Turkey and a personal one a few years later when I taught English there for a year, the early days of marriage and all its inherent challenges, to an old farmhouse in France.

  At home, as the moon dances and skips across the waves and the whales leap in life-affirming arcs, it means that in my personal calendar, the one set by the seasons in both hemispheres, our other life is marching steadily towards us. Life is indeed an amazing adventure, for just like the precipitous bends on rural roads in France, one never quite knows what may lie round the corner. And now, the renovating pattern of our married life has extended to a rénovation project of grande proportions in Cuzance.

  I fling open the shutters and sunlight floods the dusty corners. Drum roll for another French summer full of enchantment on our working vacances.

  Part One

  PARIS

  Packing for Paris

  A nouveau amie — yet like the gesture of an old friendship. Are there any words that have a more resonant ring than, ‘An apartment in Paris’? Patrick’s apartment in the first arrondisement is so petite that he moved out to stay with an amie for our four nights in the most exciting city in the world. The photos he sends before our visit add to our frisson of excitement. Our eagerness builds when we plan our itinerary and discover that the glorious Paris Opera House — a must-see this time — is on his doorstep. Next in our planning is the all-important question: Where is the nearest boulangerie to slip out to for a croissant for our petit déjeuner? Not that it will be me going out to buy our breakfast pastry in Paris.

  The first thing a woman usually thinks when she is heading for Paris is, ‘What on earth will I wear?’ After years of travelling — make that decades — I aim to finally get it just right.

  First, the right bag. Now, while we had an embargo in our household on luggage-buying, I vetoed it — yes, again. And so the bright red Samonsite swivel case was bought. It is the travel bag of dreams. Next, the definitive backpack; must be smart, must be capacious. IKEA, of all places, provided the solution. It was Stuart’s exultant find and he graciously gave it to me. The stylish zip-off day pack is truly the pièce de résistance.

  Luggage sorted, it’s on to the perfect travel wardrobe. This from the woman who trudged round Europe with the biggest portable wardrobe in the world on her back. Truth be told, I spend months planning the precise pieces for Paris. And yes, we’ve all read the articles — how to pack six items and create twenty-six outfits. These articles have been avidly devoured — and the advice subsequently ignored. But this time I am determined that, like my swivel case, heads will swivel to look at me. A lofty ambition indeed in the city of chic elegance.

  There is no sight quite like it in the world, for a lover of fashion like myself, than to see a French woman strolling along the Champs-Élysées with such style and understated elegance. Their inimitable sense of chic is oh-so-casually contrived and yet oh-so-studiously studied. The Hermès scarf knotted ever so nonchalantly. The Christina Dior bag. It is also to know and ruefully accept that no matter how hard I try, a lifetime would not be long enough to capture the incomparable élan of a French woman, and most definitely not one in Paris.

  Mon
ths prior, I found a black and white Audrey Hepburn chapeau that had wire and would fold. Perfect. My Parisian wardrobe will consist entirely of clothes that can roll and unfurl into stylish ensembles, all black and white, of course. I declare jubilantly to Stuart that my new black jersey pants will take me anywhere, from a day of sightseeing and trips on the Seine to the quintessential Parisian bistro. A noir frock (or two), several white T-shirts, black turtleneck, black leggings, a long black tunic, black Birkenstocks for the daytime, silver slides for the evening, and just a dash of silver jewellery. A cute cardigan, and my oh-so-nonchalant Pierre Balmain scarf — a treasured find for a mere euro in a village vide-grenier. I’m set.

  The first thing a man usually thinks when he is heading for Paris is, ‘What will I eat?’ Stuart’s packing for Paris reflects his customary laid-back attitude to life. It is expressed in his nonchalant packing style: a couple of shirts, a few T-shirts, a pair of jeans and several pairs of shorts. I have to confess, however, that somehow his casual approach works. I am left wondering yet again about the profound difference in how I view life. How can he not have given the matter of what to wear in Paris endless deliberation? And yet, he effortlessly pulls off what I deem to be the desired look essential for a Parisian sojourn.

