sjoe. Its quiet today.
All I can hear, are the clicking clicking of fingers on keyboards, and the occasional throat clearing.
I look around the office, but try not to let people see that I'm obviously staring at their faces. I'm sure they must feel my glare.
I take a look at each person sitting in my immediate surroundings and each one of them tells a story or plays a part in my life.
Its quiet. I dont like the quiet.
Tuesday today which means, just 3 days to go until all of this is done.
joh.
12 October 2010
05 October 2010
Mother Goose says cheers
So its exactly 1 week and about 2 days until Mother Goose spreads her wings and rises up from her nesting place.
And about 2 weeks after that, that Mother Goose decides to move to a new continent altogether.
Looking back over the past 5 years that I've been roosting in this nest, I've seen storms. I've seen predators. I've eggs that have not quite hatched and I've seen other Geese trying to steal my chicks - but when I look back, I can only realise that this is the place Mother Goose was supposed to be living and breathing.
This Mother Goose started when this environment was a shell in an old run-down building. Where the entire 2 duckponds full of people sat in 1pond. Where entire flocks hadnt been developed or created yet.
The other ducks I've met drifting in and out of my pond area have almost all left an impression on my nest - be it a good one, or a not so good one.
There are the faces and quacks that I'd probably choose to forget, but more likely the faces and quacks that I'll carry with me - onto my next destination.
So as opposed to flying South for the winter, this Goose will be mirgrating North for hers.
And its a strang feeling. The last time I did this, I was much younger. My world was my oyster. I had no attachments. No commitments. No additional nesting fees to pay, or extra twigs and feathers that I'd gathered over time - that made my pond-life so much happier and more comfortable. I was a loner - and I could do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted to.
Now, however, 10 years have passed, and re-nesting just doesnt appear to be as easy as it once was. I am responsible now. I am an adult goose. And I do things that other adult geese do. In fact, its totally un-cool NOT to be able to say, you have a pension and a medical aid. You almost look on others without these things with pity, that they havent MADE it in the Greater Pond, in the way you have.
I look back at the freedom I had 10 years ago, and I miss it. I have always missed it.
But now, Mother Goose stands at a new precipice - about to stretch her achy wings. About to clean off her ruffled moth-ball smelling feathers. About to stretch out each webbed foot and get ready for a long (perhaps longer than usual) run up to the take off.
Its exciting, but daunting at the same time, and I wonder if I'll be able to get lift off.
I'm sure I will.
I'll take some helium with... just in case.
And about 2 weeks after that, that Mother Goose decides to move to a new continent altogether.
Looking back over the past 5 years that I've been roosting in this nest, I've seen storms. I've seen predators. I've eggs that have not quite hatched and I've seen other Geese trying to steal my chicks - but when I look back, I can only realise that this is the place Mother Goose was supposed to be living and breathing.
This Mother Goose started when this environment was a shell in an old run-down building. Where the entire 2 duckponds full of people sat in 1pond. Where entire flocks hadnt been developed or created yet.
The other ducks I've met drifting in and out of my pond area have almost all left an impression on my nest - be it a good one, or a not so good one.
There are the faces and quacks that I'd probably choose to forget, but more likely the faces and quacks that I'll carry with me - onto my next destination.
So as opposed to flying South for the winter, this Goose will be mirgrating North for hers.
And its a strang feeling. The last time I did this, I was much younger. My world was my oyster. I had no attachments. No commitments. No additional nesting fees to pay, or extra twigs and feathers that I'd gathered over time - that made my pond-life so much happier and more comfortable. I was a loner - and I could do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted to.
Now, however, 10 years have passed, and re-nesting just doesnt appear to be as easy as it once was. I am responsible now. I am an adult goose. And I do things that other adult geese do. In fact, its totally un-cool NOT to be able to say, you have a pension and a medical aid. You almost look on others without these things with pity, that they havent MADE it in the Greater Pond, in the way you have.
I look back at the freedom I had 10 years ago, and I miss it. I have always missed it.
But now, Mother Goose stands at a new precipice - about to stretch her achy wings. About to clean off her ruffled moth-ball smelling feathers. About to stretch out each webbed foot and get ready for a long (perhaps longer than usual) run up to the take off.
Its exciting, but daunting at the same time, and I wonder if I'll be able to get lift off.
I'm sure I will.
I'll take some helium with... just in case.
25 August 2010
Mother Goose quacks at IELTS
Mother Goose, a native English speaker and English teacher... only scored 80% on her English Proficiency test... quite a laugh really, when a good friend, who hails from the far east, and whose English ability leaves much to be acquired, scored .5% less than Mama Quack...
