Lost in Translocation
The month of mai in France is plagued by long weekends. But rather than sit at home complaining about my reduction in working hours, I reluctantly agreed to head away for a 4 day weekend with my flatmate to the north-west coast of France in Bretagne. I took the TGV from Paris to Morlaix, feeling both very Parisian and very grown-up, for not only was I snacking on camembert and a fresh brown baguette, I had been organised enough to pack this lunch the night before!
I arrived at Morlaix and took the mini-train (literally 2 carriages) a further 20 minutes to the sea-side town of Roscoff. The town is built on the curve of the ocean. Seemingly every one owns a boat.
There is one winding, cobbled, main street. The new commercial businesses existing inside the ethereal stone facades.
There are ample churches, large and small, including one that has kept its’ sundial.
The homes have doors so tiny it looks as if this was once a city of dwarfs – a fitting assumption since the people of this area are heavily wedded to their Celtic history (which includes the myths of faeries).
We were blessed by ununusually beautiful weather, so on the first night had a BBQ in the backyard. Round table, extravagant spread of meats, salads, cheeses, wines, breads. Excited conversation began to speed up into passionate discussions, and reasoned arguments. Everyone speaking quickly, and at the same time, and over the top of each other, and breaking off into pair speaking, and then darting something at the children, and then back to the group again. I could catch words, but not phrases, let alone a topic of conversation. I quickly switched off and concentrated on my rather sad-looking vege-burger.
My reverie was suddenly intruded upon by my well-intentioned friend who, by way of trying to include me in the conversation, addressed me and said “Perhaps you can explain, in French, the crisis in Australian masculinity!” Completely speechless, in either language, while 10 intrigued French faces awaited an eloquent response. Then to add insult to apparent dim-wittedness, not only did I not speak well (or much at all given the context), I was eating very strange foods that were “Not even French!” I felt very foreign indeed.
Further attempts at group conversation over the course of the weekend saw even the children getting frustrated with my stuttering. Formulating my statement I began by saying “Ils sont. . .Ils sont. . .”. . .LONG PAUSE. . . to which the 4 yr old responded snipply “Ils sont quoi (what)?”
So I took refuge in my books and walking along the beach. The beaches here are a completely different species altogether.
Lifeless, empty but for the pint-sized crabs and darting fish that inhabit the rock pools. The odd person-dog combination ambling past. The warmth of the spring-time sun outdone by the persistent gusts of wind.
I looked out towards England but thought of home.
Tags: Paris, France
Jyai
May 15th, 2006 at 9:07 am
I was engrossed in your story. So glad you are thinking of home; I so much look foward to your return.
Love,
Mumxxx
May 15th, 2006 at 9:14 pm
I can’t wait to be curled up in bed reading the book you’ve written about your adventures. I can’t believe the whole of France isn’t completely captivated by you Snow White. Keep up the good work, with regards the general business of living. We’ll keep sending the love, you keep sending the laughs.
love you, Marianne
May 23rd, 2006 at 7:56 pm
I was distracted by the beauty of your photographs I was distracted from the words. On the third reading I think I just managed to appreciate both properly.
May 23rd, 2006 at 7:57 pm
I was so distracted by the beauty of your photographs that I was distracted from the words. On the third reading I think I just managed to appreciate both properly.