Sometimes in life, as the years tick over and decades fall behind, you get to a point in your storytelling where you can almost begin to regale old tales that defined you once, became redundant for a while, but somehow find relevance again in a very different way.
And I wonder now, have I ever told you about our journey to Strasbourg 13 years ago, this weekend? How we’d packed up our house 2 weeks before, were living out of our suitcases- 4 of them- while we bid farewell to my Mum and Dad, my brother, his wife and their one daughter, to my sister, her hubby and their one daughter, and Anton’s folks, sister and nephew and boarded a plane bound for Frankfurt. How we said goodbye for ‘at least 5 years’, how Alex was 5 years old and excited for their holiday, Beth not yet 3, barely verbal in her bilingual voice who was almost, but not quite that kid on the plane. She refused to settle to sleep in her seat and kicked up an enormous fuss that I smacked her quite violently- to my shame and horror. She also refused to use the airplane toilet, no matter how many times she told me she needed a wee, and by the time we queued at the exit gates in Frankfurt, her on my hip because it was just easier that way, I felt a warm stream of 13 hours of pee soaking into my shirt.
We settled into our temporary accommodation, a little house outside in the suburbs, complete with a free standing spiral staircase that wound it’s way to the bedrooms up above. That summer was just as hot as any other Alsace summer, my kids spent cooling down in a bucket of water since we had no idea about public pools. Beth took to eating emmenthal cheese like a mouse, as well as cooking chocolate that I stored in the fridge. And if we came across anyone who speaks English, the girls would tell them we were South Africans on holiday in France. We toured the city on foot and ate ice creams in the Orangerie, and one time we accidentally ordered a very expensive serving of strawberries and ice cream as a treat for the girls while still spending our hard earned South Africans Rands that didn’t stretch far against the Euro.
The first day of school after 6 weeks of holiday ended up being a walk across the parking lot near the Eckbolsheim post office to the small maternelle school in the suburb. None of us spoke any French, those kind teachers simply welcomed us with warmth and kindness and we spent an enormous amount of time trying to Google translate the stationery list and figure out what we needed serviettes for and what exactly was a Velleda ardoise?
So often I think back to the first fortnight in September 2013 and wonder what our lives would have looked like if we hadn’t finally got the email to say there were places available for Alex and Beth at the International School. We -well, a relocation agency had since there was no way I could have maintained any type of adminning back then, I mean, even applying to a regular school in South Africa for Alex to start in 2014 had caused a hurdle for me- a relocation agency had signed the girls up to schools. We were a late entry into the Int. School and they were finally able to give us a spot after school started and the variety of ‘no-shows’ had been accounted for. Do you know what’s ironic about this? Alex might got her spot there because her now boyfriend had left that school during the summer, only to return 8 years later (to a different school) and the city is that small that it was almost inevitable they curated a relationship.
Alex graduated from high school this week. 13 years of living in France. Her entire schooling. I attended the ceremony where the English department handed out certificates to mark the occasion. I cried. Not great donkey tears, but there was a stream of tears running down my cheeks. Grateful I was late and managed to get a seat at the back of the auditorium on my own, nobody was partial to my sadness. But what else was there in it given Anton was not at my side? Later, a small group of us managed to sit down for a drink to celebrate out children’s success. They were some of my closer friends, who know me at my core, who have gone through life with me for a while now.
Exactly where I would be on this day if we hadn’t been able to educate the girls in the International School, I don’t know. I wonder if we would have stuck it out at all?
Truth is, it’s not all just the school influence for our lives being the journey it has been. The company Anton worked for takes an equal share of our success. Anton gave his everything to them, and I believe they held him in equal respect. At their core, I believe Ortho is a family company and their ethos brings together just as many families and nationalities as my kids’ schools have. We have been able to surround ourselves with the kindest of people who have not only become friends to me, but mentors to my girls, our friendships spanning 3 generations (Gen X, Millenials and Gen Z’s), and you can’t even tell the difference between us! There are even babies in the mix nowadays, and that’s a deeply significant moment to me: it serves to remind me that this is where we belong. And while challenges in life will always find a way of coming up to the surface, I suspect the connections we’ve made along the way are a true symbol of our success.
