Marseille Away With Me to Petit Paris

Wow. It's sure been a while. I don't know where to start anymore. Actually, I don't remember where to start! So I'm going back to read the sh!t I wrote and imma get back to you, mmmkay?

So where were we?

Ah, Marseille. So, after the long camping trip to Italy and back, we were sleeping under a roof again, taking unhurried showers, having breakfast while seated on chairs, not wondering if dogs are peeing on our tent while we dream and whatnot. In the afternoon we went to H's friend's cousin's stepfather's house (read it again, it will make sense eventually) for grilled fish and a romp in the pool. H's friend, G, showed us the CCTV setup in his uncle's bedroom. It was connected to the gasoline station in the front, so even at night he had an eye on the store.

After lunch, I lazed about on the swing while H and G tossed the nephews around the pool. After realizing I talk mostly in English, one of the little critters asked him, "Pourquoi tu choisi ta femme en anglais?" or "Why did you choose your wife in English?" Yeah, rough him out a bit in the pool, please. No, obviously I'm kidding.

 Before rush hour, H and his friend got dressed and we planned to give the city a once-over before we went back to Gigouzac; but once we hit the highway, H started looking panicky. "The gear is stuck on 2nd," he said, so he tried to shift to first, and on first it stayed. We were running on 20 kph and the other cars were honking for us to hurry the hell up because you CANNOT be slow in Marseille... and let me tell you why:

Luckily, G knew Marseille like only Google Maps would, and he navigated us to the nearest Peugeot dealership that was... on the next corner! Massive automobile shitstorm aside, were we lucky or what? So, G ran out of the car, got the other cars to stop so we could turn around and crawl to the other side of the street. Motorists were honking their horns at us, flashing the finger and shouting profanities; the boys lashed back with some obscenities themselves, of course. Good times.

About fifteen minutes later (we were slow, okay?) we got to the Peugeot lot, but the mechanic didn't want to take the car in because it was a Friday and it was 5 pm and Monday was a non-working holiday. He'd be damned if he acted like he cared and processed the car in. They tried to talk to the people in charge in the office, no luck there. So H called the insurance guys and they told us to hire a car to go back to Gigouzac, get a towing company to keep the broken car until Tuesday until which time it can be taken back to Peugeot for diagnostics and H will have to come back by train to get the car when it's fixed at some future juncture (on the insurance's dime, of course).

So, with understandable apprehension and resentment over paying the gasoline and the toll fees twice (because the insurance doesn't cover that) we decided to get a car from Hertz. Problem was, by foot, Hertz was about 20 minutes away. The boys were both over 6 feet tall and speed walking, meantime, my strides were 5 inches shorter and... did I mention I threw away my rubber shoes before leaving Lake Maggiore? I trotted behind them in beach sandals, a cute little number in white with plastic straps and a rose pattern on the sole that costs a pretty penny but does nothing for your feet when you're racing after after giants. At a party two weeks after this, I pulled out the corn that had formed on my left foot.

Driving towards the lavender sunset on our way back, we felt like we had reached the nadir of road trips; but half-glass-full people that we are, we decided it was better that the car broke down while we were still in Marseille and not on the highway. So we got to his parents' place at around 1 am, and the next morning H had to explain how come his mother's car broke down in his care, and his parents had this "yeah, right" expression on their faces the time he told his story. We all know how he likes to drive.

Fast forward to a week later, Friday, H is back in Marseille and I'm in Gigouzac, he calls us to say he is calling from the car on the way back -- but oh! -- hold on! -- the gear is stuck on first again! Eventually he ends up going back to Peugeot to play the waiting game with the mechanics. Since it was late, he decided to go back to Luc and Clemence's for a big dinner.

Because I'd been putting off re-learning how to swim, my father in law had resorted to asking me every afternoon after gardening duties if "today" was the day I would take swimming lessons. Well, since  my eyes were tired and it was the warmest I'd felt all week I decided it was time to take him up on his offer. While my mother in law fretted over the state of her car, and how she was supposed to get back to work on Monday with no car, I ran over to the pool for my lessons.

I was a bit scared because my father in law has a reputation for having a short temper, and I know that when it comes to sporty things I have a very slow learning curve. Miraculously, I survived it without being shouted at once and I managed to swim for ten seconds without help before sinking to the bottom. PROGRESS! My mother in law's jaw dropped open when I told her the lessons went well and that her husband was very patient with me; my brother in law was just on his way out, but that stopped him in his tracks.

Although H said he hadn't planned on it (because he thought of staying overnight in Marseille), he took Peugeot's service car and drove all night while they figured out what the heck had happened to my mother in law's car. We were supposed to be back in Paris for some meetings by the 24th, but we wanted to stay around for the next two days for Fête de Gigouzac.

At 5 in the morning, H arrives while I'm snoring, curled around my laptop because I fell asleep waiting for the Glee Project to stream properly. H's dad brought out the heavy drinks during lunch, but in H&M time, it's breakfast, so actually I had cognac for breakfast. A year in France has turned me into an alcoholic!

That night we had a barbecue in the pool house and my in-law, A, and his friend M unpacked their newly-bought Camelbaks and filled it with rum and coke so they could go to la fête without having to pay for the drinks. This is the kind of genius family I've married into.