Anyway.. exciting etc..
Anyway.. exciting etc..
Mother Goose gets hitched
So fancy my amusement at finally, after all these years of quacking and querying, Mother Goose decides to get hitched, to a pretty decent boy-duck. The same boy-duck that has stuck around for about 7 years, while Mother Goose was trying to figure out just exactly what she wanted in life.
While she was looking for the glammar, and searching for "The One", she appeared to have stumbled upon a little treasure that turned out slightly more important than what she realised at the time.
And now, Mama Quack stands, with 2 weeks and 3 days lying ahead, in front of a precipice of sorts as she embarks on what is, probabably thus far anyway, the most important journey of her life.
The dress is sorted, the venue is booked, the menu has been given the thumbs up. Her To-Do list grows by the hour, as she keeps thinking of the little things that still need to be done. Ribbon for this, marmalade for that. Guestbook here, nail varnish on that. Its mad - but she continues, because she knows that time does not stand still for anyone, no matter how important they think (she thinks) they (she) are (is).
Not only is the greatness of what she's about to do, lying in her little pond, but she's about to jump to another pond, filled with other types of ducks and geese, and although her boy-duck goes with her, the nerves that are, lie and wait and manifest themselves in the form of carrot cake and pinotage wine.
While she was looking for the glammar, and searching for "The One", she appeared to have stumbled upon a little treasure that turned out slightly more important than what she realised at the time.
And now, Mama Quack stands, with 2 weeks and 3 days lying ahead, in front of a precipice of sorts as she embarks on what is, probabably thus far anyway, the most important journey of her life.
The dress is sorted, the venue is booked, the menu has been given the thumbs up. Her To-Do list grows by the hour, as she keeps thinking of the little things that still need to be done. Ribbon for this, marmalade for that. Guestbook here, nail varnish on that. Its mad - but she continues, because she knows that time does not stand still for anyone, no matter how important they think (she thinks) they (she) are (is).
Not only is the greatness of what she's about to do, lying in her little pond, but she's about to jump to another pond, filled with other types of ducks and geese, and although her boy-duck goes with her, the nerves that are, lie and wait and manifest themselves in the form of carrot cake and pinotage wine.
20 June 2010
Le Radio encore
It would appear that after several familiar visits to Le Cinq - with our usual - 1 x Hoegaarden and 1 x Kir Peche, The Real Mother Goose has become a familiar sound on the radio.
The usual locals ask for a chat over the wireless whenever the Goose is visiting. Usually about the football - or how she felt about her team losing.
Perhaps tomorrow, we'll chat about something else?
nah... I dont think so!
The usual locals ask for a chat over the wireless whenever the Goose is visiting. Usually about the football - or how she felt about her team losing.
Perhaps tomorrow, we'll chat about something else?
nah... I dont think so!
In the cafeteria
I love the French. Eating is not just about filling their stomachs. Meetings are scheduled so as to not interupt lunchtime. Time is taken... an hour... or more.... and deciding what to put on your lunchtime tray raises so many conflicts of choice... that often, the choice itself can take quite a while...
My favourite part of the hour / hour and a half long lunch episode, is the way everyone gathers at the end of cafeteria, around little cafe tables, and drink coffee... As if they're meeting with the best of friends.
The lunch-hall is loud with laughter, and chatter, and if you didnt know better... one wouldnt think this was a place of work.
My favourite part of the hour / hour and a half long lunch episode, is the way everyone gathers at the end of cafeteria, around little cafe tables, and drink coffee... As if they're meeting with the best of friends.
The lunch-hall is loud with laughter, and chatter, and if you didnt know better... one wouldnt think this was a place of work.
14 June 2010
Stupid Roundabout.....
The Interview
So you can imagine my surprise, when sitting in a tiny little pub called Le Cinq ("The Five") in Rambouillet, watching the very first and opening match of the 2010 World Cup Football between South Africa and Mexico, when a little grey-haired man approached me and asked if I'd be willing to be interviewed on the radio.
He had noticed the South African flag draped over my shoulders, and though it may be appropriate to inteview a saffa, to get in on the WC hype... I obliged.
But regretted it about 2 minutes later.
As the evening progressed, and I watched them setup their gear - the butterflies in my tummy started to get busier and busier. Thinking that I can still get out of this situation by pretending to have a dinner date in Paris, or by having recieved a frantic call that demanded my urgent attention, the same grey-haired chap came up to me asking me to lend him the SA flag to drape over a statue (Nestor - the butler from the TinTin cartoons, nonetheless!!!). I oblige again.
