Settling In.
Today is my first day alone. I dropped my husband, Stuart, off at Nice airport this morning and experienced driving on the autoroute for the first time. I think that there are easier sections than the tunnels and hills around Nice, but I made it, even the peage. After the first time—leaping out the car, squeezing through the too small gap that I had left, to get to the pay machine— I made sure that I stopped well before the barrier, so that I could go round the front of the car to pay. I’m sure by tomorrow my pulse rate will be back to normal.
I should start writing in earnest, getting on with my book but instead, I have been for a walk, tidied up, checked my emails, rearranged my notepads, posted on instagram, tried to do some washing, complained to landlord that la machine à laver ne fonctionne pas, stared into space, enjoyed the sunshine… Tomorrow I will get to work.
And tomorrow I did, and the days after that... If I can keep writing a minimum of a thousand words a day, my next novel will be finished by the end of the year.
I write sitting on the little patio, in glorious sunshine. The only downside is that it’s too hot for trousers so I’ve had to shave my legs—legs that weren’t expecting to see the light of day until next spring. Oh well, small price to pay.
After writing my self imposed number of words, I can convince myself that sitting in the sunshine, reading Madame Bovary, is essential for my continued creativity.
I have the same, slightly apprehensive, excitement that I experienced when I first left home, to go to university. Living in this little flat with few of the luxuries that I am used to, intensifies the feeling. I am here to learn, to try new things. Not to study this time, although my living room—with notebooks scattered about, half read books, pencils sharpened ready for action, charging cables for laptop, printer and phone plugged in in unlikely places—gives a definite feeling of a place of work.
When I was at university, I would make a weekly phone call home. Always at six o’clock on a Sunday evening, from a pay phone, using coins I had saved during the week. I wrote letters to everyone else. Now, it is a struggle to escape. I can communicate with family and friends at any time and they can contact me. I have to actively mute my phone and turn off notifications on social media, in order to have the time, space and peace to get on with what I want to do.
It is not only the outside world that distracts me, there is so much here to explore, new experiences, people to meet. On a walk yesterday, I came across two men hunting wild boar. My head was still in England, so when I saw the orange jackets I immediately thought that they were council workers but the rifle slung over the shoulder of the younger one gave the game away. They were happy to explain what they were doing, I understood and (hopefully) asked the right questions. Sadly I couldn’t put the words together in French to tell them that I shoot in England (pheasants and partridge, not wild boar), but perhaps next time I see them.
Like any good student, I have found a library—St John’s English Library—where I received a warm welcome, met some lovely people, donated copies of my books and was invited to do a talk at the end of January. More importantly it is where I will be able to have French lessons…
https://www.facebook.com/MentonEnglishLibrary/
Gradually, I am finding my feet, but now I must get back to the writing that I came here to do.
As a post script to my first post (Menton - Countdown to Departure), Gustav Flaubert describes my feelings much more succinctly: It seemed to her that certain places on earth must produce happiness, like a plant native to that soil which grows poorly anywhere else. (Madame Bovary)
Comments
Post a Comment