I had never intended on living a decade of madness. When I embarked on my adventurous folly, I’d forgotten that life rarely dishes out what we truly expect.
I no longer live in expectation of what tomorrow might bring. Rather, I choose to live in the enchanted madness of the present, with the knowledge of the past as my steady travelling companion.
I once lived in a place far, far away. A land where ‘les folies’, were a regular and standard occurrence. Where each day presented new challenges and endless temptations sought to ruin me. My life changed dramatically and irrevocably in this place. That same life now seems aeons away. It comes to me in dreamlike flashes and haunts me with romantic nostalgia. That decade of unadulterated bliss took place in a land distant from my own, on the far, northern curves of this blue planet. A land steeped in history and renowned for its unique flair and style. The irrepressibly beautiful, irresistibly delicious and irrefutably delectable, Republic of France. The home of Dom Perignon Champagne, Pâté de Foie gras, Chanel Haute couture, Cartier, warm croissants, hot crusty baguettes and even hotter men. Hey, I should know. I’ve been married to one for over 20 years.
I returned to this beautiful land all thanks to my French love, and in doing so, fulfilled a schoolgirl fantasy.
I was blessed with a talent for languages as a child and the year I spent in Italy, as a wide-eyed adolescent, didn’t hurt. In high school, French became my favourite and I excelled without even trying too hard. I adored the romanticism and gentleness of its poetic form. The way that every word rolled languidly off your tongue.
Ahhhh … Romantic France. Many years ago, seated at a graffiti-riddled timber desk, in my grey, convent school uniform, I daydreamed of the moment I would stand on French soil surrounded, of course, by doting Casanovas who whispered naughty French nothings in my ear, whilst serving me pâté laden toasts and endless glasses of intoxicating Champagne. Well a girl can dream, can’t she?
Dreams become reality. Destiny finds a way. As we Italians say, ‘Il destino… it is written on the stars.’ Four years after graduating, I met my French, husband-to-be on a Manchester bound aircraft and knew within hours, that he was the one I’d been waiting for. Our meeting in the troposphere was serendipitous and unforgettably romantic. Abundant flirting, gentle manipulation and textbook-perfect dating followed. And yes, the man involved did his country proud. Jean André Raoul epitomised the reputation of the amorous Frenchman in every respect. You know, slightly aloof to start with, then charming … disarmingly so. To the point where it was impossible for me to respond to anything he asked with a believable ‘NO!’ He was convincingly handsome and remains so to this day.
He literally charmed the pants off me. They seem to have an inherent way of doing that. What is it? Some kind of French voodoo? Or some ancient love potion that we mere mortals know nothing about? It’s so powerful, that you feel your lace-trimmed knickers voluntarily melting at the seams, bewitched by this mystical Gaul enchantment.
Actually, I must be honest. In Jean’s case, it was more likely a great deal of life experience, coupled with his boundless charm and cunning organisation that won my heart. I was to find out in time, that he had, in fact, been a Conseil Juridique or Legal Council for a major, private bank, in his former French life. Perhaps that explained his ingenuity.
In retrospect, his every move was calculated to win me. His every lilting word, to make me swoon. It was all extremely effective and completely unforgettable. I can recount every sultry moment with such vivid clarity that I remain besotted and bewitched to this day.
I was Europe-bound, my final destination Manchester, England. Not the most exotic of destinations for one’s first international trip as a newly inducted, international flight attendant but I was so jittery with nerves, that final destinations were the last of my worries. If I could just make it out of Sydney in one, semi-sane piece, I’d be content.
As I sat in the crew office, anxiously awaiting my flight call, a navy blue uniform appeared before me.
‘Bonjour. Je vois que vous parlez Francais. (Hello. I see that you speak French.)’
‘I’m sorry … what did you say?’ As I raised my head, a pair of smiling, green-gold eyes met mine. I was taken by surprise and my poorly muddled brain was incapable of bilingual mode, leaving his words pass over me in a sultry accented wash.
‘Bien sûr! That would be right,’ the navy-clad accent declared. ‘They give people those language badges to wear, but the majority of them don’t even speak the language.’ End of conversation, handsome yet maladroit ‘blue coat’ exits.