  At the end of the day, though, I believe that I triumph in the Paris style stakes for, let’s not forget, my esteemed vintage Guy Larouche trench coat, the ever-so-not-contrived finissage touch. Paris, I’m on my way!

  Then when we arrive, the weather mirrors the days of cold and rain we have just left behind on the other side of the world. So it is that my carefully contrived sartorial plans are thrown out the window. Or more precisely to the winds, for it is cool, damp and overcast. Our four days in Paris are spent wearing the clothes we travelled in and we are encumbered in our sightseeing with warm coats and scarves. This is not the first time this has happened to us in France. Our Parisian photos show me all in black, but not the noir I fancifully imagined. Oh no. Day after day there are shots of me on the Batobus, outside the Louvre, in the Luxembourg jardins — noir jeans, noir polo neck and noir leather jacket. Does it matter in the end that my carefully planned outfits lie untouched in my suitcase? Not at all. What matters is that we are in Paris and the dampness does not cloud our days at all. And actually, head-to-toe black is very French. One outfit would have sufficed after all.

  Everyone falls in love with the City of Lights the first time they glimpse it. And then again and again, if they are lucky enough to return. Paris has a magic, a charm, that is all its own. It is a city beyond compare. How to capture its essence? That has been the quest of artists, designers and writers for centuries. The very boulevards resonate with a palpable air of chic elegance. The joy of Paris lies in the random discoveries; the strolling down petite cobblestone streets that provide a heartbeat glimpse into other lives: the back view of an immaculate French woman disappearing round a corner, her trotting, coiffed poodle the perfect accessory; the quintessential young French lovers entwined on the banks of the Seine; the beribboned boxes of chocolat and the tantalising mounds of pastel-hued macarons. It is the soaring buildings, decorated with gargoyles that have been witness to revolutions and war, the golden light that glows upon them as the day closes. These and more are the moments you reflect on after a Parisian sojourn.

  We fall upon our first espresso and almond croissant with sighs of rapture on our first morning, and breathe in the heady aroma of newly baked baguettes. To be in Paris once in a lifetime is wonderful; to return is to be blessed with a sense of beloved reunion. We discover one of the famous Passages — Passage des Panaramas — where we sit elbow to elbow with our fellow diners, at the most petite of tables imaginable in the heart of all that is Paris. We savour our melt-in-the-mouth bœuf bourguignon and crème brûlée, and all the while the fashionable and elegant saunter past us. The artful insouciance of Parisians reflects their bien élevé, an unmatched air of well-bred, graceful stylishness.

  The historic shopping arcades are either quirky and run-down, or magnificently restored and brimming with chic boutiques. They are maze-like and full of secret entrances; you could lose yourself in them for days, gazing at the glorious chocalatiers, boulangeries and simply stepping back in time in the labyrinth of passages that date from the eighteenth century. For us, Paris is all about meandering, wandering, exploring. It is a feast in every conceivable way, not just culinary. It is the unexpected turn in a corner that makes you gasp when you peep inside a courtyard in the heart of Paris — the pots of scarlet geraniums, the bike with its wicker pannier propped against a golden stone wall, the cat basking in the flickers of sunlight. It is the old and the new, the modern and the ancient, the juxtaposition and how it all blends seamlessly together to create a city like no other.

  The Splendour of Paris

  The delights of summer

  An Apartment in Paris

  While an apartment in Paris is precisely that, and so like no other in the world, it was nevertheless not quite the one of our dreams. It was, in fact, the site of a grande rénovation. Now, why shouldn’t that have surprised me? After all, is our life not one huge construction site? We renovate at home; we renovate in France. In fact, even when I spent a year living in Istanbul, the year Stuart and I met and married on the banks of the Bosphorous, my flat was on a building site. When I got a job teaching English for a year in a private school, before my departure, I imagined the windows of my Turkish flat would overlook a bustling, lively market that I would slip out to for warm pide bread for my breakfast and Turkish delight in the evening. There would be minarets on the horizon, the call of the muezzin, winding streets full of culture and history. Non. It was a building site in the suburbs far from any cafés or exquisite cuisine. And so it would seem to be the case, several decades later, in Paris.