But regretted it about 20 seconds later.
Now I had no way to get out of this. I couldnt go and ask for the flag back and then leave, amidst all this excitement!
I resolve to thinking that at least NOBODY knows me here... and at LEAST if I dont understand, I never have to return to this little pub and never have to face this chap again!
I mentally start to practice some random things I'd like to say about the football, in French.
The interview goes swimmingly - I charm, I joke, I laugh.. I get deep, I speak about Africa's culture and spirit, I speak about Dancing Desmond... and the interview ends on a high note.
Drink please!
He had noticed the South African flag draped over my shoulders, and though it may be appropriate to inteview a saffa, to get in on the WC hype... I obliged.
But regretted it about 2 minutes later.
As the evening progressed, and I watched them setup their gear - the butterflies in my tummy started to get busier and busier. Thinking that I can still get out of this situation by pretending to have a dinner date in Paris, or by having recieved a frantic call that demanded my urgent attention, the same grey-haired chap came up to me asking me to lend him the SA flag to drape over a statue (Nestor - the butler from the TinTin cartoons, nonetheless!!!). I oblige again.
But regretted it about 20 seconds later.
Now I had no way to get out of this. I couldnt go and ask for the flag back and then leave, amidst all this excitement!
I resolve to thinking that at least NOBODY knows me here... and at LEAST if I dont understand, I never have to return to this little pub and never have to face this chap again!
I mentally start to practice some random things I'd like to say about the football, in French.
The interview goes swimmingly - I charm, I joke, I laugh.. I get deep, I speak about Africa's culture and spirit, I speak about Dancing Desmond... and the interview ends on a high note.
Drink please!
09 June 2010
The affection is infectious
One thing I like most about France is the freedom of showing your affection.
Much to my surprise when I went to reception to enquire about something small, and was greeted by the receptionist with a kiss on both cheeks. I've only met her once.
This surprised, but didnt entirely shock.
What intrigued me is just exactly how run-of-the-mill this simple practice is.
Sitting on a bench, waiting for the train, I notice teenagers all around me, signalling the end of a day.
Two girls sit to my right. They look pretty standard, as teenagers come. Pony tails, skinny jeans, the statement t-shirt, big hoop earrings, makeup, chewing gum... and they're either playing with their phones, or showing each other their latest nail-do.
As more and more people start to fill the train station, so do more and more teenagers, on their way into or out of town.
Many know each other, obviously go to the same school.
Most teenagers that pass, and recognise my two friends on the right, greet them each with the proverbial kiss on the cheek.
Girls and boys alike.
What looks like ordinarily shy, gawky teens - it comes as second nature to them and dont hesitate in offering a cheek.
I smile.
There's no pretense. Just a simple way of life.
The French way o f life. And its beautiful.
Much to my surprise when I went to reception to enquire about something small, and was greeted by the receptionist with a kiss on both cheeks. I've only met her once.
This surprised, but didnt entirely shock.
What intrigued me is just exactly how run-of-the-mill this simple practice is.
Sitting on a bench, waiting for the train, I notice teenagers all around me, signalling the end of a day.
Two girls sit to my right. They look pretty standard, as teenagers come. Pony tails, skinny jeans, the statement t-shirt, big hoop earrings, makeup, chewing gum... and they're either playing with their phones, or showing each other their latest nail-do.
As more and more people start to fill the train station, so do more and more teenagers, on their way into or out of town.
Many know each other, obviously go to the same school.
Most teenagers that pass, and recognise my two friends on the right, greet them each with the proverbial kiss on the cheek.
Girls and boys alike.
What looks like ordinarily shy, gawky teens - it comes as second nature to them and dont hesitate in offering a cheek.
I smile.
There's no pretense. Just a simple way of life.
The French way o f life. And its beautiful.
06 June 2010
I'd rather not be driving, thank you.
Why, when we're in the driver's seat, are we happy to be in the drivers seat... but when we make a choice not to be in the driver's seat, we're unhappy with the way the driver, chosen by us, is driving?
Life is a funny thing.
So is love.
Life is a funny thing.
So is love.
Petit Dejeuner.
After last night's thunderstorm, I think its best to stay indoors today.
(well, that... and the fact that I slept slightly late... and woke up at noon...)
05 June 2010
Birthday Meal? Perhaps... at least the baby was chatty....
When in Rome, etc etc... so tonight I decided to take myself out to dinner. I thought I'd find one of those little bistros... you know the kind.. with all the tightly squeezed in wicker chairs, and little round tables hardly big enough to hold a cup of tea, all facing the road, same direction... as if they all belong to Stalin's little army...