Oh my God … what was that? He didn’t even give me a chance to explain, the arrogant so and so. Well this was certainly a great way to kick off my first day on the job. I hope he’s not on my crew, I thought cringing. But that wasn’t to be. As I entered the crew briefing room, there he sat, the smug, sultry eyed, ‘blue coat’. Bugger. Oh well … never mind, I’ll just take deep breaths and give him a wide berth once we board the aircraft.
Wrong again. For some later-to-be-understood reason, the yet unnamed Monsieur decided he should pair up with the shy, new graduate. Show her the ropes, initiate her gently, etcetera. A novice to these pre-flight procedures and far too apprehensive to question their outcome, nothing he did or said during the meeting made any sense to me. I was told my workplace position and didn’t recall much else. That was until I was safely perched on my aircraft jump seat, buckling my harness straps for take-off.
I squirmed in the restricted space of the narrow crew seat, my stocking clad thigh rubbing against his, through my flimsy ‘Emilio Pucci’ uniform dress. I tried desperately to focus my attention on the three passengers seated directly opposite me, endeavouring to camouflage my physical discomfort. Three sweet-natured, blue-rinse, senior citizens, who were quick to spell out, that this was their first overseas voyage. They were elated to be here and their enthusiasm was fuelled by the prospect of spending their meagre savings during their brief, but hopefully exhilarating, Asian escapade. They fiddled and poked, inspecting every item in their seat pockets and posing incessant questions about the flight.
How long will it take to get there? What’s Singapore like? What will the temperature be? How many times had I been there? And on and on the interrogation went. It was the perfect excuse for me to ignore my intimate proximity to my attractive, male colleague and concentrate solely on their enquiries.
Once the aircraft had reached its cruising altitude, I followed the instructions set out in the workplace manual, of service with a smile. Passing out salted peanuts, pouring generously alcoholic beverages and dishing out the economy class dinners with efficient poise and grace. I accomplished the job at hand, as best I could. Each passing hour, becoming more aware and surprisingly impressed by the efforts of my ‘blue coat’ partner.
To my utter amazement, Jean Raoul, as his name badge read, proved himself an exceptionally charming and polite individual. He doted on the trio of senior travellers at every opportunity throughout the flight, wooing them with his Gallic whiles and pandering to their every ‘economy class’ desire. Somewhere, high above the Central Australian deserts, he captured their hearts and little by little, he was stealing mine. He flattered me in their presence, offered me fragrant rose buds, which he had ‘borrowed’ from the First class cabin and softly called me his Petite Princesse or little Princess, as we stopped to offer them coffee. This was becoming a true spectator sport and I blushed like a schoolgirl for the duration of our high-altitude, theatrical tour de force. In turn, our elderly audience cooed and tittered in their seats.
When the Boeing 747 finally taxied towards the glittering lights of Changi International Airport, Jean coyly divulged to the starry eyed trio that he and I had secretly married just prior to take-off and were on a ‘working’ honeymoon. Before I had a chance to react, the nomadic nanas almost wet themselves in jubilant cheers of congratulations for our happy alliance, reaching out to shake our hands, wishing us every happiness and urging me to hang onto my hugely handsome catch. I smiled and nodded in bemused embarrassment. My tongue tied in so many knots that I barely managed to wish them well as they disembarked into the oppressive humidity of the Singapore night.
Jean skilfully pursued his program of seduction at our stopover locale, by cleverly convincing the hotel receptionist that he, and that pretty young hostess over there, needed to lodge in adjoining rooms. I remained totally oblivious to his plans and never questioned how or why the ensuing events unfurled. To my innocent mind, everything appeared normal and perhaps coincidental, but never orchestrated. It wasn’t until years into our relationship that Jean made admission of his cheeky ruse. How naïve I had been. So besotted was I with this handsome Frenchman that thoughts of schemes or deliberate preplanning, never once occurred to me.
It was mid-morning on our first day in Singapore, when my bedside-phone rang. I had returned from my morning swim and was wondering what to do with myself next. It was Jean, inviting me to go on a private shopping tour of the city. His voice was like velvet and I hung on his every well-chosen word. He vowed to introduce me to the best shopping malls, the cheapest orchid markets and world’s finest seafood laksa and mango juice. I was starting to believe I’d met the man of my dreams. This man wanted to take me on a shopping spree with sustenance included; did that classification of male actually exist? Apparently so, or at least that’s what I was being led to believe. We chatted for a while, making arrangements and planning our afternoon when he asked me for my room number.
