Pinot, Bretzels, and Cathedrals

A train speeds through the French countryside. Through the window, a lone traveller watches. Her eyes burn a little after shedding tears, and her reflection peers back at her: puffy cheeks, the outline of a second chin, and even her eyes are absent of life.  The train slows down to pass through a half derelict old stone town, somewhere just south of Dijon. Annoyed with the hippy music she’s had playing, she picks up her phone to change the playlist to something that reflects her sombre mood. Blink 182 is at the top of the list. One More Time.  The song – a song- of this era. The songs opening chords tumble into her ears, followed by the first line “Strangers, from strangers into brothers, from brothers into strangers once again” 

The word strangers hits me in my heart…like an arrow, I guess. <<I wish they told us, it shouldn’t take a sickness, or airplanes falling out the sky. Do I have to die to hear you miss me? Do I have to die to hear you say goodbye?>>. The first time I properly heard the lyrics was when Anton was in hospital last year February. It felt prophetic even though I didn’t know that it would come to be.

I’ve been sat in this seat alongside a window for 3 hours so far, and I’ve finally finished the book I’ve been reading for 3 weeks.  I’ve promised myself on this little sojourn to the south of France, that I will use the time for writing. But you know how I love writing from a train.  It appeals to a part of me that incites evocative imagery, and colourful writing.  To observe the world passing by from the window of a train means I can see the changing landscape, I can reflect on my feelings, and convert them all to this.  

But I’m at a loss.  The book I’ve just finished – ‘Vagabond’ by Mark Eveleigh – was about his 5 week journey from the south of Spain (Gibraltar actually) to the northern coastline in Galicia on foot, and for the most part, sleeping rough in a hammock under the Spanish stars. Mark is a travel journalist so anything I attempt to write about my current adventure will pale into comparison, even if I’m not writing for the same purpose, but one persons reflections and insights into a country’s landscape and historical tapestry shouldn’t be compared to my own experience. We read to educate ourselves into the world beyond what we can see. We write largely – I think- to express our inner most reflections.

My train is currently somewhere due south between Dijon and Valence. The nicer looking towns we speed past are made up of dirty stone houses, and you can tell they’re old. It’s the Burgundy wine region, although from the train, I’ve seen more sheep and goats than vineyards. There are also rivers covered by arched stone bridges. The Rhone River rises up alongside the train tracks every now and then.  She’s not the Rhine, but she’ll do.

For the longest of times I’ve been eager to travel- or merely just take a trip- on my own.  For the most part, being able to travel is a privilege, and a way to escape the humdrum of life’s day-to-day, so please excuse that I’m highlighting my own privilege.

The thing is, it’s sort of been a sticking point between Anton and I. On the occasion I proposed a little solo journey, I was met with an obstacle. Money was always the obvious one. But when money became more available, I had to save leave for travels to South Africa for 6 weeks, or I had to be home to parent, or because it wasn’t fair on Anton not being able to do something similar.  I accepted his views, because that’s what I do.  And then when the shit hit the fan last year, and I stopped working, I couldn’t profit from the time off. It should have been the ideal occasion actually: fluidly, finances were good. And if Anton was bound to staying home with the girls, I could have profited from it. But I had also set my own goals to achieve: study French, practise driving.

It’s ironic that those are the items on my list that were achieved after his passing. Where did 12 months go to?

And as I move on with life, my eventual and sadly inevitable return to work, I began to wonder if trying to fulfil one tiny goal of a trip somewhere was going to be possible. The issue of finances rose up again, but also I’m now officially the sole parent in my home. 

Since I’ve been really particular about what job I apply for given I don’t want to work nights and weekends so that I’m present for Alex and Beth, how could I justify a sole adventure?

It’s (almost) 12 years that I’ve lived in France. The list of places I’ve visited here counts less than 5.  Okay, maybe it’s closer to 10. I’d love to see more of this country that has become my home for almost a quarter of my life. But I do appreciate that travel is a privilege. It’s also an education, though, isn’t it? And in undertaking a journey, for some people anyway, it’s taking oneself out of a comfort zone.  Could I fulfil this small challenge that’s been gnawing at me?

I agonised over my thoughts for several weeks, and because I do my best to maintain openness and honesty within our home, it was a conversation I had with the girls. 

And do you know what? My girls are troopers. They understand me, and they know that for the most part, they’ll be okay if I take a little trip without them for a few days. 

With their blessing (they know it will come back to serve them at some point) I pondered where to travel to.

In the end it was the lure of a South African gathering way down in the south of France that allowed me to make a decision. There’s an annual potjie competition hosted by the contingency of South Afri-fair-weather-fans who live down south.  It’s usually held over the long Pentecost weekend and to be honest, an  event that I’ve longed to attend for a few years and work has always got in the way. And the 9 hour journey from Alsace.