I head off to Rambouillet town centre, and am amazed how I know my way around this place already! No more u-turns and cursing at on-coming traffic that is in my lane (when actually... i'm the one thats in the wrong lane)... nope. I'm in and out of the town centre in not even 10 minutes now. Huge improvement on 45 minutes.
Anyway... so I hop in the care, don some lip gloss and a squirt of Hugo Boss Femme, and make my way towards the Carousel.
I park the car, in one of those little parking bays, get my parking ticket and display it on my dashboard and sure enough, find my first little pub. Already crowded with locals, enjoying their afternoon Pastis, I rather self-consiously walk towards the pub and settle at a little table on the edge of the hustle and bustle.
I clearly do not fit in.
I'm not wearing stilleto heels and waiflike summer dresses.
I do not have a cigarette either hanging out of my mouth, or clenched between my fingers
ALTHOUGH, I do have the big sunglasses.
I am tempted to fake a telephone call in English, so that people know what they're dealing with.
But I dont. And look around nervously for the waiter.
He eventually arrives, and he doesnt seem to be very friendly or inviting. So my idea of asking him for something "typiquement francaise" flies out the window, and I settle with trying to order a Gin and Tonic.
He brings me tonic water.
Nothing else.
Just a bottle of Indian Tonic Water.
I pretend that that is exactly what I wanted - and proceed to enjoy it. Turned out ok in the end, but I decide not to make this my Destination Dinner tonight.
After my tonic water, I take a wonder down the main road, and discover Le Cinq.
Le Cinq is a street cafe / pub, on the opposite side of the road to the Rambouillet Castle - so there are lots of people coming and going.
I settle down at a table, and I dont quite know what it is, but immediately I relax and feel familiar with my surroundings.
A blonde waitress comes to take my order, and immediately I know that this will be a willing candidate for a "What can you suggest" scenario.
She hands me the menu, and I can feintly make out a couple of things that I recognise from Mama's french cookbooks.
I order something to eat - and she wants to take my drinks order.
I begin.
"Je voudrait boire quelque chose qui est tres typiquement francaise" (I would like to drink something that is typically french).
She laughs, and yells out from the pavement where my table is, through the interior of the restaurant, to the back of the room, where the bar is situated and says, "Papa... something or other, blah blah, yadda yadda Typiquement Francaise"....
I cringe.
He yells back something in a tone that indicates that I have no other choice than to drink what he suggests...
at which she disappears, and brings me back...
Le Ricard... Anise....
Not bad at all, if you enjoy liquorice and fennel....
I mix a lot of water with it and it goes down alright!
Dinner arrives which consists of an avo ritz, followed by a piece of meat with pommes frites (that's all i'm going to say about the food... because it doesnt deserve any credit space here).
The only company I have, besides my own, is a little baby who's been pushed up alongside me in his pram and insists on making small-talk with me...
I indulge him by making faces back to him, and nodding at every little gesture he makes.
It does concern me slightly, however, that during all this time of chit chat, his right hand is holding his toe, mid-air...
I shrug.
Must be gifted... I suppose.
I take a leisurely drive back home - passing through the gardens of the Castle of Rambouillet... and discover lots of little spots that I would like to come and walk along. Mental notes remind me to return here soon!
Its almost midnight, and the sun has just set.
Beautiful day awaits tomorrow.
Perhaps I'll visit Versailles... or perhaps, I'll just sleep late.
Bon nuit, mes petits enfants!
A tout a l'heure!
I head off to Rambouillet town centre, and am amazed how I know my way around this place already! No more u-turns and cursing at on-coming traffic that is in my lane (when actually... i'm the one thats in the wrong lane)... nope. I'm in and out of the town centre in not even 10 minutes now. Huge improvement on 45 minutes.
Anyway... so I hop in the care, don some lip gloss and a squirt of Hugo Boss Femme, and make my way towards the Carousel.
I park the car, in one of those little parking bays, get my parking ticket and display it on my dashboard and sure enough, find my first little pub. Already crowded with locals, enjoying their afternoon Pastis, I rather self-consiously walk towards the pub and settle at a little table on the edge of the hustle and bustle.
I clearly do not fit in.
I'm not wearing stilleto heels and waiflike summer dresses.
I do not have a cigarette either hanging out of my mouth, or clenched between my fingers
ALTHOUGH, I do have the big sunglasses.
I am tempted to fake a telephone call in English, so that people know what they're dealing with.
But I dont. And look around nervously for the waiter.
