Our House is Definitely Not in Paris

‘Oh, but Paris isn't for changing planes, it's … it's for changing your outlook, for … for throwing open the windows and letting in … letting in la vie en rose.'

— Sabrina Fairchild in
Sabrina
(1954), Starring Humphrey Bogart, Audrey Hepburn and William Holden

‘There are only two places in the world where we can live happy: at home,
and in Paris.'

— Ernest Hemingway

Unless of course … it's a
petite maison
in Cuzance in le Lot.

To Mumma — Bonne eightieth anniversaire
and for all your love and support, in every possible way.

A glossary can be found at the end of this memoir

‘
'I really enjoyed the domesticity and innocence of it. I loved Enid Blyton as a kid and I wanted to live in an Enid Blyton novel. I feel like I've read a very sophisticated adult version of her in the sense that I would love to be in that French world; it just seems so idyllic and innocent. It really is like magic.
'

Our House is Certainly Not in Paris
— Ros Mahon

These words are a wonderful evocation of our time stolen from life, when we return each summer to our
petite
corner of France. It conveys a sense of a time long past and encapsulates our other life perfectly. It is indeed like a life long gone, one that we have somehow captured and for one summer each year, revel in removing ourselves from what we have come to call ‘the real world'.

Yet at the same time, our seamless days of solitude, wrapped in our country life, still hold elements of sadness, humour, drama and tragedy. For our
petite
village is but a microcosm of the world at large, that laps at the edges of our carefree days.

* * *

As you get older, the years pass more rapidly. So it is that our fourth visit to our little house in le Lot in south-west France comes upon us in a rush. After all, life at home is a renovating one, and we work full-time. Yet now we also have an old farmhouse that we renovate on our annual working
vacances
, on the other side of the world. Our French life has absorbed us so seamlessly and happily that it is no longer just us who refer to it as our ‘other life', but all those who know about Pied de la Croix.

This year, though, is the first that I have felt so fully, and indeed quickly, absorbed into our other life. We have worked so tirelessly and relentlessly during our past three French summers that now we are reaping the rewards, for the
rénovation
is almost
fin —
though the crazy paving is not and the
jardin
will long remain a rambling,
rustique
one. This year, not only does our
petite maison
fling wide its shutters to welcome us back into its warm embrace, under the stone heart encasing the date ‘1882' above the door that tells the story of truffle farmers long gone. So, too, our village Cuzance has come to quickly embrace the return each year of the
rénovation
Australians.

The endless days of golden French sunlight march into autumn during our summer
sojourn
. There are reunions with our French
amis
, many
apéritifs
,
déjeuners
and
dîners
, friends and family who will stay with us, our treasured weekly visits to
vide-grenier
, and the drives of delight through the rural landscape. It is one that only changes with the seasons, rather than time, when you feel like you are transported back to a quieter, gentler way of life.

It is still with a sense of wonder and astonishment that this will be our fourth French summer in our
petite maison
. The south-west region of France made an indelible impression on us on our first visit together to France five years previously. The rural landscape, adorned with sentinel rows of walnut groves, the charming villages with
maisons
glowing in golden stone and adorned with an artist's palette of wooden window shutters, the towering limestone cliffs, the thickly canopied forests, the smooth gliding rivers, the tight-cornered, winding country roads — all of it reached deep into our hearts. It was a tug on our heartstrings of such strong emotional resonance that within six months, Stuart had a fleeting visit back to France in the icy, treacherous depths of winter to inspect a short-list of possible houses to buy. Within a mere matter of days, our fanciful dream became a French reality. Never in our wildest flights of fancy did we ever imagine that after twenty years of marriage, life would lead us to a small corner of rural France, just across the Channel, in fact, from where we were both born.

Life's fascinating journey meant that we met and married in Istanbul within seven months of meeting. From a childhood in England and immigration at the age of five, a year's working holiday in England and travel through Europe in my twenties as a young teacher, a love affair with Turkey and a personal one a few years later when I taught English there for a year, the early days of marriage and all its inherent challenges, to an old farmhouse in France.

At home, as the moon dances and skips across the waves and the whales leap in life-affirming arcs, it means that in my personal calendar, the one set by the seasons in both hemispheres, our other life is marching steadily towards us. Life is indeed an amazing adventure, for just like the precipitous bends on rural roads in France, one never quite knows what may lie round the corner. And now, the renovating pattern of our married life has extended to a
rénovation
project of
grande
proportions in Cuzance.

I fling open the shutters and sunlight floods the dusty corners. Drum roll for another French summer full of enchantment on our working
vacances
.