Along the way, as it should, sport has succeeded in adding a much needed depth to our cup. From the way of Anton’s Favourite Favourite of sport-that being cricket- we have manifested deep friendships through the network of cricket players of the Strasbourg Strollers. From the very first family who took us to their home for crêpes on juillet quatorze, the weekend of our arrival, to the next family who served up a magnificent braai and an entire Sunday afternoon of rosé wine and cheese platters, to cricket games under the hot Alsace sun with endless bottles of rosé. It was through cricket where we met rugby so to speak, and lo and behold, the South African crew became features on our terrace alongside the brand new Weber braai and we had an entirely new and wonderful set of connections. Those friends have the keys to my kingdom now. They use the garden gate and drop their bikes in my lawn like old friends. Or family. They know where to find the champagne flutes and beer glasses, their children tear around the garden looking for tractors and dinosaurs as if they left them there over their last visit. Every single time when we bow our head for grace at a meal, we say a little hello to Anton, who sits next to me at the head of the table. Their children, like all of my nieces and nephews back in South Africa, they weren’t there when we became friends. Now I have a nursery of little bodies that I’ve become an adopted tannie to, another reminder of how far we’ve come.
13 years. It’s a long time if you think we never planned for this. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like it’s been that long. Sometimes it feels like it was yesterday that we left. I nostalgically traipse through my photos and can’t shake off the feeling that a moment was already 6, 8, 10 years ago. It was really just yesterday that we first drove to Italy wasn’t it?
We live a comfortable life here in France. Maslow’s hierarchy of needs is all but covered and perhaps it’s the Kübler-Ross grief cycle that we’ve managed to navigate through every day to day. We’ve all evolved, but stayed the same perhaps. Growth: imperceptible. And yet when I see Alex laugh over her shoulder and blow a kiss to her boyfriend, I can see how she’s gained a level of confidence she lost years ago. I think of Beth throwing a tantrum on the SAA Boeing at the age of 2, or when she tried to get me to carry home her scooter and 2 bags of groceries in 2014, to how adept she is at gauging my mood now, I marvel at how the change is perhaps not imperceptible.
And as for me? Well, perhaps it’s not as easy as that. Still prone to deep moments of insecurity, I know better than to dwell on that. If I don’t let my teenagers do it, I know I can’t. And so, while I am often too scared to pick up a phone to make a phone call, I can still find myself continually sitting in conversations – job interviews nonetheless-with French people explaining who I am in broken French.
I adore the seasons of north eastern France, winter is an absolute necessity. I love running in the forest, (when I carve the time put for it) even in the dead of a grey winters morning.
I’m not immune to homesickness and if you ask me about my homeland I will describe the bluest of skies, the stormiest of summers, the most fervent supporters of their land that are South Africans, home or abroad. In the many years abroad, not only have I become a widow, I’ve also lost my Mom to cancer, watched the successes of my family from afar, I’ve worked hard to maintain my oldest friendships, I miss my Dad and his wife, my brother, his wife and their 3 children now, who grow up with a very different kind of relationship with the SudAfrifrans aunt and cousins. I may speak to my sister almost daily, my nephew knows when the light is wrong and loves talking to me about my work in the kitchen. But they always remain a FaceTime away. In as much as a conversation would be with my friends here should I ever return to my birthplace.
Anton was homesick for South Africa in the years before he died. Every part of his existence leaned towards acknowledging his South African-ess. No matter what we do, we cannot, we will not, shed that part of who we are. It turns out it is possible to have love for 2 parts of this world. We will continue to strive for that at all costs.
While the French sun has soared into her blue, blue skies and finally sunk to her parched resting place, I’ve taken the time today to sit and write outside. A glass of wine at my side after a dinner cooked on the braai, I felt a little author-esque in my hazy wine induced musings. Does any of it make sense? As I put the writing to rest, long after dark, I have left my bedroom windows open and the lights off. From here I can see the stars.
As Coldplay wrote: “Look at the stars
Look how they shine for you
And everything you do”
Orion’s Belt and the Scorpion look down on me tonight. Anton sits there among them telling me it’s time to go to bed, because he’s waiting there for me, in my dreams.
Pinot, Bretzels, and Cathedrals 