He eventually arrives, and he doesnt seem to be very friendly or inviting. So my idea of asking him for something "typiquement francaise" flies out the window, and I settle with trying to order a Gin and Tonic.
He brings me tonic water.
Nothing else.
Just a bottle of Indian Tonic Water.
I pretend that that is exactly what I wanted - and proceed to enjoy it. Turned out ok in the end, but I decide not to make this my Destination Dinner tonight.
After my tonic water, I take a wonder down the main road, and discover Le Cinq.
Le Cinq is a street cafe / pub, on the opposite side of the road to the Rambouillet Castle - so there are lots of people coming and going.
I settle down at a table, and I dont quite know what it is, but immediately I relax and feel familiar with my surroundings.
A blonde waitress comes to take my order, and immediately I know that this will be a willing candidate for a "What can you suggest" scenario.
She hands me the menu, and I can feintly make out a couple of things that I recognise from Mama's french cookbooks.
I order something to eat - and she wants to take my drinks order.
I begin.
"Je voudrait boire quelque chose qui est tres typiquement francaise" (I would like to drink something that is typically french).
She laughs, and yells out from the pavement where my table is, through the interior of the restaurant, to the back of the room, where the bar is situated and says, "Papa... something or other, blah blah, yadda yadda Typiquement Francaise"....
I cringe.
He yells back something in a tone that indicates that I have no other choice than to drink what he suggests...
at which she disappears, and brings me back...
Le Ricard... Anise....
I mix a lot of water with it and it goes down alright!
Dinner arrives which consists of an avo ritz, followed by a piece of meat with pommes frites (that's all i'm going to say about the food... because it doesnt deserve any credit space here).
The only company I have, besides my own, is a little baby who's been pushed up alongside me in his pram and insists on making small-talk with me...
I indulge him by making faces back to him, and nodding at every little gesture he makes.
It does concern me slightly, however, that during all this time of chit chat, his right hand is holding his toe, mid-air...
I shrug.
Must be gifted... I suppose.
I take a leisurely drive back home - passing through the gardens of the Castle of Rambouillet... and discover lots of little spots that I would like to come and walk along. Mental notes remind me to return here soon!
Its almost midnight, and the sun has just set.
Beautiful day awaits tomorrow.
Perhaps I'll visit Versailles... or perhaps, I'll just sleep late.
Bon nuit, mes petits enfants!
A tout a l'heure!
Watching SA world cup, from afar
I should BE there, I keep thinking to myself.
I watch BBC news, and their FEATURE items are about South Africa. How bizarre it is to be watching news about my country, and about my history, but from an outsider looking in.
The stories are pitched in the same way that the sorrowful stories are pitched about the Holocaust, or about North Korea, or about American Slavery... and at once I feel almost hypocritical about feeling annoyed at the news of the past and the way it is presented by some news agencies.
I would like to see the giant Vuvuzela, and I would like to see the huge wheel at the waterfront.
I would like to have SA flag socks on my car mirrors, and I should be wearing the football jersey on fridays. I feel neglected at how the international arena is getting on-board with Football Fury, while I, a LOCAL to this phenomenon, sits and watches.
In my own way, I'll celebrate. And for now, I'll join the happiness of an amazing country. And I'll join the happiness of a great event. And I'll celebrate.
Albeit with a twinge of sadness.
Feel it, its there.
I watch BBC news, and their FEATURE items are about South Africa. How bizarre it is to be watching news about my country, and about my history, but from an outsider looking in.
The stories are pitched in the same way that the sorrowful stories are pitched about the Holocaust, or about North Korea, or about American Slavery... and at once I feel almost hypocritical about feeling annoyed at the news of the past and the way it is presented by some news agencies.
I would like to see the giant Vuvuzela, and I would like to see the huge wheel at the waterfront.
I would like to have SA flag socks on my car mirrors, and I should be wearing the football jersey on fridays. I feel neglected at how the international arena is getting on-board with Football Fury, while I, a LOCAL to this phenomenon, sits and watches.
In my own way, I'll celebrate. And for now, I'll join the happiness of an amazing country. And I'll join the happiness of a great event. And I'll celebrate.
Albeit with a twinge of sadness.
Feel it, its there.
Free Hugs? I knew this was the city of love, but this is just ridiculous!
As for King Tut... I didnt quite know what THAT was all about...
Oh hello charming little thing....
sigh... I hear the angels sing.... ready-made crepes on demand....
where you been all my life, dahling?
where you been all my life, dahling?