When The Oracle checked in on me a couple of months back, she mentioned the event and I realised it was going to be the reason I needed to take a trip.

And so I launched a search for train tickets.  Honestly, a flight down south might have proven more time effective. Probably cheaper, if you can travel out of a handbag. But let’s take a moment to dissuade you from aeroplanes. 

Airports are always outside of town aren’t they.  So while you save a buck on cheap flights (which should go against the environmental awareness society we exist in), you’re not saving on having to pay for taxis or Uber’s to take you anywhere in the city. For this solo adventure, being bound to find a bed in a city’s Old Town centre is evocative and so when a train trundles straight into those parts, it’s a bonus isn’t it? 

My second reason for not flying is that the cheap flight from Strasbourg to Nice meant a return flight landing at 23h30.  Honestly, even if I could balance the scales between cheap flights and a train to the airport, there’s no feasible all night public transport available and taxis in the middle of the night leave my single status much to be weary of. 

And so I find myself hurtling down into the sunny dry koppies of the south on a train.  But then, I like trains so I’m happy.

Mind you, I have cried on this journey.  

In having fought for this trip, I’ve realise now, as I sit with some Afrikaans treffers playing on a playlist (it’s my list of what music of Antons’ I liked, so it’s his playlist I guess) what a journey it has been to be here.

I wouldn’t be on this train if Anton hadn’t got sick. Or died for that matter. We were a couple. We did life together. We supported each other’s choices. We had each other’s back. We made decisions together, even if it meant someone needing to compromise sometimes. Such was our relationship. 

Every part of my life is different now. Being strong for the girls -on my own.  Trying to figure out finances, on my own. Having to worry about broken bicycles – at least having to impose on a friend for that.  Going to parties. On my own.  Answering the innocent questions that strangers pose.  

It’s the questions that strangers put at my feet that have brought me to teary sniffling responses lately. I’m out of my comfort zone. “Who am I” seems to be an unanswerable question when I wake in the early light of day, alone in my bed, gasping back a dream.  Anton used to wake me up if I dreamed in fear.  

I’ll be away for 5 nights. I balked at the cost of the train tickets on peak travel days, without considering the cost of an extra night in a hotel, but honestly, that balances out. I arrive in Cannes this evening, and will have 2 nights on my own. On Saturday I will meet up with a crowd of South Africans where we’ll kuier and taste whiskey and braai, and perhaps I’ll make some new friends.  

Every single part of this journey is taking me out of my comfort zone. But it’s only me that can do the work. 

My train has crossed from the region Rhone- Alps into Provence Côte d’Azur. The mountains of the Massif Centrale are visible behind us now, like the devil angrily punched at the earth from below with his fists, over and over again.  Probably further away from my imagination lie The Alps. The countryside has changed again.  Now the little koppies are adorned with what appears to be churches, and alongside fields of now-golden coloured wheat, are the famous lavender fields. Farm roads are lined by tall Cyprus trees, scrub like bushes try to push their way through white-ochre shale and I find myself wishing that I could be outside the train to take it all in, to smell the lavender, feel the warmth of the sun and stand in awe of this magnificent world we live in. I wish I had it in me to become a hiker, but I like my creature comforts too much.  

Tuesday en route back to the north. My days have been filled between Cannes, Saint Raphaël and a veritable tribe of South Africans in Roquebrune- sur-Argens . I had not realised just how many of them were located down in the south. We definitely don’t have the same numbers up north, and I guess it peeves me that so many of us are fixated on sunny weather. I guess I’m an exception to the norm. Having travelled by train, I was stuck at the behest of kind strangers for lifts, plates of food and drinks, a cheerful smile and shoulder to lean on. I can’t deny that I have come back feeling wholly under accomplished. I do well for myself in my home circle, but I’m definitely an outsider anywhere else. That said, I owe a great deal to the kindly people who collected me and dropped me off at various places around the Var. Who supplied me with a hug and smile and hangover fizzies after I’d failed at recovering from the whisky tasting. Who listened to my story. Who took a photo of me and made me smile at her happiness. Who braai’d my lonely chicken wings and chippolata sausages. Who sat with me and drank rosé wine at 8am. (She drank the wine. I sipped in water).

Any amount of discomfort I felt was self-inflicted. I’ve come away with a trail of new faces in my mind. Whether or not they’ll remember me? Should I let it bother me?

Mostly, though, I took the trip. I sat at restaurants on my own, I meandered around new places to try figure out what makes them tick (money makes Cannes tick. Families are the grassroots of Saint Raphaël). I didn’t eat a Niçoise Salad but I ran out of time. I might not have sat on a beach and bronzed myself (but I’m fully using the excuse that I’m prone to melanomas), but I did wander into the Med with my bare feet once the beaches were quiet.

I watched the sun turn the skyline and ocean into a beautiful place, which it really is, if you have the privilege of being able to take the time to notice it.