‘Um … its 604,’ I answered shyly. ‘Why? Do you want to meet me here?’
‘604. What a coincidence,’ he lied expertly. ‘I’m in 602. Is there an interior door in your room?’
‘Why yes,’ I replied naively.
‘Knock on it,’ he said. I put down the receiver and tapped lightly on the door, hearing his voice from beyond call, ‘Come on in, it’s open.’
I gingerly turned the handle, a little shocked to find it unlocked. I slowly entered the wolf’s den. Instead of finding my tour guide dressed and eager to leave, there he lay; tanned back propped casually against the European pillows, half naked under the light, cotton covers. My God, what kind of idiot was I? And what a clever operator he was. I stood by the bed, my awkwardness clearly painted on my cheeks. I knew only too well what he was up to but my feet remained involuntarily glued to the spot, unwilling to flee, and the pulse in my temple pounded wildly.
‘Why don’t you sit down? Here …, ’ he gestured smiling, patting the crumpled bed covers next to his thigh.
‘I’m fine really,’ I replied. ‘Aren’t we going shopping? I thought that we’d made plans. Maybe I better come back later?’
‘There’s plenty of time Marisa. You know, the shops are always open in Singapore. Why don’t we talk for a while?’
‘OK … I suppose we can shop later,’ I replied, perching myself stiffly on the very edge of the mattress, all the time desperate to avoid direct eye contact.
We never made it to the shops that day, or the next, or the day after that, as a matter of fact. By the time we’d arrived in a winterised Manchester city, the view had taken on a rosy, romantic hue. I noticed no sleet or rain through my pheromone-generated reverie and every day thence, spent on or off the aircraft, dissipated into a bliss-filled haze. I was wrapped in a soft, white robe of contentment and whether events had been arranged or not, now no longer mattered. Our destinies were now intrinsically linked.
Through Jean, my childhood fantasies became adult realities. I later married my charming ‘frog’ prince and merrily pursued the happy-ever-after. For several years we lived a euphoric existence. Travelling the world together on someone else’s business expenses. Overnight stopovers in faraway destinations; sleeping between high-thread-count sheets, ordering room service in fluffy bath robes and living each day in Utopian rapture. At the end of each journey, we returned to Jean’s little ‘one-bedder’ in Manly, enjoying our time off in a quasi -holiday mode.
That first summer we made our first joint purchase, a timber sailboat. She was a sturdy, old lady named ‘Sea Legend 2’ who had sailed the Pacific Islands several times. No matter how stable or heavy keeled she was, I soon made it quite clear to Jean, that I was frightened of the slightest ocean swell and only enjoyed the sport when the mast remained perfectly perpendicular to the horizon. No matter how desperately he encouraged and cajoled me or patiently explained that sailboats were meant to lean in the breeze, I squealed every time she did. He graciously surrendered to my cowardice and we spent our days wandering aimlessly around the quieter corners of Sydney harbour, where the waters were calmer and no true yachtsman would have been seen in a pink fit. Life was kind to us and we couldn’t have asked for more. We lived simply and never saved much but we were content and insanely in love.
Our happiness endured, however my health did not. Travelling the world for my profession reeked havoc on my physical health and assorted cases of Bombay belly, Spanish influenza and generalised jetlag took their toll. Countless doctors’ appointments and hospital tests soon shattered our blissful existence. The more the health professionals prodded, poked and pricked me, the weaker my system became. Jean remained steadfastly by my side and endured the monotony of medical mayhem, to my astonishment and great relief. We had been together such a short time and my concerns about our relationship weathering such a massive storm, left me stressed and despondent.
When I was finally diagnosed with an acute case of ME, more commonly known as Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, I was somewhat relieved. I had a name to attach to my many symptoms, though regretfully one that scarcely anyone knew of or understood. This was a 20th century illness that few doctors recognised, so treatment was vague and inconclusive.
Too soon, I realised that my initial relief of naming my condition, was to be ephemeral. This debilitating illness was to rule my life for countless years and would forever change the very way I existed. I was pressured to resign from my aircrew position and seek less taxing employment, on the ground. I missed Jean and my life in the clouds painfully. Each time he took a cab to the airport, my heart broke into millions of pieces, which only helped to exacerbate my condition. There had to be another way, an answer to this horrible predicament.