Part One

PARIS

Packing for Paris

A
nouveau amie
— yet like the gesture of an old friendship. Are there any words that have a more resonant ring than, ‘An apartment in Paris'? Patrick's apartment in the first
arrondisement
is so
petite
that he moved out to stay with an
amie
for our four nights in the most exciting city in the world. The photos he sends before our visit add to our frisson of excitement. Our eagerness builds when we plan our itinerary and discover that the glorious Paris Opera House — a must-see this time — is on his doorstep. Next in our planning is the all-important question: Where is the nearest
boulangerie
to slip out to for a
croissant
for our
petit déjeuner
? Not that it will be me going out to buy our breakfast pastry in Paris.

The first thing a woman usually thinks when she is heading for Paris is, ‘What on earth will I wear?' After years of travelling — make that decades — I aim to finally get it just right.

First, the right bag. Now, while we had an embargo in our household on luggage-buying, I vetoed it — yes, again. And so the bright red Samonsite swivel case was bought. It is the travel bag of dreams. Next, the definitive backpack; must be smart, must be capacious. IKEA, of all places, provided the solution. It was Stuart's exultant find and he graciously gave it to me. The stylish zip-off day pack is truly the
pièce de résistance
.

Luggage sorted, it's on to the perfect travel wardrobe. This from the woman who trudged round Europe with the biggest portable wardrobe in the world on her back. Truth be told, I spend months planning the precise pieces for Paris. And yes, we've all read the articles — how to pack six items and create twenty-six outfits. These articles have been avidly devoured — and the advice subsequently ignored. But this time I am determined that, like my swivel case, heads will swivel to look at me. A lofty ambition indeed in the city of
chic
elegance.

There is no sight quite like it in the world, for a lover of fashion like myself, than to see a French woman strolling along the Champs-Élysées with such style and understated elegance. Their inimitable sense of
chic
is oh-so-casually contrived and yet oh-so-studiously studied. The Hermès scarf knotted ever so nonchalantly. The Christina Dior bag. It is also to know and ruefully accept that no matter how hard I try, a lifetime would not be long enough to capture the incomparable
élan
of a French woman, and most definitely not one in Paris.

Months prior, I found a black and white Audrey Hepburn
chapeau
that had wire and would fold. Perfect. My Parisian wardrobe will consist entirely of clothes that can roll and unfurl into stylish ensembles, all black and white, of course. I declare jubilantly to Stuart that my new black jersey pants will take me anywhere, from a day of sightseeing and trips on the Seine to the quintessential Parisian bistro. A
noir
frock (or two), several white T-shirts, black turtleneck, black leggings, a long black tunic, black Birkenstocks for the daytime, silver slides for the evening, and just a dash of silver jewellery. A cute cardigan, and my oh-so-nonchalant Pierre Balmain scarf — a treasured find for a mere
euro
in a village
vide-grenier
. I'm set.

The first thing a man usually thinks when he is heading for Paris is, ‘What will I eat?' Stuart's packing for Paris reflects his customary laid-back attitude to life. It is expressed in his nonchalant packing style: a couple of shirts, a few T-shirts, a pair of jeans and several pairs of shorts. I have to confess, however, that somehow his casual approach works. I am left wondering yet again about the profound difference in how I view life. How can he not have given the matter of what to wear in Paris endless deliberation? And yet, he effortlessly pulls off what I deem to be the desired look essential for a Parisian
sojourn
.

At the end of the day, though, I believe that I triumph in the Paris style stakes for, let's not forget, my esteemed vintage Guy Larouche trench coat, the ever-so-not-contrived
finissage
touch. Paris, I'm on my way!

Then when we arrive, the weather mirrors the days of cold and rain we have just left behind on the other side of the world. So it is that my carefully contrived sartorial plans are thrown out the window. Or more precisely to the winds, for it is cool, damp and overcast. Our four days in Paris are spent wearing the clothes we travelled in and we are encumbered in our sightseeing with warm coats and scarves. This is not the first time this has happened to us in France. Our Parisian photos show me all in black, but not the
noir
I fancifully imagined. Oh no. Day after day there are shots of me on the Batobus, outside the Louvre, in the Luxembourg
jardins — noir
jeans,
noir
polo neck and
noir
leather jacket. Does it matter in the end that my carefully planned outfits lie untouched in my suitcase? Not at all. What matters is that we are in Paris and the dampness does not cloud our days at all. And actually, head-to-toe black is very French. One outfit would have sufficed after all.