Joyeux anniversaire, to me
The 5th of June is my birthday. Legend has it that many years ago, in the heart of the Paris city-land, a Mercedez being driven by a young strapping South African air force man, was being weaved in and out of corners in the Paris rush hour traffic, to make it to the American Hospital of Paris on time.. for fear of his new gosling being born in the rear seat. Make it to the Quack on time, he did, and just in the nick of it too, for a couple of minutes later, a beautiful new freshly laid gosling emerged into the world.
This year, I find myself in the City of Love, again, for the first time since that event. And there's a sort of melancholic feeling that flows over my tail feathers as I long to be able to share this day with my mom and dad who so bravely fought their way through the chaos that is Paris at 5pm. I make a mental decision to turn this day positive, and plan a jampacked schedule of fun things to do and see.
Main treat for myself, on my day, is a visit to a Parisian hair salon, for a bit of pampering.
First thing that strikes me a bit as strange, is that I'm told to just arrive. "We dont make appointments, madam, you arrive and if there's someone else, you wait". All good. So I arrive at 8:50, just before they open.
There are already 3 people ahead of me.
Each customer is selected consecutively, so there's none of this "I'm with Louis" business, or "My appointment is with Cher... not Yvonne.. thank you. What.... Cher has left? Ok. Cancel my appointment!" rubbish.
There are no "washing" girls, or "the girls that sweep up the hair"... the responsibility is shaired by all working there, and there's a hubb of noise and chatter and excitement. You resign to all preconceptions, and simply let the masters work.
This is where Haute Couture, and Paris Fashion Week lies, so naturally - one does not argue with their stylist.
However, I am quite surprised when I say "Do what you think will work.... " to which the reply is "no... I do what you want, and then I make it better".
The stylist insists on having the mandatory conversation while doing my hair, but this time its all in french. I'm surprised by my ability - and only stumble with a couple of "Je ne comprends tout a faite" a couple of times.
I enjoy watching the crowd, in the moments of quiet - especially the different stylists. I slowly start to recognise the regular characters one finds in a hair salon.. the drama doll, the queen, le Chef Madame, and then the others that just go about their work, singing occasionally to the music on the radio, and chattering amongst themselves.
All dressed in black, the stylists here bring Haute Couture into the salon. My stylist is dressed rather simply in a cotton dress with loose fitting cotton trousers, and greek sandals, whilie Le Chef Madame wears her spectacles on the edge of her nose, and as she puts the finishing touches to a perm on a 60+ parisian dame, she sets each curl into its place with the greatest precision and care... while the other hand hangs in mid air... waiting for the final touch... the cadenza... that will finish this masterful work of art.
Another young stylist walks in slightly lates and greets everyone - she's wearing a black leather zip up dress, displaying the butterfly tattoos the front of her left shoulder, and matching black stilleto heels. She doesnt seem in the least bit worried that her mascara is thicker on the one eye, than the other... or that she has two different earring studs in... this is glam... and she has it.
The results of my coiffure are fabulous. And exactly the picture I had in my mind - through my mumble jumble of french explications, my stylist has somehow managed to understand exactly what I was looking for... and has delivered, with top marks.
I walk out of the salon... feeling about 10 feet taller than everyone else. The warmth of the neon sign above my head that reads "I am fabulous!!" couldnt be any hotter.
The only thing that tops this is when I walk outside, and get a wink from an old man sitting on the bench.
Paris.... Je t'aime.
This year, I find myself in the City of Love, again, for the first time since that event. And there's a sort of melancholic feeling that flows over my tail feathers as I long to be able to share this day with my mom and dad who so bravely fought their way through the chaos that is Paris at 5pm. I make a mental decision to turn this day positive, and plan a jampacked schedule of fun things to do and see.
Main treat for myself, on my day, is a visit to a Parisian hair salon, for a bit of pampering.
First thing that strikes me a bit as strange, is that I'm told to just arrive. "We dont make appointments, madam, you arrive and if there's someone else, you wait". All good. So I arrive at 8:50, just before they open.
There are already 3 people ahead of me.
Each customer is selected consecutively, so there's none of this "I'm with Louis" business, or "My appointment is with Cher... not Yvonne.. thank you. What.... Cher has left? Ok. Cancel my appointment!" rubbish.
There are no "washing" girls, or "the girls that sweep up the hair"... the responsibility is shaired by all working there, and there's a hubb of noise and chatter and excitement. You resign to all preconceptions, and simply let the masters work.
This is where Haute Couture, and Paris Fashion Week lies, so naturally - one does not argue with their stylist.
However, I am quite surprised when I say "Do what you think will work.... " to which the reply is "no... I do what you want, and then I make it better".