My highly regarded, Austrian-born specialist informed me, that leaving Sydney indefinitely and leading a cleaner and more holistic existence elsewhere, was ultimately my best option for the future. That was easily said but where would we go? What would we do? I couldn’t ask Jean to give up everything in an attempt to save my health. What if that didn’t work?
I had underestimated his unconditional love and devotion. When pushed to decide, he was as willing as I was to leave the pollutants of the city and his well-paying job to forge a new life elsewhere.
Fate stepped in to lend a hand, yet again. On a short trip to Tahiti, Jean returned with a magazine he’d found in a Papeete newsstand. ‘Maisons en France’ its cover read and its pages were teaming with photos of quaint, ‘renovator’s delights’ and majestic Manoirs (manor houses). These ranged from fairytale, 16th century Chateaux and Relais de Chasse (hunting lodges) to astoundingly, charming farmhouses and village abodes. When we both grabbed for the calculator, we were gob smacked by the translated prices. How could these historical masterpieces of French heritage be so incredibly cheap? Sure, some of them were bound to require major restorative work but in comparison, Sydney’s current home prices seemed ridiculously inflated. We read on, finding bargain after astonishing bargain. This was seriously enticing information and after many months of soul searching and deliberating over endless maps and realty guides, we came to the mutual decision that somewhere in rural France would be our starting point. We would search for our new home in the French countryside; somewhere we could live a life of newfound health and pastoral tranquillity.
Jean was rostered to leave for London a few days later and realized the opportunity of being so close to France, was too good to miss. On arrival into Heathrow, he jumped on the earliest Paris shuttle available, hired a car and shot down the Nationale 20 towards the Pyrénées. He had just two days to inspect as many of our ‘ticked’ adverts that he could manage. After twenty-four hours of constant driving and village hopping, he telephoned me to happily confirm that he was positively sure we would find something to suit us. As far as he was concerned, the sooner we could return to France together, the better.
So, the honeymoon years done and dusted and five years into our marriage, decidedly through sickness and in health, here we were. On that sacred lovers’ turf. In the ancient heart of Cyrano de Bergerac, D’Artagnan, La Marquise de Pompadour and force-fed goose livers. The alluring, verdant hills of rural, south-western France.
Jean and I purchased, somewhat spontaneously, an empty shell of resplendent, golden granite, in the heart of a fairytale village of medieval beauty, deep in the gentle southern hills. Treignac-sur-Vezère was my imagination brought to fruition. My quest for the idyllic life achieved. Mon paradis trouvé. My paradise found.
We had embarked on our search for the perfect dwelling place, just twelve months earlier, in the foothills of the Pyrénées. We believed at the time, to have found our ideal abode. A twenty-eight room, 19th century Manor, some 10 kilometres from the fortress city of Carcassone, had floored us with its beauty and charm but we were toppled at the twelfth hour. A wealthy Dutch couple outbid us with their hefty Florins and our journey towards rural bliss recommenced. We were innately drawn to the quieter regions of southwestern France, those where the almighty Anglo invasion hadn’t yet raped, plundered or purchased every square inch of French soil and where blue-blooded Frenchmen continued to quietly preside. Where ‘Parlez-vous Anglais?’ was not the question asked at every corner store and café. Where the air was pure and clean and my fatigued and weary body would thrive and regain its youthful strength.
Jean knew of Treignac from his childhood vacations. It fell directly en route to our next destination, Tulle, where we had arranged yet another rendezvous with a rural Estate Agent. We decided it would make a fine coffee-stop and once realising how beautiful it was, we lingered to take a closer look. Whilst strolling languidly over the tranquil, cobbled streets, we noticed a formidable, stone structure that bore the engraved symbol of a scallop shell on its ochre-coloured façade. Jean explained, that this was the ancient symbol carried by pilgrims on their way to Saint Jacques de Compostelle (Santiago de Compostela) in Spain.