I have to admit I couldn't sum up the two nights of fete like I could remember the other things that happened that week. I remember coming in, being stamped, watching the shows, and observing the paradox of a stage set up next to the church given the secular type of entertainment we got that evening. California Gurls and church? Pourquoi pas (why not)? Don't get me wrong, it was a fun show, but consider just a few of the images I got to snap while the night was young:

A Claude François medley, complete with Clodettes.

Deeper into the night, the band felt like it was time for
a Dracula musical... with strippers. I kid you not.

Third act of the Dracula musical, the girls return
with faux petticoats to suck some more.

See the white wall to the left of the picture? That's where H and I had the church ceremony last year. The guitarist here is really good, I think this was his Led Zep tribute.

Le local artisan beer

I had a few beers because the mayor introduced us to the owner of Ratz (we got ginormous kegs for the wedding, support your local businesses and all that jazz) and the former mayor treated us to a few brews when he took us to meet the Irish boys because he needed a translator, then there was also the new-guy-in-town who bought us some rounds because he was just so happy to have some friends in that lonely village (I tried to talk to him in Pardon my French French but he didn't mind; he said he could detect I have good soul, which shows he really doesn't know me, mheh), I pogo danced with the town's resident eccentric, was unwittingly pushed into a Paquito line and was almost crushed under the weight of a tall rugby player - and it's only funny because I survived.


The Paquito, a dance from the south west.

A lot of other things happened that I only remember in snippets now and I blame it on my sugar high, but a lot of it I can't really mention anyway, in case the people of Gigou come by and read this, hee hee. To be very vague, the most poignant thing I remember was one girl having a mental breakdown after she realized she had f*cked up relationships with people, or maybe she had a breakthrough, that's why she decided to drown her sorrows in beer and act a fool - because that moment of lucidity was sheer torture.

With all the boys drunk by pack-up time, I was the only one strong enough to hold H up to stop him from falling on his face. My knees almost buckled the wrong way! I took him to the snack shop for some churros to push the alcohol down. The gypsy family who owned the booth were happy that H asked how they were and got them started on their woes as victims of racial stereotyping. The wife had an especially long story for me, which I suppose I was supposed to understand as a woman, but in actuality I understood only 20% of. But I nodded and said "ça c'est vrai" (that's true) and "c'est pas juste" (that's unfair) at the seemingly appropriate moments. And that, children, is how you make people think you speak French.

It's amusing to be the one of the few sober people in a crowd of four hundred people. One of the most popular pastimes in France is people watching, but it's more interesting to watch them when they are drunk. I think it's when they are most happy, judging from how carefree they look when they grin. In the morning I would be asked where certain bruises come from (stereo equipment), where people left their keys (bush), where all their money went (beer for wrong girl), and where missing people or articles of clothing might be found (also bush); it is also one of the very few times when I am the most accurate keeper of time.

The sky was beautiful when we walked back to the house, it was so clear that we distinctly saw the glowing nosedive of a falling star. The following day, a friend from Manila stayed over and witnessed the "true black" nights that the region is known for.

You already know M, she was here last December by chance after the big snow storm that grounded all the planes in Europe. This time she was on a road trip with her boyfriend, a French guy from east of the hexagon. H joked that she was a year late for the wedding.

The good weather continued and H went into the forest with one of his oldest friends from Saint Nom La Bretèche. After picking vegetables from the garden for their dinner, I was left in the house with Patricia and the kid. I had the credit card so we went out for dinner at a lakeside restaurant so she could have a break from cooking.

But my lord, on the way back we saw the biggest moonrise ever. And it was full, and it was red, and it was on fire. Patricia said they call it a Russian moon.

The next morning, H returned and I woke up to the sad news that my aunt had just died. It was a wake-up call for many things in my life, things we don't need to discuss here because I'll need an entire day for that, but most importantly, I missed her enough already and it was heartbreaking to hear I couldn't share the wedding vow renewal in the Philippines with her. She was a surviving link to my father, and I hoped at least she could tell my future children about their pikutin grandfather. In the next couple of weeks, I would also be told that my two other uncles had died. My father and all his siblings are now 6 feet under. Except for the little one who drowned in the Pasig and was never seen again.

After a month away from Paris, I was surprised about the things I missed. I missed going to the boulangerie for bread, stalking people on Facebook while working, going to the supermarket or testing my courage in the bi-weekly street marché, reading in the park, sitting still in a museum, telling the turtle to quit splashing around, talking to my plants who don't really deserve me, the people at the reception area of our building (even the guy who keeps asking if I'm pregnant already, because for a guy who's studying law he sure hasn't heard of boundaries), the metro, and cooking. It's so weird to realize that the things that were so foreign to me last year were suddenly so missed. A lot really can happen in a year, and this sabbatical I took in France had a way of hitting the message home.

I hear stories from people in the Philippines and I'm surprised at how much had changed at the home front, too. H's friends go out less because of their new babies, or are working on new relationships, or have moved away to other cities and even countries. In a few weeks, we will join their ranks.

For the last month, we had finally put into action the process of THE BIG MOVE.

H renewed his passport and international driving license, I went to my immigration meetings, we did our research, bought a travel guide, got our visas, booked our one-way ticket to India, had a farewell party in the house, started packing away our clothes and books and kitchen utensils, and, just last week, finally sold the apartment.

Paris had become too small suddenly, and we are exchanging her for a continent.

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