The stylist insists on having the mandatory conversation while doing my hair, but this time its all in french. I'm surprised by my ability - and only stumble with a couple of "Je ne comprends tout a faite" a couple of times.
I enjoy watching the crowd, in the moments of quiet - especially the different stylists. I slowly start to recognise the regular characters one finds in a hair salon.. the drama doll, the queen, le Chef Madame, and then the others that just go about their work, singing occasionally to the music on the radio, and chattering amongst themselves.
All dressed in black, the stylists here bring Haute Couture into the salon. My stylist is dressed rather simply in a cotton dress with loose fitting cotton trousers, and greek sandals, whilie Le Chef Madame wears her spectacles on the edge of her nose, and as she puts the finishing touches to a perm on a 60+ parisian dame, she sets each curl into its place with the greatest precision and care... while the other hand hangs in mid air... waiting for the final touch... the cadenza... that will finish this masterful work of art.
Another young stylist walks in slightly lates and greets everyone - she's wearing a black leather zip up dress, displaying the butterfly tattoos the front of her left shoulder, and matching black stilleto heels. She doesnt seem in the least bit worried that her mascara is thicker on the one eye, than the other... or that she has two different earring studs in... this is glam... and she has it.
I walk out of the salon... feeling about 10 feet taller than everyone else. The warmth of the neon sign above my head that reads "I am fabulous!!" couldnt be any hotter.
The only thing that tops this is when I walk outside, and get a wink from an old man sitting on the bench.
Paris.... Je t'aime.
04 June 2010
The Day before L'Anniversaire
Twas the night before my birthday, and all through the residence, not a creature was stirring, not even... oh hang on.. I heard my neighbour just now.
The sun is still shining in this wonderful country. Its just before 8pm and back home people are wrapped up in warm scarves and knitted jerseys - prolly sitting in front of a huge roaring fire, sipping Muscadel from the Nuy valley.
I, on the other hand, have just been to the gym downstairs - and have turned the aircon onto full blast while BBC world plays its familiar noise in the background.
31 (thats in human years to you) tomorrow. Who would have thunk that I'd be back in the city of my birth on my 31st birthday.
Was planning to go back to our old house, and to the American hospital of Paris - to celebrate the day - but I'm rather nervous to navigate without my GPS unit (sad... what hold technology has on us feeble folk nowadays).
Instead, I'll wait until Mother Goose's favourite fan arrives with the respective technology and rather plan a morning at the hair salon (it takes a lot of effort looking as good as I do), a picnic in the gardens of the Palace of Versailles, followed by a stop off at the local pub to befriend some locals and maybe indulge in a little Pastis.
Twinge of sadness at being away from home on your birthday = 1, Mother Goose = 0.
Oh well,
Here's to another at least 31 years.
Sante!
Webcams and all that goes QUACK
Mother Goose loves to be where people dont know she is....
I wonder who that Jeune Homme is....
The little main street of Villingen.
Bravery never helped anyone... or did it.
So I thought I'd be perfectly ok, by deciding to drive myself from the Charles de Gaul airport, through the heart of Paris, around to Versailles, and down to Rambouillet - which is to be my home for the next month.
Picked up my flashy Goose-mobile (of course, it had to be a Peugeot.. I AM in France, dahling) from the lovely lady in green behind the desk... and armed with a map, and a steering wheel that was on the other side of the car... I made my way out of the airport, and onto the A1.
All was going according to plan, as I had one eye on the traffic, one eye on the map, and another on the roadsigns that passed.. (yes.. we all have more eyes than are actually visible). I seemed to be progressing beautifully, when I came to a roadsign that stopped me in my tracks rather abrubptly and informed me that the highway I was travelling on, was indeed, now closed.
"Cherchez le detour" it said.
Cherchez le blimming detour!?? This is ME you're talking to.
Plan B: follow the crowds like lambs to the slaughterhouse and hopefully they take you on the road MOST travelled, and to your destination.
Wrong again...
After my 4th u-turn in front of the same apartment block at L'Orangerie, I decided it was time to throw caution to the wind, and head up hill. Literally. This seemed to do it, because after about half an hour of driving, I started noticing familiar road signs, that corresponded to my map...
With as much relief as realising that you hadnt actually sent that nasty email you thought you had by mistake, I merrily made my way to Rambouillet.
Rambouillet is pretty much one thing. Continental Offices!
Forget about the roadsigns pointing me to my residence, if you get lost, you can be sure you'll end up at Continental.
That, for some strange reason, gave me some peace of mind.