The imposing yet elegant dwelling overlooked an archetypal village square. The epitome of French village life was compactly gathered within the hovering façades of this ancient meeting place. The vertiginously steep, grey slate roofs, the golden granite homes with their brightly painted shutters and planted window boxes. The blankets of deep-green Virginia creeper and rambling cabbage roses, that clung and smothered the stone walls and façades. The 15th century, alfresco market hall, with its worn, slab floor, towering oak beams and official ‘lion’s cage’, where the centuries old weights and measures were kept. The architecturally distinct chapel of Notre-Dame-de-la-Paix with its twisted bell-tower, that rang out sweetly each daylight hour and residing quietly amidst all of these, a sign ‘A VENDRE’, For Sale.
It was l’amour at first sight. The moment I laid eyes on its ancient cellar walls, I cried triumphantly, ‘This is the one,’ much to the bewilderment of the bald-headed estate agent, who had rushed to our assistance on hearing my foreign accent.
‘But, Madame, you haven’t seen the house yet. This is only the garage,’ he declared amazed.
My darling Jean smiled knowingly and nodded in accord.
‘My wife has made up her mind Monsieur, so there’s no need to discuss things any further … well maybe just the price.’
So there we stood, months later, before this solid, triple storey façade of 16th century, sculpted granite, official hand-written title and clamber of clunky, rusted keys in hand.
We calculated four months of solid renovating, to bring this dormant, stone beast to life, give or take a siesta or three. There’s a unique timetable, that people work to in rural France and it defies all formal time and normal logic. There’s GMT time and there’s Corrèzien time, our future neighbours kindly warned us.
We would need somewhere to live in the meantime and we were unsure how easy finding a short-term rental would be. To our greatest delight and relief, the gentile vendors of our new home were also the proud owners of an ancient apartment building almost adjacent to ours. They normally rented the rooms to holidaymakers but in our instance, were happy to adjust their normal arrangements. The small apartment was rustic in fashion and the winding, oak staircase to the third floor, where it sat, creaked and groaned underfoot. The rooms were furnished with family heirlooms and hand crocheted bedcovers and cushions adorned nearly every surface. I regularly had the impression of intruding on someone else’s life. There was an ancient presence in this place and I always felt like a house-guest to some unseen force. I never mentioned this to Jean and he never spoke to me of anything similar.
The tall bedroom windows overlooked the narrow street, which led to our new home. This was immensely convenient when it came to keeping an eye on the cheeky yet charming tradesmen we had hired for our extensive renovations. The rural tradesmen were engaging and we found an easy entente. ‘Gaulloise hanging from the lower lip’ type of men, who kindly but firmly explained to me in our early meetings, that the interior restorations I required were impractical and physically impossible.
‘Never been done! Too difficult! Out of the question!’
‘C’est de la folie! (It’s utter madness!),’ they cried red-faced.
Ah, madness … my newfound friend and constant companion, made me even more determined. I insisted most doggedly, the true, nagging female that I am. I pouted and foot stamped until finally, to everyone’s surprise, Monsieur ‘le boss’ surrendered and I reigned victorious.
They’ll realise I’m right, I thought. They’ll eventually see my way is best.
Jean had no choice but to side with me, as always. I may not be physically strong but this was one battle, I refused to lose. Despite his ‘Frenchness’, Jean and I glide on a parallel, thought-plane and agree on just about everything that’s important. He is very talented when it comes to interior design and has an innate sense of style and colour. He completely understood my desires and visions, and knew that, en masse, we would create perfection.
There was no need for an architect, as Jean and I similarly understood how the interior space should be divided. We simply traced our room plans directly onto the concrete floors, enabling the workmen to follow our chalked lines. The reception rooms and lounges stayed as large, open spaces warmed by two monumental fireplaces. The sleeping quarters were divided into four spacious bedrooms, all with their own ensuites. Our own bathroom was to house a Nordic-style sauna and oversized bath. Although the changes we were making were dramatic, there was never any need for the completing of forms or approval documents of any description. This stunned us, as we were so accustomed to Australian red tape and the lengthy process of gaining council approval for even the smallest of projects. Not to mention the extra costs.
Here in the heart of bureaucratic France, there was simply no need for all that fuss. And it wasn’t as though we were hidden away, where the bureaucrats wouldn’t find us; we were perched directly opposite the council chambers, in full view of The Mayor and his chamber of workers. This was a pleasant start to the process, no stressful waiting period, no highly-strung engineers, and no building inspectors. Apparently, as long as we didn’t alter the building’s historical façade in any way or fashion, we were free to proceed as we wished. This French way of running things was suiting me just fine. Just our merry band of tradesmen, Jean and I. No exterior influences, no interruptions to deal with and no endless red tape. Treignac-sur-Vezère was looking more like paradise on earth, by the minute.