  The surreal adventure starts on arrival. First, I gasp in horror when the concierge ushers us into a petite lift the size of a small suitcase. I step back in alarm and simply refuse to get in. Naturally, Stuart bravely ascends, carrying his luggage, despite the shock of the miniscule lift. Part of my mind is registering how very French movie-like it all is. Have we not all seen the films? The heavy wooden door leading in from the boulevard, the courtyard, the concierge whose door bell you ring,

  French Cuisine

  Apart from Paris, it is food people’s minds turn to when they head for France. French cuisine is esteemed more highly than any other in the world. It is no wonder that France is the premier tourist destination for travellers the world over. Metaphorically, belts are already loosened when people board the plane, ready for the gastronomic delights that lie in wait. They are not the only things in wait, so to speak … the scales are sure to tip on any traveller’s return home. Temptation lures the tourist round every corner. It is simply impossible to resist.

  Just before we leave, I read that delicate, light-as-clouds choux pastry puffs have overtaken macarons in the pâtisserie stakes. That is a fact I am determined to store in my memory bank of not-to-be missed delectable treats. Choux pastry is filled with every flavour imaginable, from the classic lemon, caramel and chocolate, to exotic combinations such as cherry, pistachio and strawberry. They have become so popular in the competitive pâtisserie tug-of-war that some even have a choux du jour, with the filling changing each day.

  Once again in the months prior to our departure, the weekend papers are full of features about France. As Paris is the most popular destination when thoughts turn to travel, it is no wonder that France is so frequently highlighted. As always, I greedily devour every article, not the least the ones about the famed cuisine. I am again reminded that at home in Australia, food is not by any means the focus of my life. Step foot in France, though, and everything changes.

  I positively pounce upon a two-page spread that extols the most outstanding cafés, boulangeries and pâtisseries in Paris. Now this is my sort of tourist guide. I plot and plan how many I can possibly visit. Another almond croissant from one of the many famous Jewis
h bakers in the Marais district, such as Sacha Finklesztajn? Why not? I can already taste it — its rich, buttery, melt-in-the-mouth flakes positively oozing with almond lusciousness. Surely a few hours exploring the charming streets of Paris will more than offset one indulgent plump croissant before choosing one of the myriad of charismatic cafés to settle in for a leisurely déjeuner? There is, of course, a fine distinction between provincial fare and Parisian cuisine. Country treats will be waiting in abundance in our département — canard in all its many succulent varieties; walnuts creatively incorporated in many dishes and, of course, the rich, much-maligned foie gras.

  Across the oceans and continents and time-zones, my taste buds are already tingling in avid anticipation. I let my gaze linger over every word as I devour descriptions of the culinary delights that await — just as surely as my lips will linger over every luscious mouthful. Now, what time is it again that the famed boulangeries of Paris open?

  I’m torn long before arrival over the well-remembered pleasure that the magnifique, brightly coloured macarons unfailingly provide. Or, trying for the first time, a famous mille-feuille, perhaps from Ladurée, possibly the most esteemed pâtisserie in Paris. The very thought of a mille-feuille, with its fine-as-air, wafer-thin layers of pastry and layers of crème, is enough to make me almost book an earlier flight.

  While I bake at home in Australia (though never in my French life, for even without the demands of rénovée, why would I when the pâtisseries are so superb?) I will never aspire to be a pastry chef in Paris. They wake at 2am, when even the stars are still dreaming. I am more than content to wait quite a few hours longer to sample the wares of their dedication and devotion. In my moments of relaxation, I even find myself idly browsing pâtisseries in Paris on the internet.