After another half hour of driving around, and a lovely older couple offering to drive and have me follow them, I reached my destination. Albeit slightly survivor-esque, I was happy to be "home".
And this is where my nest will be for the next few weeks. Happy about the sunshine, and even happier at the sound of lazy doves sitting on the rooftops, singing their laments of English (and french) Summers.
Picked up my flashy Goose-mobile (of course, it had to be a Peugeot.. I AM in France, dahling) from the lovely lady in green behind the desk... and armed with a map, and a steering wheel that was on the other side of the car... I made my way out of the airport, and onto the A1.
All was going according to plan, as I had one eye on the traffic, one eye on the map, and another on the roadsigns that passed.. (yes.. we all have more eyes than are actually visible). I seemed to be progressing beautifully, when I came to a roadsign that stopped me in my tracks rather abrubptly and informed me that the highway I was travelling on, was indeed, now closed.
"Cherchez le detour" it said.
Cherchez le blimming detour!?? This is ME you're talking to.
Plan B: follow the crowds like lambs to the slaughterhouse and hopefully they take you on the road MOST travelled, and to your destination.
Wrong again...
After my 4th u-turn in front of the same apartment block at L'Orangerie, I decided it was time to throw caution to the wind, and head up hill. Literally. This seemed to do it, because after about half an hour of driving, I started noticing familiar road signs, that corresponded to my map...
With as much relief as realising that you hadnt actually sent that nasty email you thought you had by mistake, I merrily made my way to Rambouillet.
Rambouillet is pretty much one thing. Continental Offices!
Forget about the roadsigns pointing me to my residence, if you get lost, you can be sure you'll end up at Continental.
That, for some strange reason, gave me some peace of mind.
After another half hour of driving around, and a lovely older couple offering to drive and have me follow them, I reached my destination. Albeit slightly survivor-esque, I was happy to be "home".
And this is where my nest will be for the next few weeks. Happy about the sunshine, and even happier at the sound of lazy doves sitting on the rooftops, singing their laments of English (and french) Summers.
Pere Lachaise - and Edith Piaf
You can imagine my excitement at finding my way successfully to the greatest chanteuse of all time, Edith Piaf. Having been laid to rest at La Pere Lechaise cemetry in Paris, I searched many cobbled alleys, and dusty sepulchres to find her rather ordinary looking tombstone... with one single vase on top, 2 red roses and a huge EP carved into the vase.
Feeling almost as if I was standing on Holy Ground, I noticed a little inscription at the foot of the tombstone which read
dieu reunite ceux qui s'aiment
(God reunites those that love each other)
And my mind flashes back to her life story displayed in the move La Mome, where this song rings out just after she discovered that the love of her life, had been killed in an airplane crash.
I find a little bench to sit on and rest for a while, and spend some time with Edith.
I notice that her daughter of only 2 years old, Marcelle, is also buried here with her.
Edith taught me a lot about life. And I felt it necessary to pay due respect now at her final resting place.
Non, rien de rien. No, je ne regrette rien.
Merci, Edith.
Mother Goose remembers Villingen
Been spending the past couple of weeks in Europe. First stop was a beautiful little town of Villingen, on the edge of the Black Forest in Germany. A beautiful little medieval town, I was amazed that it showed relatively little damage from the wars it has experienced.
Mother Goose being who she is, I leapt at the chance to explore the little town in any spare time that I did have. Cobbled streets and tiny little stores, you start to develop an appreciation for the usual faces you meet along the way, when you are on a search for things like... headache tablets, bottled water and something yummy for lunch.
My personal favourite was the slightly balding chap I met at the coffee house around the corner from the hotel. Very eager to practice his (non-existent) English, he always understood my order a 1-scooped-Nutella in when the time came.
On the weekends, we had the chance to visit some of the tourist attractions in the area - which naturally included many many cuckoo clock shops (we thought we'd hit the jackpot when we found our first one... little did we know that this was the start of the Cuckoo Clock mile... where these shops came hard and fast - and eventually had us not even noticing them anymore). Sigh... tourist trap 1, Mother Goose 0.
Rain and cold had us wrapped up for most of the time, but when we needed a little bit of home, we made our way to our favourite little pub, a couple of streets away from our Hotel. The locals at the pub, who didnt speak a word of English, invited these two foreigners into their coccoon as if we were lifelong friends. To the point that when we had finished our final dinner in Germany, we were sent on our way with hugs and kisses - had Mother Goose quite teary eyed.
But please... dont tell anyone.
FYI: Mother Goose works for MiX Telematics and is currently sharing her expertise in Europe.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