And so, it came to pass, with difficulty on occasions, a tantrum or two for good measure, that the previously lacklustre, stone void became our new abode. A home of warmth and curvaceous lines. A residence that would for the following eight, wondrous years, welcome the weary but well pursed traveller into its ample and comfortable bosom. For the right price, of course. We were now the proud owners of Treignac’s first Chambres D’hôtes (Bed and Breakfast) opening for business in May of 1992.
The house with the shell or La Maison de la Coquille became renowned for its antipodean hospitality, generous, leisurely breakfasts and eclectic décor, laden with collected objet d’art. The intrepid traveller was exalted to hear a familiar accent in the deep heart of France and the French, in turn, enjoyed the charm of my basic but enthusiastically spoken French.
I realised that the age-old term, ‘sex sells’, really did exist and was fully functional here in provincial France. Not that I was prostituting myself. Hell no! I only had to open my pretty mouth and say something incorrectly, to make half the population swoon. The male half, most importantly. Wow, could this be happening to me? After residing under the shadow of my husband’s sultry accent for many years, I was now the sexual flavour of the month. Here, in this quaint medieval village, I was becoming the sought after one. The headliner on your next dinner party list. The one, who spoke with so sweet an accent, that the soon to be elected President of France, fell under her spell. He paid undue attention to me, whilst attending an official opening ceremony and political aperitif.
I was enraptured with these newfound attentions.
‘Your wife, Monsieur Raoul … Elle est charmante. (She is charming.)’ Monsieur Le ‘future’ President cooed at my husband, who proudly nodded his head in agreement and beamed unaccustomedly.
Monsieur Jacques Chirac remains my favourite politician to this day, bien sûr. A man of discriminating taste and unquestionably, polished diplomacy … obviously.
Those heady days of pure ignorance could not last. As I become more fluent in the language and the ways of village life, I realised that being the village idol, was not all it appeared on the surface.
Realistically, with the adulation and accolades, comes a healthy amount of jealousy and disdain. With this revelation, I became a touch more reserved and my persona adopted a subtle aloofness. Self-preservation was called for. When in Rome … that’s my motto. Obviously, that’s what all the aloofness, or arrogance as we ignorant Anglos call it, is about. It’s self-preservation in its highest form. Pure and simple. The French are experts in this art and as I awoke to the intimacies of village life, I understood why.
I realised very quickly that I was the bête étrange on the block. A constant joy to passers-by, who inspected my every move with curious abandon. Ridiculously, my choice of new curtains was the talk of the town for several weeks alone. And when I chose Spanish terracotta pots to adorn my front steps … well! How audacious could this woman be? Strangely enough, my choice of décor was soon to be repeated throughout the cobbled streets and passageways. Apparently, la bête étrange wasn’t that strange after all. She had excellent, if not unusual taste so, why wouldn’t we copy her?
Complimentary as this may sound, I soon became ambivalent. I couldn’t step outside my front door without my peroxide blonde, next-door neighbour peering through her ghastly, windmill incrusted, lace curtains, to spy on my attire. Eerily, within days of monitoring me from her third storey window, she would set out on her daily errands, small child in tow, dressed as my identical twin. People began to notice. I was aghast. I was being stalked by a fashion pervert. My hairdresser, Nicole, was quick to inform me, that she had even dared to ask for the exact haircut to mine. As extreme action was necessary, I decided to dress as hideously as possible and wear my hair in a non-descript, slightly dishevelled chignon, in attempt to disarm her.
It eventually worked, though I suffered weeks of pathetic glances from the village Bourgeoisie. I was now the talk of the town, for all the wrong reasons but it was the price I had to pay for my independence. Temporary embarrassment held no stead, in the name of fashion liberté.
Now that I was aware of what it took to survive with my sanity intact, I grew stronger and more resilient. This was the start of my newly chosen life. A life I had dreamt of for years and that very thought kept me sane and motivated. If this was how it was going to be, then so be it. I was ready, willing and able for any new challenge and was comforted by the assurance that my cherished Jean, would be forever by my side.